"If you know what this sword is," Percival said, angling the thrumming blade in front of him, "then you know exactly what it is capable of."
The bald man stumbled back, eyeing his friend then the sword. "It... it was supposed to be destroyed! How do you have it?"
"It doesn't matter," Percival replied. He swept his gaze over the mob. "What matters is what I will do to every single one of you if you don't take me to where Theumir Steelcane was buried. Right now."
The armed villagers looked confused. What sort of request was that?
The handsome man lowered his pitchfork, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Where he was buried? What would you want there?"
Percival eyed him. "Do you want to ask questions, or do you want to live?"
Everyone fell silent. All their murderous, collective tenacity summed up to nothing in the presence of that S-Grade weapon.
Butrick swallowed hard, the fight rapidly draining from his scarred face as he stared at the space-warping edge.
