Bab 2: Chapter 2 : Bravehearts Bar
"Ugh." Vernal groaned and cursed under his breath as he woke up yet again, his head pounding and his body screaming in pain.
This time, it wasn't the grimy taste of river water filling his mouth, but a sharp, gut-wrenching agony.
He struggled to push himself off the ground, his hands shaking as he forced his weak body to move, and when he finally managed to sit up, he looked down and froze.
The spot where he had been lying was soaked in blood, thick and clinging to the dirt beneath him, and it wasn't just a little—it was far too much, enough to leave him feeling lightheaded just from looking at it.
For a moment, all he could do was stare, his thoughts spinning in a chaotic mess, and then the question slammed into his mind.
How the fuck was he still breathing? There was no way this made any sense. He should have bled out hours ago. But like before, by all rights, he should have been dead a thousand times over by now.
His heart pounded in his chest as a terrifying thought wormed its way into his mind, and he muttered in his mind, his voice barely above a whisper, 'Do I… Do I have a connection to a Sefirot?'
He sat there for several seconds, his breathing uneven while his thoughts spiraled into something reckless. Then he suddenly shook his head violently and slapped his cheeks hard enough to sting.
Through clenched teeth, he thought, 'No, no, don't start thinking shit like that. I know myself, and I'd do something reckless to confirm my idea.'
He forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling as he tried to steady himself. Then he muttered louder, his voice carrying an edge of anger in his mind, 'Okay, ignoring my two-time resurrection, fuck, I got way too confident in that goddamn Gamer's Mind. I thought, just because having knowledge couldn't corrupt me, I'd be fine as long as the system kept running.'
He gritted his teeth and nearly hissed, 'Fuck, me showing up here was definitely because of an Outer God, and the 'Hand'—'
A sharp sting pierced through his head, sending pain shooting through his temples like a jagged blade twisting deep inside his skull. His knees buckled, and he barely managed to stay upright.
Clenching his fists tightly, he started to walk towards the river. 'Tempering with things I didn't understand, acting like I was invincible. Goddamn fool! And not the good kind.'
When he reached the riverbank, he wasted no time and jumped into the cold water, letting it wash over him as he scrubbed the grime and blood off his skin. The icy chill cut through him, but it cleared his head just enough for him to focus.
Afterward, he climbed out and trudged back to where the fire had burned out, grabbing the clothes he had left drying nearby. He shook off the damp rags and wore them, ignoring how they still clung uncomfortably.
Victor kept walking because there was no other choice, and his bare feet squelched in the thick mud as he followed the grimy banks of the Tussock River.
He muttered under his breath with his voice low. "I need to straighten my thoughts, figure out what the hell is going on, and stop fucking this up before it's too late."
The thought struck him suddenly, 'What if I think about the Pathway instead?'
When he tried, he was surprised to find there was no headache, and the information came clearly into focus. He could recall the sequences, and as he focused harder, the knowledge of Sequence 9 potion formula unspooled itself in his mind.
He stopped walking and bent down, picking up a broken branch. He crouched near a patch of softer earth and scratched the words into the ground with deliberate movements.
---
Sequence 9—Actor
Main Ingredients:
- The tongue of an Acting Lizard.
- 10 grams of Gold Star Metal.
- Or an Actor Beyonder Characteristic.
Supplementary Ingredients:
- 3 Divination Flame Crystal Leaves.
- 50 milligrams of Purified Sulfur.
- 5 grams of Crystal Oil Extract.
- 10 drops of Tree Essence Oil.
- 3 drops of Corpse Blood.
---
Victor stared at the letters and symbols carved into the ground, and he frowned as a wave of confusion washed over him.
He knew he had never seen this language before, but he could read and understand every word like they had been etched directly into his brain.
"What the hell is this?" he whispered, though the answer came unbidden and was soft like a whisper in his mind. Source of All Language.
The words chilled him as he thought to himself, 'The written language of the Blasphemy Slate!' He hurriedly opened the system terminal and navigated to the Unknown skill section, and he saw that the corrupted data already transformed back into the system language after he closed away the Energy.
He sighed in relief since he didn't want to stay constantly on edge about opening the Terminal and bleeding every time he accessed it.
But he didn't let his mind linger there for long because something else tugged at his thoughts and pulled him back to a nagging sense of urgency. He searched through his memory for the formula related to the other pathways, as well as hoping he might uncover something about the acting method he knew was essential for this Pathway.
However, when he found nothing, he muttered to himself, "Greedy bastard," although there wasn't any real heat in his voice. He stood up and tossed the branch aside before adding, "Don't push your fucking luck because you've already got more than you should."
