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Chapter 93: Liquor Money
"Thud, thud..." The sound of military boots echoed on the old wooden floor.
Arroz walked in from the doorway, his steps measured and precise—each step exactly one foot apart, as if calculated to perfection.
The low, rhythmic footsteps reverberated through the entire lobby. Oddly enough, the more Arroz moved, the quieter the room became. It was so silent one could hear the hum of the air conditioning, the faint rustle of ash scattering—and even the steady heartbeat of every person present.
"Thump, thump..."
An elderly waiter glanced at Arroz under the dim light. His eyes narrowed slightly, like a sun breaking through storm clouds, casting sharp rays of suspicion.
Meanwhile, the burly men nearby dropped their crossed legs; some reached for something behind them. The invisible tension thickened, heavy like thunderclouds rolling in before a storm, suffocating in its intensity.
Unfazed, Arroz approached the bar, placing Tang Fang on a couch just to his right. He then turned and sat beside Housen, casually glancing at the liquor rack. "Whiskey, on the rocks."
After what felt like an eternity, the old waiter slowly straightened his bent frame, pulling out a small square glass from beneath the counter. He added ice cubes, poured half a glass of whiskey, and slid it alongside a shot of tequila toward the two men. "16 MYD."
At some point, a cigarette had appeared between Arroz's lips. He tilted his head slightly, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the dim light. Then, with a swift motion, he reached down and brought up something in his palm.
"Thud..." A deep vibration rippled through the room, stirring the liquid in the glasses, sending waves across their surfaces.
The old waiter’s face froze instantly. In Arroz’s hand was a gun—a Paladin M5 large-caliber pistol.
Its sleek design included a separate cooling system, advanced targeting assistance, flawless rifling, and cutting-edge recoil modules. This model was known for its adaptability in harsh combat environments, high accuracy, long range, powerful firepower, and balanced weight. It required no extraordinary physical strength or endurance from its user, making it a favorite among officials, wealthy elites, and imperial officers as a personal sidearm.
If sold on the black market, this weapon could easily fetch 20,000 MYD.
The sight sent a jolt through the waiter, who instinctively stiffened his hunched posture.
A short-haired man to the right sprang into action like a bowstring snapping taut and then releasing. He stood abruptly, stepping forward with his left foot while his right arm darted out like a striking snake, reaching for the Paladin M5 lying on the bar.
"Friend, it's mine," came a voice as the man suddenly felt a numbing sensation in his wrist. His extended arm was now firmly locked in place by Arroz’s grip. Before he could react further, a cold pressure pressed against his jawline—a second Paladin M5, its dark barrel pressing hard into his chin. One pull of the trigger would send a .50-caliber bullet tearing upward through his skull.
This sudden escalation acted like a lit fuse on explosives. Three other men seated nearby leapt to their feet, ready to intervene.
"Hmph." Housen let out a derisive snort. With a flick of his left leg, he hooked a barstool and kicked it backward. The stool slammed into the knee of the nearest attacker, sending him crashing to the ground.
In the same fluid motion, Housen’s right hand snatched up the Paladin M5 that Arroz had rested on the bar. Twisting his waist, he flipped the stool he’d been sitting on backward, smashing it into the toes of a scarred man rushing in from the doorway. Simultaneously, he raised the gun, aiming it squarely at the forehead of the old waiter, whose hands were sneaking toward something below the counter.
"If you don’t want to die, stay still. All we want is to drink our damn liquor in peace."
The old man stiffened, slowly withdrawing his hands from under the counter and raising them above his head.
At the same time, a series of sharp clicks filled the air. Several men standing around the edges of the room drew weapons, pointing them directly at Arroz and Housen.
"Relax, relax." The old waiter rolled his eyes upward, finally focusing on Housen’s wrinkled military uniform. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"You deaf, old man? I told you—we’re here for a drink." Despite the escalating tension, Housen remained unfazed. As he spoke, he lifted a small round glass, tipped his head back, and downed the fiery tequila in one gulp.
"Gulp..." The burning liquid slid down his throat, igniting a fiery storm in his stomach.
"Ahh..." Housen exhaled deeply, feeling refreshed as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him on a scorching summer day.
The old waiter looked astonished, skepticism etched on his face. "Strangers, if all you wanted was a drink, why draw your guns?"
Housen twirled the Paladin M5 in his hand. "You mean this?" He glanced at Arroz, whose expression hadn’t changed since they’d entered, and smirked. "I think he’s planning to use this thing to pay for our drinks."
"To pay for drinks? With that?" The old waiter stared in disbelief. On the black market, this weapon could fetch thousands of MYD within minutes. And yet these two were offering it to cover a measly tab of less than twenty?
"Old John, don’t fall for their act. These guys are clearly military personnel." The short-haired man, still pinned by Arroz, gasped out the words between breaths.
His statement acted like a catalyst in a chemical reaction, reigniting the simmering tension. The armed men around the room tensed visibly, their weapons trained steadily on Arroz and Housen. Some even aimed toward Tang Fang, who remained seated on the couch.
"Hmph." Arroz’s expression darkened. Without thinking, he pushed the gun harder against the man’s chin, his finger tightening around the trigger.
The retired veteran, hardened by years of service, bristled with anger, ready to make these fools regret their actions. But just then, a raspy voice emerged from the shadows in the corner. "Lower your weapons. I believe them."
It was clear the speaker commanded respect. After a brief exchange of glances, the armed men reluctantly lowered their guns, holstering them behind their backs.
"Friends, we’ve put away our weapons. Please, don’t harm my men." A man stepped forward as he spoke.
He appeared to be in his early forties, with streaks of gray in his hair, bright eyes, and a tactical vest over a white T-shirt. From a distance, he radiated intelligence and efficiency.
Arroz scanned the room, confirming the threat had subsided, before slowly retracting his hand and tucking the gun into his belt. Seeing this, Housen followed suit, calmly stowing the Paladin M5 away.
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