Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Reclaiming Blackie and Yellowie
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With Jenna starting her operations right away using the funds he'd handed over, Sion headed to the inn he'd stayed at last before entering the Dragon Wasteland.
It was business just as important as checking the reports piled up at the information guild.
"Welcome! Staying the night? Or just here for a meal?"
True to a world that had sold off children's rights to the dogs, a boy who looked about thirteen or fourteen greeted him at the entrance.
"I'll eat later. First, I'm here to pick up my horses."
"Huh? Horses?"
"Yeah. Two of them."
"Uh...."
The boy looked Sion up and down in slight confusion.
But as a kid working at a place like this at such a young age, he had sharper eyes and a better memory than his peers, and he concluded that this young customer was someone he'd never seen before today.
"Sorry, but did you maybe mix it up with another inn?"
The boy asked as politely and cautiously as he could. Even though Burgos had decent public order, armed mercenaries were still scary.
"Nope. This is the place. Twilight Inn of the Dragon Wasteland. Last time I was here, the guy with the weird mustache and a limp took my horses."
"Uh... you mean Kaman bro?"
"I don't know his name."
"Probably Kaman bro. But he's been in the kitchen since last year."
"That's not my problem. Just bring my horses."
With that, Sion held out two thumb-sized tokens.
They were the markers given to guests who left their horses for long-term stabling at this inn, naturally the ones he'd received when he last left Blackie and Yellowie here.
"Huh? These are real?"
"You think they'd be fake? I told them it might be a while when I dropped them off, so tell the owner and bring my horses."
"Uh... okay. Just a sec."
He'd been moving guests' horses from the entrance to the stables and feeding them for over a year now, but no matter how he thought about it, this was a first-time customer.
Still, the tokens the customer held were unmistakably made by the inn, so the boy tilted his head but scurried inside.
Soon, the chubby, burly owner he'd seen once before came out with the boy.
"What horse? We haven't had a single guest on horseback in three days."
"Yeah, that's why I thought it was weird, but he has the tokens."
"Damn it."
The owner examined the tokens this way and that, then glanced at Sion.
He was wearing a long hood like any mercenary to block the dust and wind of the wasteland, but the owner's eyes changed slightly at the sight of the young, refined, and somewhat slender Sion.
He saw him as an easy mark.
"These look kinda like our stable tokens, but you didn't forge them somewhere, did you?"
A smile crept onto Sion's lips.
Anyone could see he had a mid-twenties face, so starting with the informal tone was whatever. He'd dealt with it so much it didn't faze him anymore.
But bringing up forgery was another matter.
Even so, Sion decided to let it slide for now.
It had been over six years, not just a few months, so issues were to be expected.
"Six years and eight months ago, I left a black horse and a yellowish-gold one, close to golden. I clearly said it might be a long time, and I paid two years upfront. Here."
Thud!
Sion tossed something, and the innkeeper caught it reflexively.
"......!"
His eyes widened at the shiny gold coins in the small pouch.
"Five hundred dien per horse per month for stabling, right? Twenty imperial gold coins should cover the care all this time. No change needed."
"Uh...."
Even with a fortune equivalent to half a year's earnings in his hand, the innkeeper's face didn't brighten.
Because the explanation about the horses brought everything back to him at once.
'Fuck... we're screwed.'
It was true that the mercenary or knight in front of him had left two horses over six years ago. True that he'd paid two years upfront.
The problem was that even assuming that, the guy was expected back in about six months, but he never came for a whole year, so the horses were sold off.
'Damn. Didn't he die in the Dragon Wasteland?'
Cold sweat trickled down the innkeeper's back, who'd sold the horses assuming the owner was dead.
Stealing or arbitrarily disposing of stabled horses was a serious crime.
Moreover, the young mercenary's horses weren't pack mules—they were fine warhorses with good bloodlines. Especially the black one; it had such a foul, vicious temper that when it was sold, it caused chaos and injured several workers.
Anyway, if word got out that he'd disposed of two warhorses without permission, it meant paying at least ten times their value or even execution. The twenty gold coins weren't the issue.
"Ah, sir. Well, you see...."
"You sold my horses, didn't you?"
Sion's eyes darkened as he pieced it together from the innkeeper's changing expression alone.
