Chapter 112

The lodging Zion had procured… its form differed greatly from what I had envisioned.

With beggars roaming the streets and thieves swarming the alleys, I had braced myself for wretched conditions. Fortunately, the bed was plush and the blankets were thick.

No major issue regarding sleep arose. However, concerning other matters…

“This, no matter how I look at it, isn’t an inn, but a ward…?”

The room we were to use held six single beds, arranged to face one another. Furthermore, partitions stained with mold and grime stood between each bed.

“The proper inns have been repurposed as hideouts by ‘the Organization’, see, like that three-story building across the street?”

Zion approached the window and pointed to the large structure on the opposite side of the street. A hulking man with a club in his hand guarded the entrance, while flickers of cigarette light danced on the second and third floors.

“That’s where the ‘Rhodes’ family lives. If you truly desire to sleep in a proper inn, you could just flatten that place.”

“There are forty-three individuals inside. Give me ten minutes, and I can have it neatly cleaned up.”

“…At two gold each, that’s eighty-six gold.”

“If it were up to me, I’d offer a ‘massacre’ package for as low as sixty gold. But the ‘Devil’s Contract’ doesn’t allow for flexibility, it seems? It truly pains me, but I must receive eighty-six gold.”

“Enough said.”

“Pay eighty-six gold for a slightly larger bed and a private room?

Only a madman would accept such an offer.”

“By the way, do you think it will be alright?”

Rir’s worried voice reached my ear as I gazed at the inn outside the window.

“What do you mean?”

She had already taken off her robe and was lying in bed, ready for sleep.

“That young one. She’s barely twelve.”

“I don’t know. Not my problem.”

“…That’s terribly irresponsible.”

“I only gave her an opportunity. If she couldn’t handle it, she would have refused.”

“She’s a desperate child.”

“Did those eyes look like a child’s to you?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

In the distance, hooligans with alcohol and cigarettes in both hands shouted.

The stars and the moon shone equally on those who yelled and cursed so loudly late at night.

“There was the option of living without taking the money, but the child made a choice.”

Even those humans see the light and live.

Wouldn’t it be alright if a child with a dream were touched by light, just once?

“Still, it was a bit much. She’s probably being slashed to pieces by now, you know? How many robbers are there in this city? There’s no way a child could escape them.”

Sion cut in, a mocking smile twisting his lips.

“Should we go check right now? See if she made it safely out of the city? If you’re really worried, I could exert a little influence… Of course, that might involve killing a few thugs along the way, just so you know.”

“No.”

Worried? Hardly.

“She’ll find her way out just fine. She’s probably imagined escaping this city hundreds of times a day.”

A creature who has secretly dreamed of tomorrow in this sewer of a city.

There’s no doubting the resilience of such a person.

“A hole just big enough for her small frame, an underground aqueduct, a hidden passage… she’ll use every trick she has to not miss this chance.”

Those consumed with merely surviving this day could never keep up.

“…Well, I suppose I think so too.”

Sion then sighed, seemingly disappointed at the lost opportunity to make some money, and returned to his bed.

‘A ruthless b*stard.’

I shuddered at Sion’s mercenary nature, blankly watching the rabble roaring down in the alley below.

One hand clutching a pipe, the other a bottle of liquor, the right arms of these men were marked with identical tattoos.

Likely a sign indicating they belonged to the same gang.

I suddenly wondered how tattoos were done in the Middle Ages.

Before machines to safely inject ink or dye beneath the skin were even invented.

Not only in the Middle Ages, but in ancient times as well, they had tattoos… How on earth did they embed the ink beneath the skin?

I was tempted to ask those morons wandering around down there directly.

“Huh.”

Gazing out the window like that, my thoughts wandered in a stream of consciousness when a shaved head appeared in the corner of my vision.

His stride was brimming with fury, red liquid dripping from his fist.

…No matter how I looked at it, he wasn’t someone you wanted to be near.

“What is it?”

Lir approached at my soft voice.

The man who’d suddenly materialized in the alley marched towards the group making a racket.

They exchanged a few words, and then, abruptly, the shaved-headed man started swinging his fists.

“A fight’s broken out.”

