As the thought surfaced in his mind, a trace of displeasure quietly bloomed in Karl's heart.
It seemed that the current Natasha was no different from any other sorceress he had encountered—equally arrogant, equally convinced of her own superiority. That sense of aloof pride, sharpened by power and reputation, was unmistakable.
Karl remained seated sideways on his chair, his posture relaxed to the point of laziness. One hand supported his chin, his elbow resting casually against the back of the chair, while his expression remained calm and unreadable. He did not bother to shift his position in the slightest.
Only his other hand moved.
As the weakened bolts of lightning surged toward him—still violent enough to leave an ordinary person convulsing helplessly on the floor—Karl slowly raised his free palm.
The motion was casual, almost dismissive.
As though brushing away an annoying insect, he swatted at the incoming lightning with careless indifference.
There was no brilliant flash, no explosive roar, and no violent clash of energies.
"Pfft—chi chi chi!"
The moment the lightning touched his palm, it was intercepted by an invisible Bio-Force Field. The attack failed to stir even the faintest ripple in the surrounding air.
Under the force of Karl's lazy swat, the lightning shattered abruptly, bursting apart like fragile soap bubbles. The once-lethal arcs fragmented into countless harmless sparks of electricity, scattering in every direction while emitting a series of faint, crackling "chi chi" sounds.
A second later, they dissipated completely, unwillingly dissolving into the air. Nothing remained except a subtle fluctuation of magic, so faint it was almost imperceptible.
Karl did not even bother to look at the result.
His gaze never left Natasha.
The faint curve of his lips now carried a trace of disdain that was impossible to hide.
"Tch—"
A soft, mocking snort escaped his nose.
The sound itself was light, nearly inaudible. But in the tavern lobby—now plunged into absolute silence after the lightning faded—it sounded shockingly clear, sharp enough to pierce the air.
One had to remember that Alzur's Thunder, when cast by the academy's dean himself, produced lightning thicker than a wine barrel. Even after being weakened by Karl's Bio-Force Field, such a strike still carried immense destructive power.
And yet, when that lightning struck Karl directly, it had failed to cause him even the slightest discomfort.
Compared to that, Natasha's bolt—though visually fierce—was clearly controlled. It had never been intended to kill.
Even so, given the current strength of Karl's Bio-Force Field…
Even if he stood perfectly still and allowed Natasha to attack freely—casting any spell she pleased without restraint—the result would be the same.
She would exhaust every last drop of her magic.
And not a single hair on his body would be harmed.
Natasha, who had been observing Karl's reaction closely from the corner of her eye, finally saw the full extent of what he had done.
He had dispersed her lightning with nothing but his bare hand.
No incantation.
No visible magic.
No defensive spell.
Her calm, composed expression fractured instantly.
She snapped her head toward him, her violet eyes locking onto Karl fully and formally for the first time.
The faint contempt she had deliberately maintained—reserving it for what she assumed was just another of Geralt's troublesome acquaintances—vanished without a trace. In its place rose gravity, caution, and deep suspicion.
She felt no fluctuation of chaotic magic.
No spell shield had been activated.
There were no protective runes, no magical artifacts, and no enchanted equipment responding.
He had simply swatted her lightning aside.
The act was so crude, so direct, that it completely shattered her understanding.
"This man… what exactly is he?"
A massive question mark rose in Natasha's heart, accompanied by a level of vigilance she had never experienced before.
She suddenly realized that the friend Geralt had brought with him was far more mysterious—and far more dangerous—than she had initially imagined.
Meanwhile, Geralt had just barely caught his breath.
The residual impact of the lightning had caused his Heliotrop Sign to collapse completely, leaving his body aching and his senses dulled. Even so, he had clearly witnessed Karl's casual gesture and the sudden transformation of Natasha's expression.
Shock filled his eyes—but beneath it was a complicated emotion that clearly said, I knew this would happen.
Karl slowly raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Natasha.
His expression was calm, but behind that calm lurked something heavy and oppressive, like the stillness before a storm.
In a deep, steady voice—audible to both Geralt and Natasha—he spoke.
"I must say," Karl said calmly, "you truly have courage."
His tone was neither loud nor aggressive. Yet every word carried an invisible weight that pressed down on the room.
"The last sorceress lucky enough to escape with her life from my hands…"
He paused briefly.
"I believe her name was Sabina."
The words exploded in Natasha's ears like a thunderclap.
Her violet eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at Karl.
Sabina?
That Sabina—the sorceress who was constantly at odds with her, someone they might even call a bitter rival. Their strengths were comparable, and both knew just how troublesome the other could be when pushed.
And yet…
Sabina had nearly been killed by this young man?
Just for offending him?
A crushing wave of horror instantly obliterated the arrogance Natasha had cultivated through years of power, reputation, and political standing.
In that moment, she realized she had made a catastrophic mistake.
She had severely underestimated not only Karl's strength—but also his temperament.
Her heart pounded violently as she opened her mouth, intending to immediately lower her head and offer an apology. Pride meant nothing in the face of an absolute power gap. Preserving one's life was far more important than maintaining dignity.
But before she could even rise from her chair—
A boundless, invisible force slammed down upon her.
"Crack!"
The wooden chair beneath Natasha exploded instantly, unable to withstand the sudden and overwhelming pressure. It shattered into countless splinters that scattered violently across the tavern floor.
Natasha's face turned deathly pale.
In that instant, she felt as though all the blood in her body had frozen solid.
The invisible force did not merely restrain her—it bound her completely, pinning her in place with terrifying precision. She could not move even a single finger.
What was worse was the way the force was applied.
It pressed down evenly on every part of her body.
A crushing pain radiated outward from her bones, muscles, and internal organs. She could faintly hear the horrifying creak of her own skeleton groaning under the unbearable pressure, as if protesting its imminent collapse.
Panic surged through her veins.
Instinctively, she tried to mobilize the magic within her—to erect a spell shield, to cast a displacement spell, to do anything.
But despair swallowed her whole.
She discovered, with absolute horror, that not only was her body completely immobilized—her mouth was sealed shut as well. It felt as though an invisible substance had fused her lips together.
She could not speak.
She could not scream.
She could not even beg for mercy.
Only her eyelids and eyeballs could still move.
Natasha had become a prisoner—nailed alive into an unseen shackle, stripped of even the ability to plead.
Geralt noticed immediately that something was wrong.
He heard the subtle sounds of bone shifting and felt the sharp acceleration of Natasha's heartbeat. Her body was frozen unnaturally in place, her face drained of all color, and her eyes were filled with a level of terror he had never seen before.
He stepped forward urgently, waving a hand in front of her face.
"Natasha?" he called softly. "What's wrong?!"
There was no verbal response.
Only frantic blinking.
And then—her gaze shifted desperately toward Karl.
That look contained fear, helplessness, and a silent plea that needed no words.
Geralt understood instantly.
He snapped his head toward Karl, who had already begun to approach the counter with unhurried steps.
"Karl," Geralt asked urgently, his voice tight, "was it you?"
Karl did not deny it.
He simply nodded calmly.
Ignoring everything else, he reached out as though no one else in the tavern existed. From the three glasses of wine placed behind Natasha on the counter, he picked up the one that remained untouched.
He took a slow, gentle sip.
As he swallowed, his indifferent gaze swept over Natasha, who was desperately begging with her eyes.
For just a fleeting moment, Karl seemed to consider the situation—almost as if he felt he might have applied a little too much force.
Almost.
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