"Uh, well... I thought you were dead.... It'd been years, so of course I thought that!"
In situations like this, the one who yells loudest usually wins.
A Burgos local with ties to local bigwigs, and judging Sion an easy mark from his looks, the innkeeper decided to bulldoze through.
"You could've at least sent word, huh? I'm not digging up dirt to feed and house them or anything. And speaking of which, I took care of them another year after that. Total of three years! Doesn't that mean I did my part?"
In truth, he'd sold them right after a year, but the innkeeper went for it anyway.
Whatever the truth, what was this guy gonna do about it?
A drifter mercenary wouldn't want to get beaten half to death and run off—he'd just take the good deal.
"Here! Let's call it even with the sale price. The horses were weak and old, hard to sell. Off you go."
The innkeeper tossed the money pouch back at Sion and turned away brusquely.
Whoosh! Thwack!
Something grazed the innkeeper's right earlobe and embedded in the door with a loud bang.
"Eek!?"
The immediate burning pain made him clutch his ear and stagger back.
Step by step.
Sion pulled the dagger, half-buried in the wooden door, and stared at the innkeeper.
"Cut the bullshit and bring my horses."
Sion was fundamentally a reasonable person.
Even after long years in this world rife with murder and violence, he'd tried to stay sensible, upholding the line of a civilized, educated man.
But that line had dulled bit by bit as his wife and children passed away one by one, and turned into a whatever attitude while wandering in search of the world's secrets and mysteries.
Still, he treated those he acknowledged or needed, and ordinary folk, within common sense.
But if the other side broke that common sense first and crossed the line?
In Korean terms, it was like parking a Bugatti La Voiture Noire worth over 200 billion won, prepaid for two years long-term, and the lot owner selling it off as stolen goods because no contact.
The immortal superhuman who'd lived over a century was fully prepared to show what true abuse of power and mayhem looked like.
Especially right after hearing that the heirs had trashed the house and territory he'd built into a solid foundation with his wife's every effort.
"I'll give you one day. Bring my horses, or muster every means you have to stop me. I'll warn you now: whichever it is, it won't end there. Of course, there's a small but big difference between the two options."
"Urgh! What bullshit...."
"Choose the first, you live. The second, you die."
"......!"
Even without baring any killing intent, the inexplicable pressure from the refined, easy-looking Sion made the innkeeper—who'd tried to resist—clamp his mouth shut.
His face drained of color as he backed away unsteadily.
"Go. Bring my horses or the guys to stop me. Your call. I'll be waiting."
With that, Sion strode into the inn's pub.
"B-boss, you okay?"
"Okay my ass! Fuck, you—go tell the guard corps quick."
"Huh? What do I say?"
"What else? Robbers causing trouble! Oh, and don't bring them right away—tell them to come in about ten minutes."
"Uh... okay."
It didn't seem quite right, but he couldn't defy the boss who fed and housed him, so the boy dashed off to the guard post.
"You fucking bastard. Threatening me? You're dead, you piece of shit."
Clutching his nicked earlobe dripping blood, the innkeeper hurried off somewhere too.
As befitting a proper town, Burgos had everything.
Including thugs and nasty mercenaries.
* * *
Sion ordered a mug of thick beer at the pub and took just one sip before crossing his arms and sinking into thought.
The innkeeper was already barely on his mind.
'Whoever bought Blackie and Yellowie at the same time must be pretty rich or influential. If they have an eye for horses, they'll still have them.'
No need to mention Blackie, a monster beyond a fine steed, but Yellowie was also bought for a hefty sum.
He mainly rode Blackie for travel or combat, using Yellowie as a packhorse, but in a pinch, Yellowie was an excellent warhorse too.
Plus, even after nearly seven years, they were only about fifteen, and with a lifespan of around thirty, they were still in their prime.
Especially Blackie, a special one who'd live past thirty like his sire.
'Whoever bought them, I gotta beat it out of someone first to get straight answers.'
He was pissed, but that wasn't the only reason he'd threatened the innkeeper.
Sion had gone through similar situations multiple times since faking his death and leaving the dukedom.
He was far too experienced—old monster level—to start something recklessly just because he was angry.
Bang!
Then, with a loud crash, a group of men burst into the pub.
"Who is it? Which fucker?"