“Hmm~ It happens sometimes. Well, actually, it happens often. What else are they going to do when they’re drunk, these folks who only know how to throw a punch?”

“….That’s…?”

I frowned, asking as if to myself.

I knew it well, living in a cheap, crime-ridden neighborhood myself, but what was unfolding down there… it wasn’t quite your average thug fight.

Because with a single punch, people were flying dozens of meters.

“….”

Sion, who had been lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, twitched her ears at the unusually loud noise, then slowly got out of bed and approached the window.

“Oh.”

The short-haired man quickly dealt with the group of more than a dozen, and approached the inn. The men guarding the entrance shouted something loudly, then ran towards the man, wielding large clubs in both hands.

However, they too couldn’t withstand a single punch, and were sent flying dozens of meters away.

* * *

A fist soaked in blood, arms riddled with scars, clenched molars.

Edward was angry.

Though anyone in this city might ask, “When isn’t he?”

Today, though, was particularly worse than usual.

*Thump!*

A bloodied hand shoved the inn door open violently.

The old, rusted hinges snapped, the door falling forward and kicking up a cloud of dust from the floor.

“…”

The gazes of the thugs, occupied with drink, tobacco, and cards, shifted simultaneously to the inn’s entrance. They didn’t seem too pleased by the sudden, uninvited guest.

The raucous laughter ceased, leaving only the sound of rats scurrying into the shadows.

“Who’s this punk? Where are the lookouts?!”

“Isn’t that him?! The bum who’s been holed up at Hans’s Tavern for two weeks straight!”

“Ah, right! The one who turned Kedi’s goons into mincemeat!”

In the few weeks Edward had settled in this city, he’d unknowingly become something of a celebrity.

…Well, staking out a single tavern and holding his ground for over two weeks, motionless as a stone, it wasn’t so strange.

Recognizing the uninvited guest, the thugs slowly began to wear their smiles again.

“For a second there, I thought Kedi’s boys had come for a visit! So what brings you here, friend? Huh?”

A middle-aged man with a bandana on his head lifted his glass and approached Edward, who had suddenly burst through the door.

“You didn’t come looking for refuge from Kedi’s guys, did you? Asking us to take you in as one of ours.”

One of the men sitting and playing cards spoke with a cynical tone.

“With your skills, you’d be more than welcome! Here, take a seat, I’ll give you a tattoo!”

Then, the hooded man, taking the words, draped a friendly arm over Edward’s shoulder.

Just then, at the corner of the man’s vision, he glimpsed his subordinate groaning outside the door.

“Came here to ask something.”

Edward stood rooted to the spot, unmoving.

“Aye, aye! Ask anything! We, the Lodi clan, unlike those Khedive simpletons, are hospitable to guests.”

The hooded man cautiously moved one arm toward his belt.

From his belt hung a small, folding dagger.

“…Indeed, none are more hospitable than us in this desert.”

As if by unspoken agreement, those filling the lobby began setting down their cigarettes and drinks on the tables.

“What’s in the cellar of this inn?”

Whoosh—!

The dagger, drawn from the hooded man’s waist, lunged for Edward’s throat.

“……”

Thud!

The hooded man’s head crashed through the inn floor, burying itself.

A clear fist mark remained on the back of the man’s skull.

“I’ll rephrase the question.”

Drip.

Drip.

Blood dripped steadily from Edward’s hand.

“Is it you, the ones peddling children, not even five years old, into slavery?”

Dozens of burly men, each wielding a sword of varying size, charged toward Edward, roaring as one.

Edward, his lips pressed into a firm line, strode toward them.

“Drench him!”

“Kill the b*stard!”

A flurry of steel aimed for Edward’s neck and heart.

Edward simply swung his tightly clenched fist towards them.

Steel shattered like shards of glass.

Having taken the brunt of dozens of blades head-on, the back of Edward’s hand was brutally torn. Some fragments of the blades pierced his flesh, embedding themselves in his hand.

Even so, he did not stop his fist.

He used the blades burrowed into his flesh as makeshift knuckles.

Each time his fist struck something, the blades dug deeper into the back of his hand, but

Absolutely.

Edward did not stop his fist.

The stench of tobacco and alcohol that saturated the inn’s hall was now overlaid with the smell of blood.