With a sigh, he started walking again and thought, 'The plan is simple, find both gatherings happening in Backlund, sell the low-sequence potion formula I remember, and get enough money to buy the ingredients I need for the Actor sequence.' As he thought about that, he glanced down at the rags he was wearing. The rags were in tatters and barely held back the damp chill of Backlund's constant mist.
His bare feet splashed through the shallow puddles as if he didn't notice the cold water seeping into his skin.
He rubbed his temple as he tried to decide where to start. The choice depended on which location was closer, though he thought back to what he remembered. Mr. A's gathering was happening in Empress Borough, but the Eye of Wisdom's gathering was in East Borough, and that was much closer. He muttered to himself, "I'll just need to find a newspaper to confirm the details, then figure out the rest."
When he got closer to a cluster of riverside shacks, he spotted something that made him pause. There was a clothesline stretched between two crooked poles outside one of the smaller homes.
The clothes hanging on it looked freshly washed, and they were left there like nobody thought anyone would dare take them.
The thick fog and the early hour must've made the residents think the place was safe from thieves, but Victor wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.
He crouched low behind a stack of damp crates and sized up the line. The clothes weren't fancy, but they were solid.
There was a wool coat that looked thick enough to block the wind, some trousers that didn't have holes, and a shirt that was clean enough to not make him look like he just crawled out of the river.
Underneath the line, he even spotted a pair of boots lying on the ground, covered in dust but looking sturdy.
He kept his eyes on the shack. The door was closed and the windows were dark, and nothing about the place showed signs of movement.
He listened for a while longer, waiting for some sound from inside, but it stayed silent. Finally, he moved. He slipped out of his hiding spot and darted toward the line, as he grabbed the coat and trousers.
He pulled down the shirt in one swift motion and snatched the boots from the ground.
Victor didn't stick around to admire his work. He was gone before anyone could notice, ducking back into the narrow alleys that snaked toward the docks.
He clutched the clothes against his chest as he moved, the fog swallowing him up until he reached the relative safety of the shadows beneath a bridge. There, he set the bundle down and started pulling the clothes on.
The wool coat felt heavy when he draped it over his shoulders, but it was warm, and the chill that had settled in his bones finally began to fade.
The trousers were a little too long, but he rolled the cuffs, and they fit well enough.
The boots were stiff and didn't fit perfectly, but they were leagues better than nothing, so he pushed his feet into them and laced them up.
When he was done, he looked less like a starving vagrant and more like a dockworker who'd seen better days.
He straightened up and tucked the shirt into his trousers, brushing off the river dust as best he could. Now, he didn't feel like everyone who saw him would know he was desperate.
He picked up his bundle of discarded rags and threw it in the River, letting the water swallow it. No sense in carrying those around.
Straightening, Victor turned his attention toward the alleys that branched out from the river.
The fog clung to the streets as he walked, muffling the city's usual clamor and turning every shadow into a possible threat.
He kept his head down, his newly acquired coat doing a decent job of hiding the anxious tension in his frame. Every corner reeked of stale piss, rotting fish, and the sour tang of desperation.
The closer he got to the heart of the borough, the thicker the air seemed with the stink of unwashed bodies and burned coal.
When he reached Backlund Bridge, he slowed his pace. The bridge was always crowded, Ragged figures huddled in makeshift camps along the edges.
He moved through the throng, careful not to make eye contact or walk too quickly. A stolen coat and pair of boots might make him look better, but it wouldn't stop someone from gutting him if they thought he has coin.
Once across the bridge, He ducked into a side alley to shake the feeling of being watched.
He walked towards the relatively decent neighborhood, where houses are a little more taken care of.
He needed a newspaper, but that was easier said than done. It was early morning, and the streets were quiet except for the faint sound of a newspaper boy making his rounds. He waited until he heard a newspaper hit a doorstep, then crept toward the sound.
'For a fucking newspaper, I've gotta act like I'm robbing a bank,' he muttered under his breath.
He spotted a house to his right that hadn't opened its door like the others. Without hesitation, he grabbed the newspaper off the step and walked away quickly, trying to look casual.
He unrolled it as he walked, relieved to see he could read it. Victor had learned to read and write at a school funded by the Evernight Church, and right now, that was saving his neck. Without those lessons, he'd be in even deeper shit.
The date on the newspaper read Tuesday, January 12, 1349, and Victor felt a wave of unease wash over him as he realized that it was only six months before Zhou was supposed to arrive. He clenched his jaw tightly and muttered under his breath, 'Shit, there's no way I've got enough time to become a God.'