"Damn, it's too dark to see. Hey, old timers, quit chugging booze midday and get out."
The burly, foul-faced thugs who screamed gangster prodded chairs and tables, and the few drinking customers grumbled but headed outside.
"There! That guy's the one."
The innkeeper spotted Sion in the corner and pointed.
Then, the leader of the Black Dog Gang—the only violent outfit in Burgos with double-digit members—sauntered over to Sion.
"What? A mercenary? Fuck, looks more like a male whore tagging along with mercenaries."
His lackeys snickered at the boss's words.
Sion's looks were indeed striking. But not particularly feminine.
If anything, an incredibly masculine, rugged face.
Just that, being immortal, minor scars healed fast, leaving flawless skin and no wrinkles, so he looked less like a mercenary and more like a noble youth who'd never known hardship.
That's why, to the bottom-feeder Black Dog Gang, Sion just looked like a prissy target, not even a real mercenary.
The innkeeper probably wouldn't have needed to pay them; they'd have picked a fight and beaten him just from seeing him outside.
Creak.
The Black Dog boss dragged a chair right in front of the still cross-armed Sion and sat, twisting his already ugly face into a fiercer scowl.
"Hey, you fuck. Know where you are, pulling this shit? Apologize to this old man properly when I say nice. And compensation, yeah? You look loaded—show some sincerity."
Sion smirked. Not because it was ridiculous.
"You got some manual or something?"
"What? What bullshit you spouting?"
"You thugs always say the exact same crap. 'Road to Third-Rate Thug'—got a reference book? Nah, you illiterate fucks probably can't even read...."
"You motherfucking shit!"
The boss whipped out a dagger hidden in his sleeve.
In that instant, Sion's crossed arms blurred.
Crack!
He slapped the boss's hand with his palm, pinched the blade between thumb and forefinger, twisted the dagger, and turned it on him effortlessly.
But no one but Sion saw the sequence.
To the boss and his Black Dog thugs, it was like blinking and suddenly the boss's knife was pointed at him instead.
"You started it."
Sion grinned at the boss, who froze for a split second.
"Huh... ugh."
"Ugh, ah, it hurts! Please stop...."
It didn't take long for the boss and thugs to writhe on the pub floor.
About a minute?
He pinpointed vital spots; runners got shattered ankles or kneecaps.
The innkeeper plopped down right there as the boss's nose collapsed and both knees shattered symmetrically, rubbing his butt on the floor.
"Huh, heh...."
As Sion approached, the innkeeper crawled away frantically.
Sion grabbed the innkeeper's thinning hair and yanked his head up.
"Ah! Aaaah!"
More than the inhuman grip strength, the pain of his scalp tearing made him wail.
Sion slapped the innkeeper's cheeks back and forth, then pulled his bloodied face close and murmured low.
"I told you, right? Choose the second option, and you die?"
"Ugh... p-please...."
Then the pub door flew open, and Sion's gaze naturally turned there.
"There! That's him!"
The boy had brought the guards.
"W-what the? Hey! Drop the weapon!"
Stunned by the carnage inside, the guards thrust spears and shortswords at Sion and yelled.
"You! Go get the others!"
"Yes, sir!"
The guard who'd sent the boy gulped dryly, keeping his sword trained on Sion.
Beating seven thugs to a pulp was one thing, but Sion hadn't even twitched with guards here—that intimidated him.
At the same time, he realized this was no opponent for his strength alone.
"L-look, sir. Put that man down first. It'll only hurt you if it escalates. We'll hear you out, so just...."
"Fine."
Sion dropped the innkeeper without hesitation and sat back in his chair.
"Uh....?"
The guard panicked at how nonchalant he was.
The gruesome scene before him, plus an aura screaming no ordinary guy.
He'd figured it wouldn't end here, but it wrapped up this easily?
Toss.
Then Sion tossed something at the guard's feet.
As the even more flustered guard hesitated, Sion spoke.
"Bring someone from your direct superior to the top man in this town who can identify that."
"Uh...."
The guard carefully picked up the fallen item and tilted his head.
He had no idea it was a solid gold medallion, palm-sized and gold-inlaid—maybe real gold, maybe not—intricately engraved with a lion rampant holding a sword in its mouth, given only to direct royals of the Obla Kingdom.
(To be continued)