Book 2, Chapter 85


“Hold on, Master!” The elven bard drew his dagger, suddenly lifting a waitress up by her long hair. He lightly slapped her smudged face with the flat side of his blade, and just as she forced a smile he abruptly cut her hands off.

The woman screeched in pain, and even Richard was rather distressed by this action. “What are you doing?” he questioned in a threatening tone, “You need to cut this man’s fingers, not her hands!”

The elven bard kept the woman suspended by her hair, turning her to face Richard. He shook her twice, causing an exquisite small scroll to fall out from her clothes. He grabbed it just before it fell into the puddle of blood on the ground, hurling it towards Richards. Richard realised the moment he pulled the scroll open that it would send out an alarm when torn apart.

This was a little trick of the higher classes, somewhat like a magical toy. It was rather effective in this case, however; he would never have expected a random waitress to have it on hand. She was beyond what she seemed.

“Master, this woman was trying to give you away. If those who try to flee deserve to have their legs cut off, then those who try to spread information deserve to lose their hands,” Olar said with resolution.

“Put her aside for now,” Richard replied coldly, “Come here and do your job!” The bard was intelligent, and the slave contract ensured his loyalty. He was just growing more and more unlikeable as his true nature revealed itself, but he was still someone who couldn’t be let go.

Olar wiped his dagger clean, glancing at the bartender indifferently before asking, “Should I take my time, Master, or should I finish it fast?”

“I want you to make him spill.”

Gangdor had already replaced Richard to hold the bartender down, so he took his time to look through the bar’s shelf and picked something good for himself. He poured himself a fair bit of alcohol before leaning against the counter, waiting for a result.

Olar looked at the bartender’s fingers and said to Gangdor, “Lend me your axe.”

“What for?”

The bard rolled his eyes, “Because the blade is rough enough!”

Gangdor was delighted by the answer, passing the axe over, “Careful with it, it’s heavy!”

The elf snorted, grabbing the axe rather effortlessly. Bard though he may be, he was still level 9. He may not be able to use the axe in battle, but lifting it was no big deal. However, he soon realised that lifting and using the axe were two different matters. Cutting off one of the bartender’s fingers would prove to be a huge challenge. He needed to torture the fellow slowly, slicing his fingers up instead of chopping them all off at the same time.

Thus, it was only expected for him to miss with his first strike. The axe landed slightly off target, and had little strength behind it. Nevertheless, the weight of the axe alone crushed the first joint of the fellow’s finger into a bloody mess.

The bartender cried aloud, the pain so excruciating that his scream escaped Gangdor’s hand on his mouth.

The elf’s forehead was beading with sweat, and he looked rather tired as he tried to use the axe again. He shouted unhappily, “SHUT YOUR TRAP! I can still cut this finger three more times, leave whatever you have to say until after I’m done. Nobody cares right now!”

“I yield! I yield! I’ll tell you everything!” The bartender gave in under the pain and pressure. He’d just recognised the truth— these people before him definitely did not pale in front of Schitich or Red Cossack in terms of their cruelty. Knowing that the axe in the elf’s hands might fall again any time soon, he spilled everything he knew.

Red Cossack was a well-known slave trade group in this city of blood, so they naturally had slave camps in Bluewater. There were many camps spread out, and they could handle 30,000 slaves at once. Normally, they detained several thousands of slaves there.

The place had a team of 300 guards to guard these slaves, true elites unlike Red Hook’s knights. Even so, this wasn’t Red Cossack’s base; that was at Moon Bay, over a hundred kilometres away.

As for Schitich, he was considered a significant force in Bluewater Oasis. He had a force of 200 cavalry and 400 infantry, tasked with maintaining law and order in Bluewater alongside five other factions. The six organisations were mostly just mercenary groups that moonlighted as bandits. They were considered a single party, having two votes total in the Bluewater Council. The representative of the Sequoia Kingdom had 3, Marquess Anrick had 1, while the remaining 10 were with various slaving organisations which changed rather frequently.

The Bluewater Council had a certain level of authority. After all, one needed a stable environment for trade to thrive. However, when things involved specific benefits and interests it wasn’t unusual for things to be settled outside of its control.

Schitich himself was level 14, with a dozen of his subordinates being level 12 or above. However, he wasn’t close to the strongest in the oasis. That was the representative of Marquess Anrick, sword saint Rolf. His level 16 strength was the sole reason the Marquess even had a vote in the council.

The doors to the bar suddenly flew open at that point, and a few drunkards came in. The bloody mess and the noise in the bar seemed to sober them up a little, however, and they grew completely clear-headed when they noticed the icy stares of Richard’s men. They quickly bowed apologetically. “Sorry, wrong place!” they shouted out, before running out at the speed of lightning without forgetting to close the door.

Richard raised his glass and had a sip before throwing it aside, “We’re done here. Prepare for the next battle.”

His subordinates got up, but Olar still had the bartender in hand, “What about this one?”

“Let him go,” Richard waved dismissively and walked out of the bar.

The bartender hit the floor the moment the elf released him, looking like he would faint at any moment. However, there was a fiery hatred in his eyes as he watched Richard exit. Almost everyone followed after Richard, even Flowsand who hadn’t made a move till then. However, he felt rather strange, as if something was missing or wrong.

It was then that it dawned on him that the beautiful, diabolical elf wasn’t there. He turned around, only to see the glimmer of the elf’s blade blinding his eyes.

Another head flew up in the air, and Olar shrugged indifferently at the headless body that was spewing blood, “Sorry, I’m sure Master wouldn’t have liked the way you looked at him just now.”

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OMA's Thoughts

Translated By: Gem

Edited By: Theo

TLC'ed By: OMA