Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

“Welcome to the South Windlet Post Office. How may I help you?” The man had a hat on and he was wearing black clothes and dark boots. There were daggers on his hips, and some pouches, and bandages on his hands. From his appearance, Gilbert assumed this guy is a hunter or a mercenary. There’s some kind of dark aura shrouding this guy, and it made him suspicious. ‘But a criminal wouldn’t use our service, out in the day like this. And not via the official route. Didn’t they hear about Arata-san?’

He is so full of himself and arrogant. He is a good person Sav, I think he likes you a lot...I mean a lot. This is the first time he brought a date. We are really surprised! Sometimes, people are being carried away by his position, but as far as I know him and from my personal point of view, he is kind-hearted and a good man. There are talks about his ruthlessness, especially towards women, but I am not a witness to those. I have never seen him with a woman on his side, believe me! It's always talk and gossip by the media. Maybe, it was part of his image to have it that way. He was a widow for many many years and I did not hear a single name attached to him. It's just being ruthless, and a

Before she could finish her sentence, she froze at the sound of a sudden voice. "Hello? Is there anybody here to help me?" asked a large-built gentleman, quite impatiently waving a few books in his hand. He wore a grey tailored suit that matched his hunter-piercing eyes. He has a long, stubbled van dyke beard accompanied by a defined jawline all composed perfectly on his square-shaped face. His slick jet black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. He was a handsome-looking man with a stern expression. Anyone who gazed upon him would assume he was in his middle thirties and someone important.

Meanwhile, inside the private room at Mystic Club. Wendell Hunt was having a toast with a East Asian man. This man was over hundred 90 cm tall and wore a wolf's fangs as a pendant. He had tanned skin and tone muscles. At first glance, he look like a farmer who work on the fields by the countryside. But the man was, in fact, a powerful figure. He was a mercenary leader who carried out activities in several countries of Asia all year long, his group was known as Wolf Hunter, and his name was Rocky.

“Since you’re that lawless, then don’t blame us for doing the same! The gentlemen coldly chuckled. “I wanted to crush you with my longsword to show you just how impressive my country’s martial arts is! “But since you’re being this lawless, then I have no choice but to show you what I’ve got! “We’ll see how you’ll maintain this facade!” The gentleman brought out a hunting rifle before taking the safety off, looking pompous.

On the golden gate a long and well-disposed escort, but especially tired after an expensive journey seeing herself after the dusty saddles of the horsemen, in blue after their rich battleships was known from the first signs a distinguished gentleman, often visiting the royal palace, but and a right hand of monarchical power. In fact, the gentleman who paid this visit, with a serious look, saw nothing but a first stop or a virtuous satisfaction only at the royal palace, so he amazed passers-by with the charm of armor, the luster of spears, the sparks of shields and not only the beauty strong and robust stallions accustomed to tiring journeys.

Outside, city lights twinkled like stars against the night sky's dark canvas. A man reclined in the chair, dressed impeccably in a dark green seven-star uniform, exuding timeless elegance. His posture was relaxed yet poised, one leg crossed casually over the other, revealing polished military boots that gleamed in the ambient light. The fabric of his suit caught the light with a subtle sheen, accentuating his lean physique and quiet charisma. This man was Alexander Ariston. Over the years, he had grown colder and more dangerous, his mere presence suffocating to those around him. There were few humans on Earth bold enough to cross paths with him.

The young man standing on the rusted iron valve did not look like a savior. He looked like a street hustler who had taken a wrong turn into a nightmare. He wore an oversized, faded denim jacket patched with duct tape, heavy rubber wading boots that came up to his knees, and a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses—an absurd accessory for the pitch-black, subterranean cisterns of Arusha. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the glowing cherry illuminating a wide, golden-toothed smile.

Wearing a crisp, white button-up shirt and slim gray slacks with matching linen jacket that looked far better than off-the-rack, he looked aristocratically elegant in his usually meticulous style. Connor didn’t like disorder, or sloppy appearances, and this morning he seemed especially slick–armor-like, as if preparing for battle.

A man wearing thin spectacles stepped forward with a small, polite smile. It was Elias. His voice carried a gentleness that contrasted with the tension. Among the Vladimir brothers, he was the quietest and the most difficult to read. Many outsiders believed him to be the gentlest, the quiet observer. Yet, Ivan sneered, he knew him better. Elias always wore that harmless expression: soft voice, calm smile and polite manners. But, Ivan knew that beneath that fake facade, lurked something dangerous. He was an embodiment of the phrase, ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing.’ He was the most dangerous kind.