He ran a hand through his tangled hair as frustration gnawed at him. 'I have to at least reach Demi-God level, or even better, before Zhou gets here,' he muttered while pacing back and forth. 'This pathway doesn't have any competition, which is something I can work with, but that's just a small silver lining.'
He gritted his teeth as another thought struck him, and the realization made his stomach churn uncomfortably. 'The Mythical Creature, Which I'm guessing is an Outer God this pathway comes from, that giant 'Hand' I saw…' he groaned, feeling a sharp headache shoot through his head. "Fuck!"
Victor pressed his fingers firmly against his temples, and in his mind, his voice dropped into a frustrated whisper. 'The way just thinking about it makes my head hurt, if that bastard has access to this gamer system too, then I'm completely fucked.'
Shaking off the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him, he forced himself to focus and look at the newspaper again. The title Backlund Morning Post was printed in bold letters across the top, and he let out a sharp breath as he tried to compose himself. Whether it was pure luck or an unexpected coincidence didn't matter in the slightest. This was exactly what he needed right now.
He flipped to the fifth page, scanning the advertisements until he found it. The Ernst Firm's ad for purchasing goods was there. The meeting was set for 8 PM this evening, and the knocking pattern for the meeting spot would be based on the prices listed in the ad.
If he wanted to find money and sell the Potion Formula without much fuss, the Eye of Wisdom was the place, but if he couldn't, then he would have to take some risks and go to Mr. A's Gathering without becoming a Beyonder.
He followed a winding path through increasingly narrow streets until the unmistakable scent of cheap booze and pipe smoke filled the air. That meant he was close. Iron Grate Street wasn't much to look at—just another stretch of uneven cobblestones lined with ramshackle buildings.
Bravehearts Bar was exactly as described in the novel. The black wooden door stood out against the weathered walls around it, heavy and solid like it had no business being there, and a nearly two-meter-tall brawny man stood with his arms folded.
The brawny man sized him up, but he didn't stop him from pushing open the door. The faint hum of conversation leaked through the cracks, mingling with the occasional burst of laughter or muffled shout. He figured the ragged coat and boots would let him pass for a dockworker, either looking for work or a drink.
He pushed the door open, stepping inside. The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with the mingling smells of sweat, alcohol, and pipe tobacco.
Unsurprisingly, he saw two stages in the middle of the bar. One of them was a place for rat-baiting with dogs competition, and the other stage was an empty boxing ring.
It wasn't the peak hour for the bar to run people who are here are die hard alcoholic or didn't have any work to do. Of course he was one of them.
The aroma of alcohol mixed with the smell of sweat emanated. He made his way to an empty table in the corner, doing his best to avoid drawing too much attention. The bartender glanced his way but didn't bother to come over.
A few heads turned his way, their eyes lingering just long enough, and then returned to their drinks or hushed conversations. The bar's clientele was a mixed bag—dockworkers, petty criminals, and the kind of people who did dirty jobs for a handful of coins.
Victor settled into the rickety chair and leaned back, letting his eyes wander across the room. He'll wait until 8 pm.
After a while, a man walked out of the billiard room while grumbling, and Victor turned his attention in that direction. The man appeared to be in his thirties, with short black hair and brown eyes. His face was round, and his body was chubby.
The man approached and sat down next to him. "You look like you've seen better days," the man said with a sleazy smile. He pulled out a small pack of something, and Victor's eyes involuntarily fixed on it. 'Is that a drug?' he wondered.
The man continued speaking without giving Victor a chance to reply. "Do you want to buy my mummy powder? It's made from top-quality mummies from Balam, and it will fix all the bad luck you're having right now. Let me guess—you lost your job. This mummy powder will remove every bit of your bad luck. And if you ingest it, it will also fix every problem with your body. This package is only one pound," he explained enthusiastically. Then, leaning in closer, he began to whisper, "And between you and me, it'll also extend your lifespan. If you buy this one, I'll even throw in another for free."
Hearing this, Victor suppressed a groan and simply stared at the man. He furrowed his brows as a thought crossed his mind. 'Is this who I think it is?' While considering this, he decided it was a good opportunity to test his Observe skill. He activated it.
[Name: Darkwill
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Affiliations: Life School of Thought
Pathway: Moon
Sequence: 9 – Apothecary]
Victor blinked at the information but kept his expression neutral. "Uh, I don't have any money right now," he said evenly.
"Then what are you doing here?" the man snapped.
Victor shrugged and replied, "I'm waiting for someone." He kept his voice steady, relying on his acting skills to maintain a calm demeanor.
"Tch, wasted my breath on you," Darkwill grumbled. He stood up and walked away, muttering under his breath as he left.
Victor stared after him, confused. "What was that about?" he muttered aloud.
