Chapter 51
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 51
Chapter Title: Chapter 51
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 050
Chapter Title: Identity Laundering (2)
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Crunch.
I bit down hard on my tongue.
The fishy taste of blood filled my mouth, forcing back the bile surging up my throat.
"...I'll pay you back someday."
I spat it out bluntly, acting like it was no big deal.
"Not sure if I can pay it all, though."
"No need, you brat."
Kain replied indifferently, picking at his ear.
To a lowly whore's bastard son,
this senile old fool had dumped his entire life's savings.
Pathetic? Or just hopelessly clueless?
My gut wasn't just aching—it felt like it was burning alive.
But I had no time to drown in feelings.
Right now, survival was the priority.
"Anyway, I get it. We're short on cash for the number of heads."
I racked my brain.
We needed 90 gold, but we had less than 60 total.
Even stripping everything we had and selling it off cheap, I doubted we'd scrape together enough for two identity bands.
And even if we did, one of us would end up like a duck egg in the Nakdong River—utterly screwed.
"By any chance..."
I lowered my voice and whispered to Kain.
"What if we just grab some cheap white cloth and wrap it around?"
"...You mean fake it?"
"No, it doesn't look like much anyway.
Just rip up some similar cloth, tie it around our arms—who'd notice?"
Your classic DIY hack.
A white band from afar looks just like a white bandage, right?
But Kain shook his head firmly.
"They didn't skimp on the details.
Even if these yokels have cash, not all of 'em are brain-dead."
He went on to explain,
"Every guard here wears red crystal lenses over their eyes, no exceptions."
He jabbed a rough finger at his own eye socket.
"Not for style. It's a precision appraisal tool.
And the official identity bands are coated with a transparent alchemical solution."
"They check real from fake with that?"
"Spot on. Looking through the red crystal reveals the hidden pattern on the band's surface."
Like spotting fake bills from real ones,
they could glance at your arm in passing and instantly tell if it was legit
or some market stall rag.
Counterfeiting blocked at the source—a airtight monopoly racket.
Full price or bust, huh.
Of course, no matter how primitive the world,
guys like me trying to game the system had to exist.
While the unlucky ones got nabbed and grilled,
they'd rolled out these high-tech safeguards long ago.
Fucking world. Nothing ever comes easy.
"What if... you get caught with a fake?"
"Head rolls, or you rot chained at the bottom of a mine, no sunlight for life."
Kain casually mimed slicing his throat.
"...Goddamn it."
All roads blocked. Back to square one.
Money.
Short on money.
Whose fault?
Mine, obviously.
Arrogance from not knowing my place.
That's why the old man's fortune vanished down my gullet.
Reality I couldn't deny or excuse.
And even if I stripped bare,
hell, even if we all went full nude—wouldn't cover the gap.
A few scraps of jerky, ratty cloak, stinking outerwear.
That was it.
Junk dealers would wrinkle their noses at this trash.
Doubt it'd fetch silver, let alone gold.
Wonder if this world had black-market spots for kidneys or an eyeball.
Then,
"Sell this at least."
Kain thudded his bastard sword down from his back.
"Should pull a few gold. Leaves me with 10 on hand."
Worn but like a limb after a lifetime on battlefields.
He was offering to sell it.
"You nuts? Knight sells his sword, he's just an old thug—not a knight."
"What knight? Been ages since I ditched the badge.
Too old now for one-arm swings, and it's heavy anyway."
Bullshit.
He hefted it one-handed like a feather.
I shook my head.
I made the troll move and shat the bed big time,
so cleaning it up was on me.
"Put it away. Can't let the guy who lost an arm for me lose his sword too,
or I'd be the scum of the earth."
"Aren't you already?"
"...Fair point."
Grumbling,
I glanced at Baekrin, who'd been standing there arms crossed, silent.
Without hesitation, my hand went low.
Not pocket, not pant leg.
Deeper. More secret. Precious.
Deep inside my crotch, under the balls.
"...Hey, what the hell?"
Baekrin recoiled in shock.
"Digging out money, bitch."
Grunting, I fished out what I'd stashed there.
A small pouch, toasty warm from my nutsack.
"Here. Take it."
