Translator's Note: Ahem, opinions were split, but the majority preferred that the formatting style remain as is. Very well then.
But as a compromise: the next translations I take on will be formatted using quotation marks. I hope this satisfies you.
Happy reading!
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Chapter 67
Pros: It's easy to make money grow here.
Cons? Plenty. You'd get tired just listing them.
Having received the pouch of cash from the Beastmaster, we headed back toward the inn.
— I need to get to the arena. To spill blood in the name of saving the world, — I said in Norscan as we walked through the Beastmasters' Quarter.
— It is a risk, — Liandra replied, her eyes scanning the street intently. — We are still being followed.
— Risk? Of course! Our entire mission is one massive pile of risk. I need to level up and test my new powers in combat. The arena seems like the optimal solution for that. Let them throw me against a pack of gobbos first. I'll harvest some energy, and then I'll be able to take down something bigger.
— There are other ways to increase your strength. Sacrifices, for instance. If we have enough coin, we can buy slaves.
— No thanks. Butchering defenseless people, and paying for the privilege, is just plain stupid when I can fight in the arena and get rewarded for it.
— Fine. But caution is advised. Kehmor likes to test those who pique his interest. Do not expect to simply hack away at weak Goblins for your own amusement. When we return to the narrow streets, I shall attempt to deal with our shadow.
— You sure? — I asked in a slightly mocking tone. — It's a risk!
Liandra let the jab slide right past her pointed ears. Soon we left the Beastmasters' Quarter, passed through several wealthy streets, and returned to the slums I'd grown accustomed to. Looming houses, a multitude of abandoned ruins, and plenty of people eager to kill you.
— In there, — Liandra pointed to an empty building, likely a former shop.
One could see a rusted sign by the door, but the letters were indecipherable. Scrawled below it was: "Here is what happens to those who do not pay on time."
Apparently, the legal entity that once flourished here had been liquidated in a very literal, violent fashion.
We stepped into a dusty, practically empty hall where the corners were thick with cobwebs. Something gave a barely audible rustle near the wreckage of some rotted furniture. Liandra lunged forward and, with a single kick, sent a small, brownish-green creature flying out of cover.
— Snotling, — I identified.
The little greenskin was thin, ugly, and had clearly been chewed on by something in the past.
— The city authorities manage order poorly if such parasites are breeding here, — the girl said with condemnation, stepping on the pint-sized greenskin.
The Snotling squealed and scratched its paws against the dusty floor. I didn't feel a shred of sympathy for the creature. I might pity a rat, a pigeon, or even a spider, but greenskins—never again. I'd seen too much of the filth they were capable of. Even if this Snotling was helpless now, in a camp of its own kind, it would delight in torturing prisoners and feasting on human flesh.
Liandra pressed down harder. The Snotling's squeal turned into a wheeze. As she applied the pressure, the girl slowly drew her blade from its sheath. Decided to finish the varmint off properly after all? However, things turned out to be far more interesting.
— Every life matters. Even one so unsightly, — a strange voice rang out from behind me. — Please, release him or kill him swiftly.
A truly strange voice, saying things very uncharacteristic of this city. Turning around, I saw a tall elf before me. In height, he was likely a match for Liandra. A few chestnut strands of hair escaped from under his hood, falling over an earthy-pale face. This was clearly no Druchii. The stranger differed from the locals in literally everything, including his gear. He carried a longbow and a broad blade that couldn't be classified as either a sword or an axe.
Liandra made a swift motion with her foot. There was a sickening crunch, and the Snotling fell silent forever.
— Who are you? — the girl addressed the stranger. — For what purpose have you been following us?
— My name is Findil of Laurelorn. Findil the Lost, — the elf replied. — You killed Sabiot Sainstorm's boys.
— And have you come for vengeance? — Liandra said in a frigid tone, kicking the Snotling's corpse away with the toe of her boot and taking her sword in both hands.
