The Familiar Face at the Bar
The cold liquor slid down his throat.
Gulp, gulp.
Saif, the mercenary, downed his drink in one desperate rush and slammed the mug down with a bang that rattled the table.
"Ahhhh. The booze here never changes."
A sharp-eyed waiter, appearing as if on cue, refilled his mug to the brim. Saif swept the dried jerky off the table into his mouth as well, and only then let out a long, heavy sigh.
He'd spent months locked up after getting tangled in something utterly absurd. On top of that, they'd pinned the sins of his old smuggling and poaching side gigs on him too, and he'd been forced to pay a crushing fine for all of it.
Thanks to that, he was more or less penniless—but a stash of emergency savings he'd hidden away against exactly this kind of day had let him scrape together enough to get back into the mercenary trade.
And today, Saif was in an excellent mood. He'd landed himself a solid cut from his first job in ages.
So he'd decided to invest in himself, for once.
This place looked, at a glance, like nothing more than an ordinary tavern. In truth, it was the entrance to a hidden world entirely its own.
A sanctuary of dark dreams and desperate hope.
A dangerously thrilling playground where a stroke of luck could bring a fortune overnight, but one careless misstep could strip away everything a man had spent years building.
He'd passed through this door more times than he could count. Losses he'd taken, sure—but a meaningful profit? Not once, ever.
Still, Saif had resolved to try his luck one more time. His funds were generous this time around. All that remained was to call the waiter over and ask to be shown in.
Just imagining himself swaggering back with an armful of gold brought an involuntarily blissful smile to his lips.
Just then he spotted a waiter hurrying off somewhere and raised his hand.
But the very next moment—
Crash!
The shattering of a plate exploded over the tavern's din.
"You call this running a business?"
An irritated young man's voice rang out almost simultaneously.
"You're serving this now? As a side dish? What a waste of a mouth. I heard rumors this place gets crowded, so I came all this way out here for it."
"My sincere apologies. I'll bring another right away."
Saif saw the very waiter who had brushed past his table moments ago, bowing his head low.
Several mercenaries stood around the troublemaking youth. As if to protect their employer, they had sprung up from their seats, shoulders squared, glaring at the waiter as if ready to devour him on the spot.
Given the kind of establishment this was, the waiter was no pushover himself—he'd clearly been in the trade back in the day. He was no scrawny weakling, and yet those mercenaries had shoulders solid enough to make him look like a joke.
Which meant the young noble's face, the actual cause of all the commotion, was hidden behind their bulk and impossible to see.
"Fine. Bring your best liquor. Get this dog-awful food out of my sight. If you have to, go outside and buy something else."
The young man pulled out a money pouch and tossed it to the floor with a thud.
Everything around them went still in an instant. Even Saif, forgetting the situation for a moment, lifted his eyes wide in disbelief.
The waiter stiffened where he stood.
Everything that had spilled noisily out of the pouch was nothing but gold coins. And no small number of them, either.
All of that?
Flustered, the waiter glanced between the coins scattered across the floor and the young lord, who sat sprawled insolently across his chair without a care in the world.
Saif, too, craned his neck, wanting a look at the man's face—but the waiter, frozen in an awkward half-crouch, blocked his view again.
After a long, heavy silence, the waiter finally began to move. He gathered up the coins, then returned the pouch reverently with both hands.
"I've committed a grave discourtesy. If it pleases you, rather than fetching other food, we would like to receive you in the back."
Saif's brow creased slightly. "The back" could only mean the hidden lounge and gambling den.
The little fool just made a mistake.
In places like this, you never showed your money carelessly. Do that, and you'd be torn apart by a pack of ravenous wolves.
It was true he had illusions about this place, but getting lost in romantic notions was just as dangerous. Let your guard slip for even a moment, and you'd find yourself stripped of everything you owned and left with empty pockets.
No—honestly, merely losing your money would count as a lucky outcome.
Run up an enormous debt to the people who ran this place and fail to pay it back, and what awaited you at the end of that road was...
"The back?"
And as expected, the greenhorn's puzzled response came back, understanding nothing at all.
The waiter explained in a voice far more respectful than before.
"It is a space reserved for special guests. Not somewhere just anyone may enter. We should have shown you there from the start... that was our mistake."
"Hmm. Is that so."
And yet—had that greenhorn's voice sounded strangely familiar from a while back? Or was it just his imagination? No, that couldn't be.
Saif took a sip of his now-cold liquor and quietly watched the scene unfold.
"We'll make preparations. Please wait just a moment."
The waiter, head still bowed, hurried away.
Only then could Saif finally see the face of the man causing the ruckus.
Glug.
The liquor in his mouth poured straight back into the mug.
Arms crossed, half-sunk into a wooden chair, wearing a face full of annoyance—he was strikingly handsome, the kind of face once seen was hard to forget.
Snow-white silver hair that seemed to gleam of its own accord, and unreadable golden eyes that swept, once, lazily across the tavern's interior.
The blond man seated beside him, and the young mercenary of somewhat smaller build among the group—every one of them faces Saif had most definitely seen somewhere before.
"......"
He didn't need to think twice. He shot to his feet, intent on fleeing without a backward glance—jackpot, schmackpot, who cared.
But the scrape of his chair sliding back—the sharp skrrrt—only drew the whole group's attention to him instead.
The silver-haired youth turned his head absentmindedly toward the noise. In other words, apprentice knight Arendt von Eckhart let out a most uncharacteristic sound of surprise.
