Chapter 566 - 503: "Scarface" Ogre

Chapter 566: Chapter 503: "Scarface" Ogre

Seeing the situation, Roland’s gaze shifted between the group of clearly hostile men blocking the door and Holland’s suddenly grave expression. He asked in a low voice,

"Mr. Holland, are those men... here to cause trouble? Do you know them?"

Holland managed a stiff smile and replied, also in a hushed tone.

"Don’t be nervous, buddy. Those are just a pack of hounds that work for ’Scarface’ Ogre. As for Ogre... let’s just say he’s a well-known ’businessman’ in town. Casinos, liquor, and his specialty: ’short-term loans’."

The Priest’s words were heavy with sarcasm.

"I was short on cash a while back and had to ’borrow’ a little from him for something. Tsk. I wonder if he’s here specifically for me... If he is, it’s been less than half a month. He’s got no patience at all..."

Muttering to himself, he quickly untied the bloodstained bundle at his waist. He sifted through the weapons and Armor fragments stripped from the goblins, frowning slightly as if estimating their value.

"But... with this stuff, plus that Magic Staff I got earlier, it should be enough to settle his debt. I might even have a few coins left over."

He said, as if to reassure himself, then looked up at Roland.

"Rudolph, you wait here—"

Holland stopped mid-sentence.

He realized Roland’s gaze wasn’t on him. It was fixed over his shoulder, on the empty alley corner behind him.

Holland mistook the silence for nervousness or anxiety and was just about to say something comforting when...

"Well, well, look who we have here."

A hoarse voice, dripping with mockery and malice, spoke from right behind them, abruptly cutting Holland off.

A figure had silently circled around to their flank.

He was a tall, thin man in faded old Leather Armor. A fresh scar slashed diagonally from his brow to the corner of his mouth, lending a vicious air to his otherwise unremarkable face.

He crossed his arms, tilting his head to size up Holland, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Took us a while to find you, ’Hard-luck’ Holland. The boss... he’s been asking after you for a long time."

"’Giant Rat’ Riley..."

At the sight of the man, Holland’s body instantly tensed, his right hand subconsciously reaching for the Nail Head Hammer at his waist.

"Hey, buddy! Relax..."

The man named Riley idly toyed with a brightly polished Dagger. His gaze wasn’t entirely on Holland, however; it slid over to Roland with an appraising look, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but he had a nagging feeling that this quiet young man had somehow detected his hiding spot moments before.

But upon closer inspection, he could sense no obvious Extraordinary fluctuations from the young man, whose aura seemed perfectly normal. Riley dismissed his suspicion, chalking it up to paranoia.

That unpleasant smile returned to his face. He gestured at Holland with his Dagger, his tone flippant.

"Holland, I’ve heard for a while now that you fellows who serve the Gods can have, erm... unique tastes."

His gaze swept over Roland as if he were appraising livestock, moving from the young man’s slightly pale face to the frame clad in simple Leather Armor.

"But I have to say, the ’piece’ you ’picked up’ this time is some fine quality."

He licked his chapped lips, a calculating glint in his eye as he continued.

"How about this... you ’hand’ this kid over to our boss. Lord Ogre has been looking for some new... ’employees’ lately."

"If the kid can please him, maybe that pesky debt of yours can be wiped clean, just like that. How about it? It’s not a bad deal for you."

A muscle in Holland’s jaw twitched.

He took a step forward, his large frame completely blocking Riley’s view of Roland. His voice was low and clear.

"Listen, Riley. I’ll say it again: I like women. And another thing..."

His tone hardened.

"Rudolph has nothing to do with this. I’ve already scraped the money together—enough to pay Ogre back in full, with interest. Let him go, and I’ll go with you to see Ogre."

"Rudolph? Hmm... A fine name."

Riley leaned his head to the side, deftly peering around Holland’s broad shoulders. His gaze fell on Roland once more, and he even gave a flirtatious wink.

Then, the smirk vanished from his face.

"Holland, this... isn’t your call to make."

He held up a single finger, wagging it in front of Holland’s face.

"Now. Immediately. Take the kid and get inside the tavern. The boss has been waiting long enough, and his patience... is not one of his virtues."

The words had barely left his mouth when Riley raised a hand and let out a short, sharp whistle.

As if on cue, the seven or eight thugs who had been squatting and standing around the tavern entrance moved as one.

They spread out swiftly and methodically, forming a loose semicircle that silently converged on the pair, cutting off all avenues of escape.

Though no one drew a weapon, their cold, appraising stares and the palpable hostility were more menacing than any drawn blade.

"Damn it..."

Holland cursed under his breath, his jaw tight.

He scanned the enclosing formation from the corner of his eye, then took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

Then, turning slightly, he spoke to Roland in a low, apologetic voice.

"I’m sorry, Rudolph... for dragging you into this mess."

His voice was a hushed, rapid whisper.

"I was careless. But don’t you worry. No matter what’s waiting in there, I’ll do my best to handle it. If... and I mean *if*... something happens, I’ll create an opening. When I do, don’t hesitate. Just run as fast as you can and get out of here, understand?"