— Vengeance? No! — the elf smiled widely, though not particularly sincerely. — They were neither friends nor kin to me. Since you killed them, there must have been reasons. But they had something that belonged to me...
— Something valuable? — Liandra inquired.
— To me—yes. Very valuable. A potion. It...
— Is this it? — Liandra displayed a small vial containing a deep purple liquid that looked very thick.
— Yes! That is exactly it! Give it to me, kind mistress. I beg of you. I conjure you by the names of Atharti and Ladrielle!
The elf's intensity was undeniably genuine. The details I'd noted earlier clicked into place. The strange voice, the unusual behavior... This elf had a crippling addiction that was gradually eroding his identity. The mysterious potion he sought was likely, as they said in my old world, a psychoactive substance.
— Take it, — Liandra shrugged. — I have no use for such filth. Pay me seven gold coins, and the potion is yours.
As Liandra spoke, the expression on the elf's face shifted from joyful excitement to profound despair.
— Seven gold!? — he repeated. — But... I have already paid Sabiot for that potion.
— And you acted foolishly, — the Druchii replied. — Prepayment is the perfect breeding ground for betrayal.
— I... I understand, — the addict lamented. — Но it is a very rare potion. It is made from the enchanted mosses of my native Laurelorn. Please, kind mistress, set another price or allow me to pay the rest later.
Calling a Druchii lady "kind mistress" is, in my opinion, even stupider than giving a prepayment here. You're more likely to insult a Dark Elf than win her over.
Before Liandra could respond, there was first a rustle, then a piercing screech. A large silhouette of a bird of prey appeared in the window of the abandoned house. It was an eagle, nearly a meter tall.
— Your pet? — Liandra asked grimly.
— Not a pet, — the elf smiled. — A friend. In this cruel place, one must value friends very highly.
Another rustle and screech. A slightly smaller bird of prey appeared in another window, yet still threateningly large. If it came to a fight, we would likely win, but this junkie might bite back hard. Just how dangerous was he compared to Liandra?
— Let's do this... — the girl said. — I will sell this potion to a merchant I know nearby, and you can buy it back when you have enough coin.
— No! — the elf nearly shrieked. — The potion is needed today. Now. Right now. It hurts too much!
I noticed the perspiration on his pale face. Hah! Someone's going through withdrawals.
I leaned toward Liandra's ear and said in Norscan:
— Just give him the damn stuff. Easy come, easy go. Otherwise, we're going to have to scrap with him.
— And are you against such an outcome? — the girl asked with a slight smirk, though I could feel the tension radiating from her.
— He's dangerous, isn't he? I can feel it from the way you're acting.
— Dangerous. His addiction to the potion has weakened him, but his reflexes are still sharp, and his movements hide a lethal grace.
A compliment? From Liandra? It seemed this guy really was dangerous.
— Then just give him the damn vial. He's a penniless drifter with nothing to take. Even if we kill him, we get almost no profit. The risk isn't worth the potential prize.
I saw the muscles in the girl's neck and face tighten. This choice wasn't coming easily to her. I can even guess why. If this guy had threatened us outright or offered some foul services, she probably would have given him the drug. But he had the audacity to call her a "kind mistress." You couldn't ask for a worse motivator for a Dark Elf.
— If not gold, do you have anything for us? — she finally asked.
— Yes! Yes! — the forest degenerate rejoiced. — Here, for example...
He pulled a vial of some black liquid from a leather pouch on his belt.
— Potions to cloud the mind do not interest me.
— No. No! This is an extract of wolf's eye and...
— Poison? — Liandra interrupted.
— Yes, kin—
— Put it down and take your filth.
The addict's eyes sparkled instantly. He showered her with a dozen more questionable compliments and finally made his exit, but before he left, he uttered a very unsettling phrase:
— I am in your debt, mistress. I shall remember your kindness and be near at the right moment.
— Better you forget us, — Liandra advised, but the elf ignored her words.
He and his winged menagerie left the abandoned building.