Hearing his confused question, two men arrived and sat down next to him. One of them looked very drunk for this time of the morning, while the other appeared to be just a little tipsy.
The drunken man was burly and unkempt, with a scruffy beard and a ruddy complexion, and his shirt was partially untucked and stained with what looked like spilled drinks. On the other hand, the tipsy man was wiry and sharp-eyed, and he was wearing a waistcoat over a threadbare shirt.
The drunk one suddenly burst out laughing and said, "Hahaha! Don't mind him. He's been trying to sell his mom's powder to everyone in here for weeks."
"Uhh... I don't think..." Victor began to respond, but the tipsy man quickly clamped a hand over his mouth and leaned in to whisper. "Don't say anything. We've got a tradition now where no one tells him that mummy powders aren't actually mom's powders."
Victor whispered back, "Why?"
"Well," the man replied in a low voice while scratching his cheek, "at first, we thought it was funny, him thinking it was his mom's powder. But later, we found out he secretly bought a lot of it and spent a fortune on it. If you told him the truth, he might just... you know, kill himself."
Victor put on the most genuinely confused expression he could muster.
'What the fuck is going on? When did I transmigrate to a world of bad comedy?' He Lampooned.
"My name is Edgar, by the way, and this is Grimsby," Edgar introduced himself with a friendly tone.
"Oh, my name is Ron. It's nice to meet you," Victor replied, choosing the first random name that came to mind. He had no intention of giving his real name to random strangers.
"So, what's your deal?" Edgar asked curiously.
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone's here for something," Edgar explained. "You see, I now invest in people I see potential in. My friend over here is a higher-up in the Dock Union. He just got a rare break from his wife and backbreaking work. But before, I wasn't so lucky. I couldn't invest in anyone because I was a beggar—until I met someone who gave me the power to change my life."
Noticing Victor's empty hands, Edgar added, "Oh, how careless of me. You haven't had anything to drink yet."
"I don't have money..."
"No, that won't do. Bartender, give this man one glass of Southville beer," Edgar ordered confidently.
Victor narrowed his eyes slightly. 'Is this some kind of recruitment tactic for a secret organization? It sure seems like it.'
"So, I'm asking again, what's your story, my friend?" Edgar pressed.
"I worked at the docks and got out because someone stole a crate..." Victor began, weaving a believable story while inwardly praying to the gamer system that these two weren't Beyonders. He activated his Observe skill while pretending to close his eyes in thought.
[Name: Arthur Grimsby
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Affiliations: Dock Union
Pathway: None
Sequence: None]
Victor let out an internal sigh of relief, but he didn't stop there. He turned his gaze toward Edgar, activated Observe again, and quickly closed his eyes.
[Name: Edgar Halloway
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Affiliations: Aurora Order
Pathway: Hanged Man
Sequence: 9 – Secrets Suppliant]
It took all of Victor's acting skills not to let any of his shock show.
"My friend here works for the Dock Union. He could get you your job back," Edgar offered, gesturing toward Grimsby.
"Oh no, I don't want to go back to that hellish place," Victor replied quickly. He then added, "I'm waiting for a friend here. I'm starting a business and planning to ask him to invest in it."
"What's your friend's name, by the way?" Edgar asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
Victor couldn't help himself. "Sherlock Moriarty," he said, keeping his tone as even as possible.
"If your friend doesn't agree, I could invest in your idea. You'd just have to do something for me," Edgar offered with a smile.
"Oh no, thank you very much for the offer, but, you know, I want to work with people I know personally," Victor said, deliberately making his voice quieter at the end, as though he felt guilty about what he was saying.
"You don't even trust me? I even bought you a drink, and it hurts me right here, hearing you say that," Edgar said, dramatically pointing to his heart.
"That's not what I meant. I mean..." Victor stammered, acting flustered.
"It's alright. I was just joking," Edgar reassured him with a laugh. "You're cautious, and I like that in people." He stood up and helped Grimsby to his feet, slinging Grimsby's arm over his shoulder.
"I'll meet you later, Ron, and I hope your business works out," Edgar said as they started walking away.
Victor narrowed his eyes and suddenly called out, "Hey, how should I contact you two if my friend doesn't agree?"
"Oh, that's easy! We'll be in the fifth booth. Just knock on the door four times, and we'll meet you there," Edgar replied with a wave as they disappeared from sight.
Victor sat back in his chair with his thoughts racing. 'Fuck. I've caught the attention of the Aurora Order, and I'm not even a Beyonder yet.'
AN: Well, what did you think? Please tell me your thoughts and ideas, and I hope you enjoyed it.
(End of Chapter)
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