Please support the translation by reading the translation and commenting on otakutl official site.
Thank you.
Everyone from Otaku Translation
Previous | TOC | Next |
Chapter 38: The Lame Man
Tama had unexpectedly reached Level 6 in alchemy. With the advantage of proper equipment and facilities, Brandon could now confidently leave the task of crafting cursed crossbow bolts to him. With that settled, he strapped on his poisoned dagger and dwarven blade, then called for Barthom to accompany him as they prepared to meet with the lame man of Black Pepper Alley.
Brandon had been looking forward to this encounter for some time. He was particularly eager to learn whether The Ring of the Wind Sovereign had any follow-up quests. Moreover, he knew that the lame man—known as "Lorne"—had at least some ties to Braggs' gray-market dealings. Perhaps he could even arrange an introduction to the underground auction houses Brandon had heard whispers about.
Barthom’s fiery red beard was far too conspicuous, so the two men donned hooded cloaks to conceal themselves before stepping out into the streets. Brandon hadn’t seen Roma, who had promised to join them, but he assumed she’d wandered off on one of her usual "adventures."
No sooner had Brandon pulled the hood low over his face than Barthom spoke up from behind him.
"Sir Brandon, I’ve been thinking… Your plan still feels rather precarious."
"What?" Brandon turned back, his elven blade hidden beneath his cloak.
"Many refugees saw us back then. Though you swore them to silence, when there are too many mouths, there will always be loose tongues. Who’s to say none of them harbor ill intentions?" Barthom tucked his beard under his hood and glanced around cautiously as he spoke.
"This was never meant to fool those truly determined to pry. But the nobles only care for results. As long as I stay out of the spotlight, they’ll be content," Brandon replied thoughtfully. "What I need is a period of obscurity, Barthom."
"But I still think we should have detained all those refugees when we had the chance."
Brandon chuckled softly. So this was the man’s true opinion after all. Shaking his head, he said, "To openly gather refugees would invite too much resentment. Besides, not everyone is willing to follow us wholeheartedly. People cling to straws in times of desperation, Barthom, but they don’t hold on forever."
Barthom nodded, though inwardly he remained unconvinced. He couldn’t help but wonder if there might have been better ways to handle things. Having observed Brandon’s methods closely, Barthom understood that the young knight’s ambitions were far greater than most realized. That was precisely why he wished Brandon would focus more on improving his own strength.
But Brandon’s concerns lay elsewhere. What worried him most was drawing the attention of the Ouroboros Society. Few who had seen him in Ridenburg remained alive today, yet if he grew too prominent, suspicion would inevitably follow.
Still, the fact that only a handful of trusted companions had witnessed his slaying of the White Knight gave him some measure of security. It was unlikely anyone would take someone with only the lower-tier iron-rank strength seriously.
In the end, it all came down to time. If he could grow strong quickly enough, the Ouroboros Society would amount to little more than shadows skulking in the dark.
…..
Black Pepper Alley was the largest of Braggs’ many slums, a festering maze of filth and decay. It wasn’t Brandon’s first time here—he had seen the rats scurrying through the streets before, smelled the thick stench of waste baking in the summer heat—but the oppressive odor still made him grimace.
Barthom, however, seemed entirely unfazed. Mercenaries were no strangers to such places. Brandon knew well what lurked in the shadows here: hyena-like bounty hunters, coarse lowborn prostitutes, mercenaries, thieves, and illicit traders. This place seemed almost designed to breed vice and corruption.
And yet, amidst the poverty, one could occasionally glimpse moments of genuine human connection.
The young man neither judged nor cared to judge such a place. He noticed the dirty-faced children darting past him, their wary eyes lingering greedily on his figure. Around him, subtle glances carried hints of malice, prompting him to instinctively raise his guard.
He stopped before an old wooden door, raising his gaze to the triangular mark carved into the lintel. Confirming this was indeed the home of the lame man, he knocked—three firm raps that sent a cascade of dust tumbling from the splintering wood.
Barthom wrinkled his nose beside him. "It’s hard to believe anyone actually lives in a place like this. Even in the slums of Covima, where I met those Renchik people, it wasn’t this wretched. Those people live like cave dwellers already—"
Before he could finish, the door creaked open with a groan. The mercenary snapped his mouth shut, swallowing the rest of his sentence.
A pair of sharp, calculating eyes fixed on Barthom for a moment before a raspy voice spoke. "Brandon? When did you return from Buchi? And you’re still alive? That’s quite unexpected."
"Would my death benefit you, Cripple?"