— That was a Wood Elf, right? — I asked. — What is he even doing in Clar Karond?
— He is not quite a typical Asrai, — the girl explained. — Laurelorn was the only colony on the continent that survived the War of the Beard. The Dwarfs could not destroy the city hidden in the forests. The elves of Laurelorn call themselves Eonir and are slightly more civilized than the barbarian Asrai. They do not recognize the authority of the true King, but they do not serve the usurper of Ulthuan either.
— So, they aren't your enemies?
The girl smirked.
— They are our enemies, but to a lesser extent than the others. They are a lost, feral branch of our people, yet one can do business with them. Ships from Clar Karond more often come to the shores of the Eonir to pay with gold rather than take with steel. The society of Laurelorn is deeply decadent. Their stagnant isolationism drives many capable warriors to seek our favor.
Or perhaps it's the addiction to the narcotic potions the Dark Elves produce that compels them. Liandra's Druchii nationalism amused me. Their "stagnant isolationism" vs. our "progressive slave-owning system." However, I had no intention of lecturing her. I had enough problems as it was.
We returned to the cheap dive where we were renting rooms. The one-eyed owner of the establishment noticed Liandra's new gear immediately and asked suggestively:
— Has fortune turned its face toward you, mistress?
The elf didn't deign to answer him. She silently unclipped the pouch we'd received from Kehmor, took out a couple of gold coins, and tossed them onto the counter. A greedy glint flickered in the former corsair's good eye. With the speed of a striking snake, the elf caught the coins mid-air and tucked them away under the counter. From all sides, people watched us with envy and a hint of fear.
Leaving the common room of the den, we went up to the floor with the living quarters.
— We shall go to the arena tomorrow, — Liandra promised.
— Good. And what about today? How about some more training?
The girl shook her head and replied:
— I require rest. To clear my thoughts and consider the next steps.
— Fine. We'll train later then.
Soon I had flopped onto the bed in my room, which no longer seemed quite so dull and wretched. The day had gone well. Made some money, leveled up a bit. Finally managed to see the city and show myself to it.
Removing the tooth necklace so it wouldn't prick me and kicking off my boots, I slumped onto the bed. It was spacious and soft here. Pleasant, considering we were staying in a rather cheap establishment by local standards. A human Imperial equivalent of this price bracket would have provided me with a hard bunk of the "bedbug metropolis" model.
The Druchii valued comfort, and their average standard of living was clearly higher than in the Empire of Sigmar. However, the reason for that was slavery. So that the Dark Elves could lounge on soft feathers, drink wine, and slit each other's throats with beautiful knives, hundreds of thousands of slaves toiled daily in truly wretched conditions.
I suppose a decent isekai hero should have organized a slave revolt here. Become the leader of the rebelling thralls, so that centuries later some football club would be named after him. But honestly, I have absolutely no desire to do that. Do I feel sorry for the slaves? The humans, yes. The Dwarfs too. But the Druchii, despite the sophisticated nastiness of their nature, do not pose an existential threat to the world at large or humanity in particular. Compared to Chaos or even the greenskins, humans have far fewer problems with the locals here. So let the knife-ears keep slitting each other's throats. My main goal is to level up magically and improve my combat skills. That is entirely feasible here.
Placing the Axe of Khargan by the bed and the Dawi-Zharr dagger under the mattress, I tried to doze off. I was missing the option to put on a podcast on my phone, but I had an alternative.
— Hey, Loom-Pia, remind me again why these elven creatures are acting so aggressive and irrational right now.
— The weakness of warm-blooded memory surprises me, — the Hypnotoad replied. — However, it is not difficult for me to remind you of this truth, which is trivial for the Children of the Gods. When the Old Ones, in their wisdom, created the mortal civilizations and the foundations of the Great Plan were laid, a habitat was determined for each race. Thus, the elven creatures...
Falling asleep to this steady droning was perfect. Tucking my hand under my head, I quickly sank into a drowse. I don't know how long it lasted—a few minutes or a whole hour. Loom-Pia's voice had put me to sleep earlier, and now that same voice was demanding my awakening.