Roland nodded at Holland’s whisper, but he felt no alarm. Instead, his calm gaze swept over the thugs closing in around them, like a seasoned hunter assessing his prey.

’Solid muscle, steady gait. Their base Power isn’t bad... But their breathing is chaotic, with no sign they’ve honed their bodies through a specific Breathing Technique. They don’t have the obvious, surging vitality of a Barbarian, either. Are they Professionals who acquired their Extraordinary Power through other means?’

His gaze flickered past the most burly thugs before settling on a man with sharp features and a Short Bow slung across his back.

’Huh. The one leaning against the wall, subconsciously stroking his Bowstring... a Ranger? According to the *Path of the Forest Speaker*, it’s extremely difficult for humans to form a deep resonance with natural Elements without a special bloodline or opportunity. It’s rare to see one who’s made it this far.’

After a moment of reflection, Roland’s gaze fell back on Riley, a faint, almost imperceptible hint of amusement in his eyes.

’An Assassin? He conceals his presence so crudely... His stealth skills are hardly fit for public display.’

Perhaps Roland’s gaze was too telling, because Riley’s hand, which had been toying with the Dagger, faltered for a split second.

He snapped his head up and looked at Roland with suspicion.

But Roland had already lowered his gaze, his face once again a mask of vacant, harmless submission, as if that sharp glance had been nothing more than a trick of the light.

Riley frowned. The flicker of unease he felt was quickly replaced by impatience. He figured he was just tired from the days-long stakeout and that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Wasting no more time, he gestured toward the tavern entrance with his Dagger and barked in a harsh tone.

"Stop dawdling! Get in!"

Pushing open the heavy wooden door of the Oak Barrel and Horn, they were hit by a wall of air, thicker and more stifling than usual, reeking of cheap tobacco, sweat, and tension.

The main room of the tavern was unusually crowded, yet it lacked its typical boisterous clamor.

The tables and chairs had been roughly shoved against the walls, clearing a large space in the center.

Fifteen or twenty men, all with different appearances but sharing the same thuggish air, were scattered throughout the room, standing or sitting in a way that subtly controlled every entrance and blind spot.

Most were silent, their cold, appraising eyes tracking Holland and Roland as they entered.

The usual handful of patrons were nowhere to be seen. Only the owner, Karen, stood behind the counter with a grim look on his face, his hands tightly clutching a rag as his worried gaze fell upon Holland.

In the center of the hall, at the sturdiest, heaviest wooden table, sat a lone figure.

He was an exceptionally burly man.

Even while seated, he was nearly as tall as the standing Roland and Holland.

He wore a crude, grease-stained robe stitched together from the hide of some unknown beast, revealing bronze-skinned arms that were knotted with muscle and covered in scars both old and new.

His broad face featured a protruding jaw and thick lips, features that were distinctly inhuman. Short, thick, slightly curved tusks jutted from the corners of his mouth.

His nose was flat and his eyes were deep-set. A pair of light brown eyes darted about under a heavy brow, their gaze as coarse and sharp as polished flint.

A tangled mop of black hair, streaked with gray, was strewn haphazardly over his shoulders.

Most striking of all was the massive, hideous scar that slashed diagonally across the entire left side of his face.

It looked as if his face had been viciously torn by some great claw, lending his expression a terrifyingly ferocious cast even when he was calm.

At that moment, he was using one calloused, thick-knuckled hand to idly toy with a heavy Hand Axe resting on the table. The axe’s edge glinted coldly, and its handle was wrapped in leather soaked with sweat and grime.

His other hand clutched an enormous wooden mug, filled with a sloshing, dark amber liquid.

Seeing Holland and Roland "escorted" in by Riley’s group, his coarse face split into a grin that revealed more of his yellowed teeth and the tips of his tusks.

"Aha! Our lost ’lamb’ has finally decided to come back?"

His voice was low and raspy, like two rough stones grinding together.

"And he brought a... lost little bird with him?"

Roland’s calm gaze swept over the man’s distinctive features and physique. He registered the faint, bestial scent hanging in the air—something not quite human—and it all clicked.

’So this must be Ogre. A Half-beastman, surprisingly... and by the looks of him, he’s got quite a bit of Beastman in him. This physique, this whole setup... he certainly fits the part of a loan-sharking boss.’

But in the next instant, the calm, appraising look in Roland’s eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, focused intensity.

His gaze traveled past Ogre’s brutish face and powerful frame, locking onto an object lying casually on the greasy wooden table.

It lay amidst a pile of loose coins, gnawed-on bones, and empty mugs, not at all conspicuous.

It was a polyhedron, about the size of a baby’s fist, with a dull metallic sheen.

On closer inspection, its surface wasn’t smooth but was composed of eight perfectly joined triangular faces. Each face was inscribed with incredibly fine, dizzyingly complex geometric patterns and ancient Runes.

In the tavern’s dim, yellow light, these markings seemed to pulse with a subtle, inner glimmer, like captured stardust.

Roland’s breath caught in his throat for a near-imperceptible instant.

There was no mistaking it.

That was his... Secret Imprisonment Dice.