Chapter 102: Meeting With A Beggar

Pa!

The tattooed mercenary slammed down the last of his cheap ale, wiping his mouth with the back of a thick, scarred hand. He let out a low grunt, slid out from the corner booth, and began to make his way toward the tavern’s creaking exit. As he stepped out into the damp night air, his posture loosened, and he began to sway back and forth, staggering along the cobblestone paths like a man who had consumed three bottles too many.

It was a practiced act, a deceptive front honed over years of living in the shadows of the lower district. Even with his deliberate, drunken stumble, his massive frame, broad shoulders, and intricate head tattoos made him a terrifying sight.

The few night wanderers and rogue laborers who crossed his path immediately veered toward the far walls, taking care not to bump into the intimidating brute as he staggered through the winding streets.

He continued his drunken act across several neighborhoods, leaving the rowdy tavern district far behind.

As he turned down a particularly quiet, narrow thoroughfare lined with shut-down storefronts, he felt a sudden pair of eyes lingering on him. A muscular guard standing outside a closed gambling den had paused in the shadows, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his shortsword, staring intently at the tattooed brute swaying down the middle of the street.

The mercenary didn’t miss the look. Instantly leaning into his cover, he stumbled sideways into a stack of empty wooden crates, sending them crashing onto the cobblestones with a deafening rattle.

"What the hell are you looking at, soft-skin?!" the tattooed brute roared, his voice thick and slurred as he pointed a trembling, massive finger at the guard. He took three aggressive, unsteadily wide steps toward the man, baring his yellowed teeth. "You got a problem with my face? Keep staring at me like that, and I’ll drag you into the alley and beat you unconscious until your own mother can’t recognize your corpse!"

The guard’s face went pale. Recognizing the wild, unhinged aura of a dangerous rogue, he quickly lifted his hands in surrender, took two fast steps backward, and slipped entirely inside the building, bolting the wooden door shut behind him.

The tattooed man snorted loudly, spat onto the dirt, and continued his staggered stroll, a dark, hidden smirk playing across his lips once the street was completely clear again. He kept moving until he finally ventured deeper into a quiet, secluded alleyway tucked between decaying stone buildings.

Here, the streets were lined with rags, overturned wooden crates, and shivering bodies. Beggars were scattered here and there, sitting in small clusters against the damp brickwork to shield themselves from the biting night wind. The tattooed man paused near the mouth of the alley, his sharp eyes silently scanning the shadows. He counted them one by one—nine beggars in total, all keeping to themselves in weary silence.

Satisfied, his gaze settled on one of the older men resting near an overturned wagon. The aged beggar sat slumped against the wall with his knees pulled up to his chest, his grey beard matted with dirt, his eyes half-closed as he dozed off in a tired haze.

The tattooed man walked over, reached into his pouch, and pulled out a fistful of silver. He dropped ten bright silver coins into the chipped, dirty clay bowl sitting in front of the sleeping man.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

The sharp, metallic sound echoed loudly in the quiet alley, jolting the old beggar awake. He blinked his bleary, bloodshot eyes, staring down at the unexpected pile of silver shining in his bowl. But as his gaze traveled up the towering figure standing over him, his expression quickly souring.

Recognizing the bald, tattooed brute immediately, the old beggar clicked his tongue in annoyance and closed his eyes back, turning his head away as if the silver meant nothing.

The tattooed mercenary let out a low smirk and unceremoniously sat down directly on the cold ground beside the old man, leaning his back against the brick wall. "Ah, don’t be like that, old friend," he grumbled, nudging the beggar with his elbow.

"Go away," the beggar muttered, clicking his tongue a second time without opening his eyes. "You bring trouble everywhere you step, tiger head. Every single time you show your face around my corner, someone ends up bleeding or dying."

Before the mercenary could even open his mouth to offer a retort, the old man wrinkled his nose in disgust and leaned further away. "And you reek badly. Did you drown yourself in a vat of cheap ale before crawling over here?"

The tattooed man winced slightly, hurriedly waving his hand to defend himself. "Hey, watch your mouth! I only had two small cups of ale tonight, nothing more! I am completely sober!" ℴ

The old beggar let out a heavy sigh, opening one eye to look at the massive brute sitting next to him. Seeing that the man wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon, he shrugged his thin, bony shoulders and adjusted his ragged blanket.

"Fine," the beggar growled softly. "What sort of trouble have you dragged over to my doorstep this time?"

The tattooed mercenary’s smirk vanished, replaced by a serious, focused expression. Reaching into his leather vest, he pulled out an identical parchment drawing—a duplicate sketch of the target he had been hired to cripple. He unrolled the paper and presented it directly in front of the old man’s face.

"Do you know this person?" the mercenary asked in a hushed tone. "Have your eyes around the city spotted him anywhere in Crimson Vale?"

The aged beggar took the drawing from his calloused hands, bringing the parchment close to his dim eyes. He inspected the sharp, handsome features sketched onto the paper for a long, silent moment. His brow furrowed, and the bored indifference on his face slowly dissolved into a grim expression.

He lowered the drawing and turned to face the tattooed man, letting out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of decades spent watching the city’s hidden underbelly.

"I knew it," the old beggar whispered, shaking his head slowly. "You really have brought massive trouble with you tonight."

The tattooed mercenary frowned slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as a sudden edge of caution entered his voice. "What do you mean ’trouble’? He’s just some young noble kid, isn’t he? Is he hiding somewhere in the city?"

The old beggar didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly tipped his head toward the dirty clay bowl resting between his feet, looking down at the ten silver coins sitting inside.

He looked back at the tattooed man, a sly, knowing glint entering his weathered eyes as he shook his head.

"I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you," the old beggar said in a quiet, raspy voice. "Unless..."