Toss. I lobbed it her way.
"Ugh... fuck."
Baekrin pinched the tip gingerly with two fingers, repulsed.
"What is this? Used rag?"
"Rag? Ignorant bitch."
I scoffed.
"Look close. That's high-end."
Vibrant red now grimy black,
gold thread embroidery threadbare.
But this was my life's first big haul,
and the spark of my cursed tie to that psycho Sharl.
15 years back, slum sewer.
The brocade pouch she'd tossed me as thanks for finding her ring.
Paltry sum inside.
That 10-year slave deal with Baekrin bitch—one day 50 copper.
Weekly 3 silver (docked for tit-grabs), stacked slow,
plus pilfered silvers from marks while on the lam in the central continent.
Total under 20 silver.
But the shell mattered more than stuffing.
I tapped the tiny emblem stitched in the corner.
"This? Artisan-supplied to the Imperial Palace. Less than 20 a year."
Ultra-limited edition.
Luxury brand label bullshit.
15 years grinding under Sharl clued me in natural.
She blabbed first.
Around when I was nine—she dropped over 30 gold on it.
That's when it clicked.
[Hi? Future busty noble babe here.]
[Wallets too good for loose change?]
Nah,
[Hi? Noble girl gonna bang every bitch someday.]
[You're my locked-in dog, so luxury gift for favor?]
That day she flung the pouch bragging "good work pay,"
it wasn't just the 3 gold and change.
Peanuts next to her pet wallet's price tag.
[I reward hard workers proper. Family tradition.]
You see what you get,
she handed over 30 gold plus as "proper,"
but to kid-me at five, scraps.
Course back then, tip of iceberg had me thrilled silly.
If I'd clocked it sooner,
maybe hustled harder, faster.
Hell, maybe saved Rinea.
Thoughts like that hit sometimes,
but no point obsessing over spilled milk.
Now mattered. Survival.
I eyed Kain.
"Pawnshops around?"
"...Obviously. Money rules here—gotta have 'em."
"Good. Pawn it, then straight to the office."
Worn, whiffy, moldy—but still luxury.
Even hosed down, 10 gold minimum.
Not wine aging to gold,
condition wrecked from body-stashing,
resale shit.
But my final fallback, emergency stash for a beggar.
Hence, safest spot: balls-deep.
"Sell this, pool with your 50 gold."
Casual to Baekrin again.
"At least 60 in your pocket."
"...Then?"
"Buy two. Yours, Baekrin. Other..."
I chin-nodded at Noy strapped to my back.
"This runt."
Baekrin's brow crushed deep.
"What kinda nonsense?"
"Heard me. Two—you and him."
"Why buy ID for this useless shit-kid?"
She snorted, incredulous.
"You, maybe.
My slave—why make stray for someone to snatch?"
"Worry not."
Straight into her eyes,
"I'll keep it from getting snatched."
Slave contract: 10 years.
"Hey, 10 years flies? Time zips.
So ditch joke no-paper deal..."
Each word weighted.
"Be real lifetime slave."
"...What?"
Handed off Noy to Kain,
flung cloak to dirt.
Hiked shirt,
flexed abs and obliques at her.
"Back brand makes slave. Grab any, brand claims owner.
You brand me."
Cheerful as hell, chuckling.
"Beats roughnecks grinding you,
slave to known face like me—better deal, yeah?"
"..."
Baekrin eyed my torso, face—lips clamped.
Not swooning hot bod,
shock-disgust cocktail.
"...You're deranged? For real?"
"Dead serious."
"Burn your back, drag like trash slaves?"
She shivered.
"No. Already gross looks sicken,
that setup? Double nasty..."
"Please."
Head bowed.
Thud.
Knees too.
"Your every order, real slave."
"..."
"No sass, no lip.
Want? Lifetime noble service, polite as fuck."
15 years scraps under Sharl,
can't hack lifetime under her?
My call, no threats or force.
Rinea.
Beat.
Kain too.
Life piles debts.
Not cash—life.
Scar-iron face, shameless blabber my motto,
but now? Bite tongue croak first, no more IOUs.
So her,
"Just... even if hate it... please."
Deal time.
"Buy me. Whole package."
