Flying Fish Port, at the city gates.
The sunshine was just right, making the soldiers guarding the gates look a bit lazy.
"Stand guard,"
An older City Guard noticed some movement. Something unusual was approaching the city gates, so he reminded his comrades to stay alert to avoid any unexpected incidents.
He fixed his gaze on the commotion and discovered it was two young boys leaning on each other for support. Unable to contain his disdain, he said, "False alarm."
A younger City Guard also recognized them and widened his eyes. "Tsk tsk, don't tell me they went to poke around some dangerous beast's lair."
The two boys slowly walked closer, and the others could see their miserable state more clearly. One was limping, and the other had a grotesque lump on his head, with both of them soaking wet and looking utterly disheveled.
Seeing their pitiful appearance, the guards didn't dare intercept them for fear of inviting trouble.
The duo was Rosyth and Benson, returning from outside the city.
They struggled forward, eventually passing through the city gates and arriving at the spot behind the city wall where the donkey carts were stationed.
Upon seeing them, the man guarding the donkey carts showed no disdain whatsoever. He approached and asked, "Sir, is there anything I can do for you?"
Benson answered dizzily, "H...home."
Rosyth quickly intervened. "Take us to the best clinic nearby. And hurry. I'll cover the fare." He had a fractured leg, and every step was torment, cold sweat dripping profusely along the way.
Once seated in the cart, Rosyth exhaled deeply, gritting his teeth in relief.
He swore to the Merciful Mother that he'd repay these grievances—both the ones now and those from before—once he gained greater strength.
*Complaining to parents was never an option. It'd be too humiliating, and he wouldn't be able to show his face around these parts afterward.*
...
Putting aside the boys' bedraggled state for now—
On the other side, Ivan entered the city and headed toward the South City, near the docks, making his way to an explorer tavern.
'Hammerhead Shark,'
He glanced at the strange name displayed overhead. This was the establishment his brother Beaman had mentioned. Ivan stepped into the bustling tavern.
The scent of alcohol and sweat assaulted his senses.
Ivan furrowed his brow slightly, standing at the entrance for a quick scan before heading straight to the counter.
"A cup of Skull Wine."
Behind the counter stood an older, brawny man—a retired explorer well known around the docks and referred to as 'Old John.'
Old John shot Ivan a glance and casually grabbed an oak cup bound with iron wire. He placed it under a wooden barrel on the shelf behind him, pulled out the wooden stopper, and let the pale red liquid flow into the vessel.
As he handed over the drink, Old John warned, "Kid, don't cause trouble here after drinking, or I might test the hardness of your skull."
Ivan handed over a silver coin, took the oak cup, and didn't say a word.
*Being young had its downsides—in this case, the man probably assumed he was drinking for the first time.*
Ivan carried the wine cup to an empty table near the wall, sitting down while studying the 'Skull Wine' in his hand.
The tavern served all drinks in the same oversized oak cups, which were taller than his palm. The pale red, murky liquid inside was actually a type of wheat beer. 'Skull Wine' was the name given when the tavern first opened years ago—a name only a few local insiders still remembered.
Nowadays, it had been renamed to 'Hammerhead Wine,' said to leave you feeling like your head had been struck by a mallet after drinking.
But still referring to it as 'Skull Wine' could get you out of trouble in certain situations; Beaman had mentioned this tip to him.
*"The alcohol content isn't high—probably around 15%. It has this sharp, peculiar taste."* Ivan took a sip and discerned that it was brewed from fermented wheat, resembling beer but blended with an intensely numbing flavor.
*It didn't exactly suit his taste.*
In small sips, he scanned the crowd inside the tavern—a mix of mercenary-garbed explorers, smooth-talking traveling bards, and a majority of sailors and dockworkers. There was even a half-drunk Nightingale slouched in a corner.
*This sort of place was a melting pot of all sorts, with a high likelihood of running into con artists or thieves.*
After observing for a moment without drawing attention, his ears caught the traveling bard's words.
"Still remember that colorful black ship from last time? A good number of the young lords and ladies on board didn't make it back alive."
"Stop bragging, Beale. Affairs of noble heirs aren't something you'd have the inside scoop on."
"Heh heh, I didn't need any inside scoop. A lady who enjoys my wandering tales mentioned it after a drink—apparently, five or six were dead."
Hearing their conversation, Ivan's gaze flickered. Donnie had mentioned similar claims, though the numbers differed.
Another man exposed the bard's tale and laughed heartily, cursing, "What lady? More like a plump cook! Ha ha ha!"
"Still counts as a noble family's plump cook! Ha ha ha!"
The traveling bard laughed along, unbothered by his companion's teasing.
Ivan smirked faintly, almost believing the man's embellishments.
"Thunk thunk----"
Soon, a low knocking sound echoed from the counter. Old John was rapping against a rusted ship's anchor with his fist.
The noise prompted several patrons to rise and head toward the back of the tavern.
Ivan left the barely-touched Hammerhead Wine behind and casually followed the crowd toward the rear.
At the back of the tavern, a passage led into an area reminiscent of a warehouse. In reality, it was a beached ship, with only its lower deck intact. Now, it served as a trading market, with square tables nailed down at intervals to display goods.
This was Old John's domain, where he charged merchants the rent of merely one cup of Hammerhead Wine.
Ivan was in need of medicinal ingredients. With Beaman absent, he had no choice but to come himself.
"How much is it?"
"Thirty silver coins for the ones on the left; fifty for the ones on the right. Both come with a bundle of arrows,"
Earlier, Ivan had been intrigued by a hand crossbow but regretted not taking spoils from those two individuals. Now, he ran into someone selling strong bows and hand crossbows. After a careful comparison, he decisively paid fifty silver coins for a finely crafted hand crossbow.
As the name suggests, a hand crossbow straps onto the arm and can be hidden under loose sleeves. It could load three small bolts at once and fire by arm movement or by pulling muscle tight.
He'd learned one trick from Rosyth: crossbow bolts must be laced with poison.
After wandering a bit more, Ivan approached a stall where he saw boxes of medicinal ingredients displayed. His eyes instinctively glanced at the stall keeper's ragged beard—only half was intact, and it was undeniably red.
"Mr. Red Beard, Beaman sent me here."
"Money?"
Money exchanged hands, goods exchanged hands, and Ivan received a cloth bag filled with boxes of varying sizes.
As he handed over the bag, Red Beard asked casually, "Do you still have that secret medicine from before?"
Ivan looked bewildered at Red Beard. "What?"
Beaman had warned him about plenty, including Red Beard's trustworthy yet slightly crafty character. Ivan wouldn't fall for such simple ploys.
Red Beard leaned in and whispered, "I heard Beaman sold some Breathing Secret Medicine. Tell him to speak with me—I can help him make an extra five gold coins."
Ivan thought for a moment, then replied, "Sure, I'll let him know."
Seeing that Ivan genuinely didn't know, Red Beard let go of the bag, allowing him to inspect its contents.
Once the deal was sealed, Ivan didn't linger in the ship's hold.
He initially wanted to look for other sellers of Breathing Methods, but the market here was too small to have anything so rare.
Leaving Hammerhead Shark Tavern, Ivan avoided the narrow alleyways and simply followed the crowded streets back. A voice abruptly halted his steps, making him turn around.
"Donnie, get your ass over here!"