Chapter 558: Gutter Rat Intelligence Group

Winter City rarely had any nightlife.

Even after the city became much wealthier and the quality of life had significantly improved.

The people here still weren’t used to going out at night.

Most of the time, the nights were just too cold, so dark they felt like they could swallow all life.

Who would go out for no reason?

9527 would.

But he had business to attend to.

Ten o’clock at night. The glow from the Magic Energy street lamps washed out the stars.

During a bout of insomnia, 9527 had once squatted on his windowsill, watching to see if these lamps really stayed on all night.

The answer was no.

The street lamps would go out at one in the morning and turn back on at five. It was understandable; after all, lighting streets that almost no one used was a bit of a waste.

Piled beneath the lampposts was dirty snow mixed with mud, probably also laced with animal droppings and the urine of some drunkard who’d just stumbled home.

It would all stay frozen until spring was almost over.

Snow wasn’t actually clean. Maybe it was right after it fell from the sky, but as soon as it hit the ground, it always picked up all sorts of things from the air.

The snow was a reflection of its environment.

Just like him.

9527 believed his environment wasn’t solely to blame for his descent into a life of deceit. He himself certainly bore the primary responsibility, but his surroundings definitely deserved a significant portion of the secondary blame.

He’d been an orphan, raised on the streets. Back then, unless a street kid got incredibly lucky and was adopted by a rare good-hearted person, there were only a few paths open to them—a life of grifting, scheming, and stealing. None of them were righteous.

He left the main road, ducking and weaving through a maze of dark alleys untouched by the street lamps until he reached his destination.

A dilapidated shack.

An old beggar sat by the door, wrapped in a thick blanket and giving off a sour, rancid smell. It was impossible to tell if he was asleep or awake.

9527 took out a copper-plated iron “Golden Badge” and held it in front of the old beggar.

The man glanced up at it briefly before settling back down without a word.

As a regular here, 9527 knew he had passed the test. He pushed open the shack door and entered a tunnel, just wide enough for one person, hidden behind a tattered straw mat.

After two turns, the space opened up into a spacious, chaotic tavern—a place where dilapidation and luxury coexisted.

On one hand, there was the nauseating smell of cheap liquor mixed with mildewing wood.

On the other, priceless paintings and sculptures were displayed on the walls and in the corners.

They were stolen goods, pilfered with great difficulty but, for various reasons, never fenced.

This was a branch of the Shadow Guild.

The Shadow Guild was what its members called it. Outsiders usually called it the Thief Guild, the Cheater Guild, or, more directly, the Rat Guild.

It was a gathering place for thieves, con artists, information brokers, sellers of fake medicine, and so on—practitioners from the bottom of the food chain even within the criminal underworld.

They flagrantly served watered-down, low-quality liquor and had no fear of being reported. Unless you could beat up the manager, you wouldn’t be getting any of the good stuff.

Beyond that, they also offered services for fencing stolen goods, buying and selling information, hosting gambling games, and providing a relatively safe place for negotiations. And if you happened to die here, they would “thoughtfully” help dispose of your body after stripping it of anything valuable.

Although the service here was far below that of a normal tavern, its revenue was still terrifyingly high.

There was no helping it. For people in this line of work, this was the only place they could drop their disguises and relax a little.

Besides, the “rats” were all quite rich and had no habit of saving money.

‘Who were they saving it for?’

Any day, a single misstep could land them in jail or leave them dead in the streets.

They had little to no direct combat ability. Even the best thief, if caught in the act, probably couldn’t beat a rookie, third-rate mercenary in a one-on-one fight.

Coupled with the fact that their line of work made it incredibly easy to make enemies, death was like the wind—one puff and they were gone.

9527 walked into the tavern and looked around. The turnover rate here had always been high. He hadn’t been retired for long, but there were already few familiar faces.

As he stood there, a bit lost, a young man called out to 9527. The guy was as handsome as a Shadow of Evil star—over six feet tall with curly golden hair, a prominent nose, and a pair of deep, captivating blue eyes.

“Hey, look who it is! If it isn’t the best con artist the Northern Domain ever had, now a member of Zog Group’s management?”

He said, opening his arms to give 9527 a hug.

“Long time no see, old friend.”

“Long time no see.”

“Welcome back to the Continent Tavern.”

“Give me a break. Can you really say that name with a straight face?”

The Continent Tavern. It sounded like some impressive place, as if its rules were strict and all violence was forbidden.

In reality, this naming convention was a time-honored tradition of theirs.

Forget ability; the title had to be intimidating.

For instance, someone who managed to sneak into a place with half-decent security would dare to call themself the Dark Night Formless. A loan shark would be the Master of Gold and Wealth. And a moonshiner? The Alchemist who Controls the Grape and the Grain.

As for 9527, his title back in the day had been the God-Chosen of Lies and Deceit.

And the Golden Hair in front of him was “Lightning Golden Quick Hand.”

You could tell from the name he was a thief.

He was also one of the people 9527 was here to meet.

“What’s wrong? I quite like the name. Come on, I’ve prepared a few bottles of good stuff—the real good stuff.”

“The real good stuff? Hahaha.”

“Well, I’m not a con artist.”

“Give me back my phone.”

“What phone?”

“Don’t play dumb. You think I’m some rookie fresh off the street? How many years has it been, and you still have sticky fingers?”