Sell self.
Price? Lowbirth, no skills, no aura.
Money demon lowballs,
but dangle lifetime.
Low quality? Volume.
Weak power? Time.
Like Rinea.
"I'm hot, y'know."
Half-face fine.
Rinea half-body.
Still dragged to street level, sold what she had.
"Big dick, holes galore. Uh... virgin tho."
So can I.
Her son.
"All limbs, sword chops ok. 20-gold lifetime steal.
Tough snag that deal? So......"
Not book-smart,
"Buy me, please."
Best scheme,
desperate,
grabbed her hand.
We glanced around,
slipped out the dingy pawnshop.
Bottom line: 20 gold total.
My balls-stink pouch: 13 gold.
Baekrin's sea-salvaged ring—with wrist: 7 gold.
Forgotten by me,
she slipped it out with the pouch.
Her sourpuss face at the price.
Way under her hopes.
Aww, bummed?
I wasn't thrilled with 13 either.
Felt ball-busted,
but no options.
No bands,
hooded cloak squad of rejects.
Pawnbroker's shifty stare expected,
took the cash, bolted—no haggling.
Straight to the office, hustling.
Pushed heavy oak door into the office,
damp musty air smacked us.
"...Hoo."
Indoor dust gross, not fresh,
but breathing eased a bit.
Least inside escaped those slimy stares.
Outside jungle?
Here slaughterhouse—with fences.
But only I sighed safe,
party faces dour as death.
"Why the funeral vibes? Who croaked?"
"..."
"..."
Joke. No laughs?
Humorless lot.
No chit-chat vibe,
dumped all cash from pocket into Baekrin's hand.
Jingle.
20 gold full.
Not a copper skimmed.
"Now 70 gold, yeah? 60 spends, 10 spare?"
Baekrin hefted the pouch,
stared silent.
"What? Hustle—buy two. You, kid."
"...You."
"Fuck, we settled this. Eh?"
Bought's bought—no take-backs.
No refunds, getting sloppy.
"Go snag IDs, slave reg too.
Owner: you, the payer."
Shoved her noggin light,
started shedding layers.
Cloak to floor,
shirt whipped off.
"...?"
Baekrin blinked confused.
I snickered, pointed corner.
"See? Line. Hot spot."
Chained folks queued long.
Beast-scared eyes all,
shaking turn-wait.
Men, women.
Elders, kids.
All tops off.
Line front,
"Gaaaahhh!!!
Man's scream ricocheted off high ceiling.
Sizzle—
acrid smoke curled,
burnt meat reek drifted here.
"Hurry—I gotta queue too."
Whirled,
strode tail of that dark line,
beast-slaughter cries echoing.
My turn fast.
Fat clerk on dais eyed me like slaughter-bound cow, flat.
"Owner?"
"Dazed chick yonder."
Fingered Baekrin, far off, spaced-out holding white band.
Old Kain, as asked,
[Gramps, take kid out first. Air's foul.]
Snagged band, bounced with Noy.
Front queues: Noy-peers...
Nah, tinier tots lined.
Turns distant,
but terror-piss pants, wailing circus.
Actual turn? Worse.
Glowing poker kissed back, flesh fry,
thrashed agony, floor-clawed, eyes flipped, foam-mouthed.
If Noy woke then,
saw same-size kids sizzled meat?
Lifelong nightmare.
Bad for kid headspace.
And mainly.
'...Shameful.'
Not Guan Yu go-playing fireside,
quiet endure that?
Yelp 'waa!' kid-style?
Protector cred tanks.
Better unseen,
Baekrin solo stand good.
"Forward."
Clerk snatched furnace-hot poker.
Go-time.
Stepped dais-front.
Skin-far,
scorch-heat already licked.
"Kneel."
Down on cold stone.
Head low, floor-shadow mine.
No face view. Shadow.
But twist,
her face seeable.
"...?"
Silly girl.
Me searing, me spooked.
Why her tears freakout?
"No moving."
Clerk deadpan.
"Gentle please. Sensitive skin."
Dream status-launder hour.
Sizzle—!
Back: steak sizzle.
Not slum-rat to commoner hoped,
but hey,
laundered.
Done.
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