Just today, in just one morning, another thirty soldiers passed out.

At this rate, they’ll drop like flies before anyone even attacks them.

That’s the fact.

But when the fact came out of Sixth Hoffman’s mouth, it was a different story altogether.

"Sixth Hoffman, don’t say we didn’t warn you, get the hell back to your place, or don’t blame us for not being nice!"

As they spoke, a dozen soldiers raised their weapons.

Their team of fifteen was equipped with the empire’s best and most advanced weapons, possessing tremendous killing power.

A light touch could turn a man into dust.

But Sixth Hoffman just glanced at them, not showing a hint of fear, "Fine, if you have the guts, blow me up, I’ve been wanting to taste a grenade."

After gulping down the last of his drink, Sixth Hoffman threw the jug aside and staggered off the boulder.

Seeing him approach, a few soldiers panicked first.

They looked at each other, stood still, and none dared to move.

"All freaking cowards," Sixth Hoffman laughed out loud, turned around, his nearly two-meter height swaggering left and right, deliberately provoking, "Come on, fight me, anyone who doesn’t dare is a wimp."

His laughter was hearty, but to the few imperial soldiers, it made their eyes turn red with anger.

There had been other drifters who came to provoke intentionally, but Sixth Hoffman was the most infuriating of them all.

He seemed to come from some remote planet and had no sense of decency or manners.

"Vulgar, filthy!" Several people cursed in rage.

But such words to Sixth Hoffman were like scratching an itch.

He drank again, completely tipsy, almost ready to perform a hula dance right there for them.

"Come on, hit me."

His expression was utterly infuriating.

"I can’t stand it anymore!" The leading captain rushed out first.

As imperial soldiers, how could they tolerate such provocation? It was a direct insult to them.

Seeing the captain charge, the rest forgot what Sheffield Benedict had instructed earlier and followed him.

Fifteen men, one after another, piled on.

Sixth Hoffman, who had been twisting his body, seemed to sense the danger and stopped his antics, then turned around.

Seeing several men had already crossed the border, he instantly stopped laughing, his beard almost exploding upright, "You’re asking for it."

Fifteen against one.

Three minutes later, the weapons were seized, and the men were laid out.

Sixth Hoffman, still playful, stacked them up and sat on them, "Go back and tell Sheffield Benedict to come see me, Sixth Hoffman, got it?"

The captain, twisted and squeezed, still struggled, "In your dreams!"

"What?" Sixth Hoffman dug his ears, "What did you say? I didn’t quite catch that."

"I said! You think—gah!"

He couldn’t finish his sentence before another heavy hit struck his back.

No blood, just some spit flying.

Sixth Hoffman jumped off the pile, "Remember what I said, or I’ll come back tomorrow!"

"Shameless!"

Sixth Hoffman walked away laughing, not caring at all, still humming a tune.

"Shameless!"

In the distance, the yellow sand and the orange setting sun were painfully bright to the eyes.

An hour later, Sheffield Benedict received the message that Sixth Hoffman wanted to see him.

The one reporting this was the captain of the Mech Squad Nine, Frederick Shaw.

A middle-aged man.

Sheffield Benedict asked, "Did he say why he wants to see me?"