— You should wake up, warm-blood. We may be in danger.
I was about to bolt upright, but I held back. First, I cracked my eyes open. Through a slit in the shutters, enough pale moonlight entered the room for me to orient myself visually. I didn't see anyone nearby, but I heard a faint scuffling near the door. The rooms here locked from the inside. Quite sensible, given the level of armed violence in Dark Elf society.
Before bed, I had locked up with two bolts. Now, it seemed someone was trying to open the door from the outside using a specialized tool.
The idea of grabbing the Axe of Khargan and standing by the door occurred to me. However, I decided to act differently. If someone on the other side had sharp hearing, they might distinguish my footsteps against the silence of the night. I reached for the Dawi-Zharr dagger and asked Pepe:
— Is the magic in it restored?
— Not fully, however, I could call upon its powers and manifest sorcery for a few seconds.
— Excellent.
I carefully placed the dagger under the pillow, turning onto my side so that I was facing the door. Let's see how many uninvited guests have come to visit today. If it's two or three, I can snag one with the ashen lash to bowl over the others with his body. Then I'll grab the axe and go full hardcore.
Meanwhile, the bolts were dealt with. The unknown infiltrator opened both almost noiselessly. The door creaked only once as it swung open. A shadow slipped into the room. How many are there? Just one? It seemed so.
I didn't move but tensed my entire body. I watched the uninvited guest through my eyelashes. The intruder slowly approached my bed. Well... shall we begin?
I wanted to wait for the moment of his attack. To see what weapon he was using, but the intruder wasn't in a hurry to slit my throat. It seemed my belongings interested him much more. The uninvited guest went to the nightstand and began rummaging through the belt pouches I'd left there. So, just a thief? Could it be that forest degenerate payed us a visit?
I had no intention of waiting while I was simply robbed. I had to act fast and furiously to maximize the element of surprise.
With the famous Norscan war cry of "Eat shit and die!" I lunged from the bed and, grabbing the thief by the hood, slammed the intruder over my knee onto the floor. The trophy teeth I'd collected clattered as they spilled from the pouch.
It immediately became clear that it wasn't a lover of intoxicating potions who had visited me this dark night. The figure on the floor was too small and frail. Just a thief, then.
I managed to see the intruder's hand reaching for a knife at their belt. Oh no you don't. Only the master of the room is allowed knives tonight. Grabbing the thief's wrist, I wrenched it, nearly snapping the bones. Then, I easily flipped the intruder onto their stomach to pin the second arm, and... it wasn't there.
Now it was clear who had come to rob me. The employee of the establishment who had given me my tattoos. And now, apparently, she had decided to fill her own purse at the expense of mine.
I took the knife from her belt, tossing it away into a corner. Then I felt around for some other metal bits. Likely lockpicking tools. I threw those away as well. The one-armed woman tried to resist at first, but the difference in strength and number of limbs was far too great.
I stood up, jerking the elf up to face me. Her pale skin seemed snow-white in the gloom, except for the scarred areas.
— And what should I do with you? — I smirked in Russian. — Give you a backhand? Break your knees?
The elf didn't answer and made no attempt to speak to me in the local tongues. She was shaking slightly, and her eyes were wide, expressing an extreme level of shock. Should I hand her over to Liandra for punishment or just toss her out of the room? On the other hand, I'm supposed to maintain the reputation of a terrifying Chaos-worshipper. If I just let her go...
While I was processing these thoughts, the thief decided to act. She stepped toward me. I was about to pin her arm again, but instead of resistance, I got an attempt at... a kiss?
An attempt, specifically, given the height difference. However, I leaned down to be sure, and the girl pressed her lips to mine with a sort of obsessed passion. Hmm. Alright. This version of "punishment" won't hurt my reputation and fits the barbarian persona quite well. The main thing is to keep it rough.
She's no Liandra, of course, but let's try starting small.