The thunderous applause lasted for a long time, while Russell and Mary looked like partners who had collaborated for years.
After taking their curtain call, the two tacitly withdrew from the center of the dance floor, returning the stage to those guests who were still immersed in shock.
Charlotte also put down the violin in her hand, returning it to the fellow who was still in a dazed state, and then walked off the stage.
There was no discernible expression on her face; she merely mouthed a word silently when she looked at Russell:
"Boring."
Russell understood but simply responded with a helpless smile.
Just as he was preparing to find a place to rest and replenish some energy, a voice filled with suppressed anger rang out inopportunely from behind him.
"You certainly stole the show, Mr. Watson."
Hearing this, Russell paused in his steps and turned around.
Timmy Roy was standing right behind him, the smile on his face long gone.
Those eyes, usually filled with arrogance, were now staring dead at Russell, as if about to spew fire.
"It was just a dance, hardly stealing the show." Russell casually picked up a cookie and popped it into his mouth.
"As the host of the party, surely Mr. Roy is the protagonist of the evening?"
"Is that so? The host." Timmy Roy laughed in anger.
He took a step forward, deliberately lowering his voice, and spoke in a tone that only the two of them could hear:
"A country bumpkin who doesn't even have an invitation letter dares to steal the limelight at the party I organized.
Should I praise your courage, or should I say you don't know how to die?"
[Timmy Roy feels absolute anger at your appearance and showboating, Malice Points +50]
Russell unhurriedly swallowed the last bit of the cookie, clapped the crumbs off his hands, and wore a harmless smile on his face.
"Look at what you're saying. I am a student of Imperial College, am I not?
This is an Icebreaker Party held for freshmen. If others can come, why can't I?"
He asked in return.
Timmy Roy's expression became even uglier.
Two days ago, this guy would only meekly submit when faced with his provocation. Why did he seem like a completely different person now?
"Do you think that just because you danced with Mary Morstan, she has become your backer and I can't touch you?"
He said in a mocking tone.
"Do you really think her father, Duke Morstan, would look twice at a nobody like you with no background?"
"But I danced with Mary Morstan."
Russell picked up a glass of lemonade and took two sips.
"So what? It was just a dance. It was nothing more than her pity and charity towards you."
"I held her hand. Her hand was very soft, and a little cool," Russell continued.
"I told you, that was just charity! She just pitied a guy like you whom no one cares about!"
"Oh, I also held her waist. Her waist is very slender, did you know that?"
"You... You can only use this kind of thing as conversation fodder and capital for showing off. Apart from this, do you have anything else you can present?"
"She was waiting for me."
"You—!"
[Timmy Roy is anxious, Malice Points +70]
Timmy Roy could no longer suppress the anger in his chest. He took a step forward and grabbed Russell by the collar.
In an instant, everyone's gaze was attracted over.
However, Timmy Roy could no longer care about that. He gripped Russell's collar tightly, his eyes looking as if he wished to skin him alive right there and then.
"I say, it's not good to get physical in public, is it, Mr. Roy?"
Russell's face still held that smile.
"Can't we talk this over nicely?"
"Talk to hell!"
[Timmy Roy is preparing to beat you severely, Malice Points +20]
As the voice fell, he threw a punch directly at Russell's face.
However, faced with this fluttering, weak punch, Russell simply tilted his head slightly and dodged it.
Just this level.
In his eyes, this didn't even count as a street brawl.
After tilting his head to dodge the attack, Russell grabbed the arm the opponent had extended with one hand, shifted his steps naturally, and moved behind Timmy Roy.
Then, he grabbed the back of the opponent's head and ruthlessly pressed him down into the glass vessel filled with red wine!
Splosh—!
The dark red wine flooded Timmy Roy's head, making him look as if his head was broken and bleeding.
The liquor dripped down along his hair, dyeing the suit that had been custom-made for tonight red.
The surrounding crowd instantly widened their eyes.
Charlotte, who was watching the play from the corner, finally had her eyes light up slightly, as if she had seen something truly interesting.
"Russell Watson!"
Timmy Roy roared, then lunged at Russell like a wild beast.
Faced with this chaotic attack, Russell didn't even give him a straight look.
He just kept retreating, constantly retreating, without fighting back.
Using Timmy Roy's charge as cover, Russell purposefully retreated next to several specific figures in the crowd.
Then, very inadvertently, he shook out the love letters hidden in his pocket.
The entire process was smooth and flowing, showing no trace of performance, and guaranteed to be comprehensive.
Every girl he had been ambiguous with got one.
No wasted trips here!
Waiting until the last letter was sent out, Russell felt it was about enough, so he stood in the center of the hall.
Like a matador, he beckoned to Timmy Roy.
Timmy Roy's eyes were crimson, his reason long since burned to ashes by anger.
Like an enraged bull, he roared and charged violently at Russell once again!
The onlookers let out bursts of suppressed exclamations, retreating one after another to clear a larger gladiatorial arena in the center of the hall.
[Timmy Roy's anger has reached its peak, Malice Points +80]
The smile on Russell's face remained calm and unhurried.
Just as Timmy's massive fist was about to smash into his face, Russell moved.
He simply grabbed Timmy Roy's arm, not allowing him to advance another inch.
Russell did not strike back; he merely restrained the opponent, no matter how Timmy Roy struggled.
And then.
"Timmy? What is the meaning of this letter? What is your relationship with Isabella?"
A female voice, filled with confusion and anger, rang out abruptly.
In the crowd, Anne Brown was clutching a sheet of letter paper she had just picked up from the ground, her face pale.
This voice was like a signal.
Immediately after, a second, then a third voice rose one after another.
Anne Brown, Isabella White, Joey Carter...
They raised the letters in their hands one by one. The brushstrokes in the letters were ambiguous, every stroke seeming to pour out all of the writer's heart.
This should have been a sincere love letter, enough to move every girl who received it to tears.
The premise was that the name mentioned in the love letter was oneself, and not other women.
Anne Brown tore the love letter in her hand to shreds, then walked forward with a gloomy face.
Under Timmy Roy's astonished gaze, the young girl raised her hand.
Slap!
A resounding slap, like the drumbeat announcing the opening of the play's second act.
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