Brandon’s tone was icy as he regarded the gaunt, rat-faced man. The few strands of hair clinging to the man’s scalp seemed ready to fall out from sheer scheming.
But the lame man appeared undeterred, chuckling dryly. His shifty, bloodshot eyes flickered between the two visitors. "So, Brandon, have you come into fortune? Bringing me a new guest, are you?"
Before leaving Braggs, Brandon had pawned several personal items to this disreputable man. The cripple had long coveted an oil painting from Brandon’s grandfather’s estate—though how he’d learned of its existence remained a mystery.
Brandon’s piercing gaze caused the cripple to flinch slightly.
"You… seem different, Brandon," the old man hesitated.
"After everything I’ve been through, wouldn’t anyone change?" Brandon replied curtly. Without further preamble, he asked, "Do you still want my grandfather’s painting?"
The cripple froze, his beady eyes lighting up instantly. "Of course! Did you bring it, Brandon?"
Before he could finish, the cold edge of a blade pressed against his throat. The loan shark, whose life revolved around ruining others, trembled violently, his legs buckling beneath him.
"I’m running out of patience. Tell me—did your people steal it?" Brandon’s voice was frigid, his eyes glinting like steel.
Barthom turned to see several figures attempting to flee. He scooped up stones from the ground and hurled them, sending the would-be escapees crying for mercy. After exchanging a nod with Brandon, he strode off in pursuit.
Seeing this, the cripple grew even more uneasy, stammering, "Brandon, listen to me! It wasn’t me—I swear! How dare I offend—"
Realizing his slip, he hastily corrected himself. "You know me, Brandon. I may be greedy, but I wouldn’t break the rules."
Brandon studied the man’s darting, triangular eyes and knew he’d pieced together the situation. Killing him wasn’t an option, though Brandon felt a pang of disappointment as he withdrew the sword. "Your explanation is accepted—for now. Let’s discuss other business."
"Other business? Brandon, if you keep bringing me these kinds of deals, I won’t last long." The cripple rubbed his neck, half-expecting his head to roll off, and shuddered involuntarily.
"Hmph. That item is gone. My father wants my head, so I’ll settle for yours instead." Brandon’s tone was half-serious, half-mocking.
The cripple hurriedly shook his head. "I understand, I understand! Rest assured, I’ll look into it for you." Privately, however, he wondered who could have been bold—or foolish—enough to break the unspoken rules.
Glancing at Brandon’s empty hands, the cripple ventured another question. "Speaking of your father, Brandon, your family must be searching for you. Aren’t you going back to check on them?"
Brandon’s gaze hardened. "Not yet. I’ll return once I recover what was lost." Though he didn’t say it aloud, he feared bringing trouble to his family during such turbulent times.
Thinking of his father, Brandon sighed inwardly. Though he bore half another soul, the original essence within him still resonated with familial bonds.
"Very well," the cripple said, reassured that Brandon wouldn’t harm him. "What kind of business do you have in mind, Brandon?"
"I need coin. I’m selling something valuable." Brandon’s eyes narrowed. Dealing with cowards like this required a show of force, just as Retto had advised. "Let me make one thing clear—I won’t tolerate your old tricks. I’m not the same Brandon you once knew."
The cripple visibly recoiled.
"Don’t worry; I won’t pursue the items I pawned before. But if you try anything this time, there’ll be consequences." With that, Brandon tossed a pouch of coins at the man’s feet. "I require an introduction. Payment remains the same, and I have two additional tasks for you."
"Name them, name them!" the cripple stammered eagerly.
"First, find a woman. About thirty years old, with rare purple hair and eyes. Within a week, bring any information to the Lagunboun Market."
The cripple nodded quickly, though his expression suggested he hadn’t encountered such a person.
Brandon continued, "Second, I’m looking for someone else—a minor noble named Borg Nesson. You’re Braggs’ most infamous fixer. Surely you’ve heard of him?"
The cripple hesitated. "I’ve heard the name, but he disappeared years ago."
"That’s fine. I’m searching for his wife."
"His wife?"
"Yes, and his daughter. Where do they live?"
"The wife passed away two years ago. The daughter, however, lives nearby. Brandon, is she related to you?" the cripple asked curiously.
The question earned him a flash of the elven blade. Ducking instinctively, the cripple watched as Brandon sheathed the weapon. "Do you really want to know?"
"No, no, Brandon. Allow me to guide you—" the cripple blurted, shaking his head vigorously.
If you would like to support this translation, you may choose any one of the options below.
How to find a list of chapters
Please find the chapter label next to your favorite translator's name, and click the label.
