His ring alighted with a pale-blue glow, and so too did the sigil in the man's forehead. In a sudden flash, a ghostly projection of the eight-pronged sigil manifested itself over the real thing, thrice as large as the original and seemingly held in place by a ghostly headband, forming a circlet.

It was not through the formation of a helm or cloak that Jorfr’s presence manifested itself, but through the living ice which made up one-quarter of his body. Its subtle whiteness, barely distinguishable from the rest of his skin, gave way to blackest blackness and deep blues like the fathomless voids of great icebergs.

SIGN OF AWE

AEGISHJALMR, THE GREAT HELM OF TERROR

HULSON CLAN ARTS: PRESENCE OF A THOUSAND MEN -LIVING GLACIER VESTMENT-

It wouldn't have been a particularly grandiose display if it were not for the wave of dark-blue aura which blasted out of him as he bellowed: "KNEEL!"

The ground froze around his feet, and it felt as though the air itself might freeze at any moment. Out of over sixty strong individuals, all but nine were thrown to the ground. Despite struggling to stand, those behind him seemed to be mostly unaffected, at least by comparison to the would-be raiders.

"Those of you who value your lives, do not try to stand, else you will perish on the spot."

Over a dozen of them indeed died on the spot as they tried to get up, freezing where they knelt, immortalized in the last moments of their lives, bloody tears erupting from their eyes. When they placed the strength of their spirits against his aura, they were crushed in an instant.

The Borean named Jorfr undid his cloak's clasp and let the whole thing blow away from him. Just his physical presence alone equaled that of ten men, easily surpassing two meters in height and not lacking in bulk in the slightest, despite an apparent absence of much body fat. It seemed as though the Borean's milky-white skin was mere moments from bursting, so tightly wrapped it was around his musculature. His lower half was clad in a loincloth of sorts tied in place by a bright-blue, buckle-less belt, as well as heavy-duty leather boots and trousers made up of lengthwise alternating blue-white stripes. These garments served as the underlayer for dark, full-plate greaves that clad his legs from the thighs down to the boots. On his belt was a hammer of twisted white metal, its chisel-like, diamond-shaped head as long as its handle, and its material reflecting light in iridescent shades.

Despite the release of his presence, a handful among the self-proclaimed cultivators still stood, and they readily sought retribution for the deaths of their compatriots, despite the fact they had been warned.

Metal and steel, fire and ice, were set against his naked brow. They all were repelled, no matter the might; nothing they brought to bear could harm him. One among them thought to tear mistletoe from a nearby tree, and to turn it into impaling spears with his viridimancy, and all but one of these were frozen ere they could even touch him. The one single mistletoe spear which struck him merely shattered against his skin, freezing in an instant.

Jorfr stomped once, and in an instant, statues of a great man with a spear and shield erupted from the ground, one right in front of each of those among the bandits who had attacked him. One man tried to slip past, but when a statue ran him through before he could even reach it, the others thought better of doing such a thing. Another stomp, and a phalanx made from no less than three-dozen icy spears formed itself not just in front of him, but in front of the entrance to Fort 57. He took his hammer from his belt and in an instant its shaft lengthened to be as tall as him, and as he rested it upon his shoulder, he lowered himself and buried his hand into the frozen earth. The next moment he tore a shimmering, broadheaded hammer of ghostly energy out from the ground. It floated next to his arm as he straightened back to his full towering height.

"Ek erilaz, Jorfr haite! I, mage-warrior, am called Jorfr. A cultivator, if you will... But then, you wouldn't have needed to understand Borean to notice that if you were truly cultivators. As it stands, you are nothing but thugs with more power than you ought to have. Leave this place and never return."

The pressure of his aura released itself just enough that those who had not killed themselves trying to fight it could now stand, though they could not do much more than that.

“In that case… Ek erilaz, Idda haite!” Idda proclaimed, raising her sword to point at him. It was a foolish proclamation for which he rightly should have killed her, but he didn’t get to do that. “C’mon, big man. Fight me, yourself. No tricks, just weapons. Surely, a high-and-mighty “true” cultivator such as yourself will not oppose a challenge from a bandit, right?”

An obvious provocation. The woman’s aura felt sharp enough that Jorfr wagered she might actually put up a fight, if not a very good or long one. He didn’t get to answer, however.

"I am afraid I cannot let that happen, senior. The part about them leaving. Especially not human-trafficking scum like Idda," came a stern, steely voice from an approaching figure, cloaked just as Jorfr had been. The figure wore a mask, but he recognized something; the sword she carried. It was just as tall as her and just oversized overall, but unlike Idda’s, that was due to the fact it was a longsword designed for a two to three-meter man being carried by a woman of average height. Average height for Ikesian women was fairly tall, at 175cm, but it was still significantly smaller than the intended wielder.

It was one of the few dragon knight swords Zelsys had considered good enough to use. He'd last heard of it when Zel recounted her investigation into the nearby farmstead and subsequent slaying of a Black Rope-infested alkasnail. An ex-cultivator mercenary had followed her, and after hearing out how the mercenary had been chased out of the Sanger sect by a nobleman, Zelsys had simply let her take the sword. If he recalled correctly, the woman's name was... Lydia. He was 75% sure of it.