"Oh—hey, it's the familiar uncle."
"......"
"You haven't even finished your drink. Why are you getting up? Don't tell me you're thinking of running."
Creeeak.
Saif forced his stiffened neck to turn.
The youthful face wore the exact same wicked smile from that day—every bit as much of a nightmare.
"Long time no see. How about coming over here and saying hello, uncle?"
Arthur and Richt, who happened to be beside him, recognized him as well and furrowed their brows.
"Who's that? Someone you know?"
"Hard to say. Can you really call that an acquaintance?"
Arthur gave the vague reply to Ryder's question.
The identities of the other mercenaries standing with those three were just as easy to work out.
Saif's face turned deathly pale.
Arendt smirked and crooked a finger.
"Well, this counts as knowing each other, doesn't it? Come on, uncle, let's have a little chat. Meeting again like this has to be fate."
Saif was very nearly in tears.
But he knew perfectly well from past experience that resisting was pointless. In the end, he let his shoulders sag and dragged himself over to join them.
* * *
Seeing a vicious-looking mercenary—the kind who'd take your money rather than ever lose his own—drenched in cold sweat was a fairly rare spectacle.
Made stranger still by the fact that the person grinning right beside him, arm slung casually over his shoulder, was Arendt, who topped out at barely half of Saif's considerable bulk.
Arm hooked around the mercenary's shoulder, Arendt tilted his head.
"What a pickle. I never anticipated a situation like this at all. Right, uncle?"
"Yes... that's right, sir."
Shoulders hunched low, Saif managed only a stiff nod.
Thump, thump. Each time Arendt patted his back, the big man's massive frame wobbled helplessly.
The other knights, having gotten the gist of the situation from Arthur, couldn't help but look at their junior with eyes full of distaste.
Was that thing a knight, or some neighborhood thug?
But since the man on the receiving end was a scoundrel who did bad deeds as routinely as he ate his meals, there wasn't really any ground to object.
Hand resting on the broad expanse of Saif's back, Arendt spoke in a voice dark as storm clouds.
"You really should have lived honestly, you know. Then neither of us would be looking at this sorry situation."
"......"
Gulp.
Saif swallowed drily. His ashen face was almost pitiful to behold.
Richt let out a deep sigh and spoke up.
"So—what are you going to do? There isn't much time for games."
The waiter would be back any moment.
Arendt tilted his head with a thoughtful hm.
"That's true. Who'd have thought I'd run into someone who knows my face here. It would be inconvenient if he went outside chattering about it..."
After a moment's thought, the apprentice knight tossed out, as casually as if commenting on the weather:
"Come to think of it, corpses can't talk, can they?"
"......!"
Saif recoiled in silent horror, and the other knights nearly had heart attacks at their junior's boundless depravity.
Fortunately, Arthur—who had grown somewhat inured to Arendt's antics—came to Saif's rescue.
"No time for that anyway. Killing him in secret and disposing of the body would take even longer."
"Fair point. Well then, no help for it. Besides, our destination appears to be the same anyway."
Pat.
Arendt gave Saif's shoulder one more pat.
"Let's go together."
"Yes, yes, y-yes?!"
"What's the problem? Weren't you here to have some fun too, uncle?"
To the man jolted upright in shock, Arendt gave a sly little smile.
"Unfortunately, the mercenaries I hired have no idea how to enjoy themselves. It would be a great favor if you'd teach us a thing or two."
"......"
"Of course, if you'd rather not, we can always put in the effort ourselves. So—what'll it be?"
In the end, there was only one answer he could possibly give.
Saif dropped his head low and mumbled.
"I'll go......"
"How reassuring, a dependable comrade."
Richt's voice came, utterly impossible to read as joke or sincerity.
With the matter settled like that, the other knights disguised as mercenaries exchanged looks and grudgingly went along with it.
Arendt was Arendt—but honestly, everyone else seemed to be every bit as unhinged. Had they all caught the madness of this lunatic, or had they simply been crazy from the very start?
You only live once. I should have lived honest.
Regret came flooding in far too late, long past the point of any use. A single bead of something—tears, or cold sweat—fell with a quiet drip, and not a single soul pitied him.
Before long, the waiter returned at a run with two more people in tow.
"Apologies for the wait. We'll escort you inside now."
"...One moment. Aren't you Saif?"
At that, one of the men, recognizing Saif, wrinkled his face in a scowl.
Arendt answered with perfect shamelessness.
"He's an acquaintance of mine. Any problem with that? We just ran into each other by chance. I'd like him to join us."
"Oh, is that so? A problem? Not at all, not in the slightest."
The man's face bloomed into a wide smile, waving his hands as if the question had never been asked.
Saif forced a laugh. His back was growing damper by the minute. He knew very well who this man was.
He was the lounge's head manager, tasked with weeding out the penniless bottom-feeders who came merely to gamble, so they couldn't mix with genuine tycoons and noble clientele.
He had apparently come out personally, intending to hook Arendt—who looked for all the world like some wealthy young fool utterly ignorant of how the world worked.
Without the faintest idea that that young lord was, in truth, no different from a serpent's hatchling stalking its prey.
It's going to be an utter circus in there.
Trailing behind the group as they headed for the lounge, Saif simply gave himself over to resignation.
While firmly resolving, all the while, that if only he made it out alive this time, he would finally, finally live an honest life.