Chapter 65. Drubre
Three days had passed since Northern Duke Tolstoy Lancaster received his tattoo.
"This thing... it's really finishing today, right?"
From early morning, lying on the procedure bed, Tolstoy's eyes no longer held the arrogance of the first day.
"Of course, Your Grace. It should have wrapped up yesterday if someone hadn't been such a wimp about the pain, dragging it out by a day."
"......Normally, doesn't it hurt for everyone else too?"
"Your Grace."
"Uh, yeah?"
"Please don't move. You'll smudge it."
"Guh......"
For men, the most painful spots were usually the entire face and front of the neck, the solar plexus, nipples, inner and outer elbows, centers of the palms and backs of the hands, tops of the feet, shins, inner thighs, and buttocks. No matter how much he boasted as the ruler of the North, Tolstoy was learning firsthand that everyone was equal before a tattoo needle.
Vrrrriiiing! The moment the tattoo machine hummed to life, tears welled up in Tolstoy's eyes—a petty pleasure I'd recently started enjoying. Seeing him juiced like a fruit made the stress he'd caused me two days ago evaporate nicely.
Up until yesterday, I'd outlined everything with thin, pointed liners. Today, I was shading the dermis proper with a shader.
Scraaaape— Scraaaape— Scraaaape—
"Nngh......"
"No noise."
"I-I didn't......"
"Don't tell me it hurts? Don't move."
"N-No...... it's not."
Scrape— Scraaaape— Scrape—
The fun of meticulously shading each scale with a fine shader—the real joy of tattooing was that it wasn't as rigidly standardized as medicine. Tattoo needles came in all sorts of varieties. The shader I was using now was like interlaced fingertips slightly overlapping.
Tick— Tick— Tick tick—
The liner I'd used for lines, on the other hand, had needles clustered sharply like pinched fingers.
Tick tick— Tick— Tick tick tick—
Finally, I swapped to the thinnest 1-line cartridge liner to clean up the lines. Now, just the highlight on the serpent's eyes to finish.
"Time for the finishing touches. This'll sharpen the serpent's pupils—might sting a bit more than before."
I unwrapped a thick 3-line needle, loaded the ink cup with viscous white ink dripping thickly, and spoke to Tolstoy.
"W-Wait! You mean this hurts more than everything so far?"
"No need to panic. It'll be over quick."
"I'm not panicking...... Just, is this really necessary? The eyes specifically?"
"Absolutely. Back home, we have this saying: the finishing touch of the dragon. Legend has it a great artist drew a dragon, and when he added the eyes last, it came alive and flew to the heavens."
"I'm not quite at that level, but......"
"A tattoo isn't just a picture—it's art etched forever on the body. If it's not fear holding you back, tough it out."
"A-Alright......"
Truth be told, the white ink wasn't essential. It made things pop a little more up close, but from afar, the difference was negligible.
You owe me for all that stress. Can't let you off easy now, punk.
Yesterday, he'd shown up from the territory office demanding payment for road repairs in front of the Beauty Tower. Now that we were truly at the end, I had no intention of letting him escape the pain so smoothly.
"Here we go."
I cranked the power supply past 10 and hit the foot switch.
Vrrrrraaaaaang! Thud thud! Thud thud thud!
"Gaaahhhh!"
"Tch! Don't move!"
"Nnghhuuuaaaah!"
Amid his agonized roar, Tolstoy's first tattoo—and my first in this world—wrapped up beautifully. He stayed out cold for a full ten minutes.
* * *
"Stella, Tolstoy still out?"
"Yes, even with healing magic......"
"Hmm... was the white ink too much?"
White ink needs to go deep to show well, so I ramped up the power and depth more than with black. Didn't expect him to pass out, though.
"Once you're done cleaning up, head down and rest. He's just a scaredy-cat; he'll wake up soon—"
Creak—
"Ah, Miner. There you are? Haha, must've dozed off for a bit."
Tolstoy stretched nonchalantly and stepped out of the procedure room like nothing happened. Looked like he was clinging to a mental victory after being bled dry.
"Awake now, Your Grace? Sometimes the shock—"
"Ahem! Where do I settle up?"
"You paid yesterday."
"Right, yeah. Ahem."
Tolstoy's ears flushed red, embarrassed about fainting. But to anyone seeing him for the first time, that shy smile wouldn't register. A fierce winter serpent bared its fangs across both cheeks and his neck, eyes bulging menacingly.
"Hoo...... haa......"
"Like it, Your Grace?"
Tolstoy peered into the waiting room mirror, examining his face and murmuring sighs of admiration nonstop.
"Follow me. Whether it works like you said—that's for others to say, not you."
Tolstoy headed straight to the first floor. The past three days of stable treatment had been to keep nearby folk safe from harm, after all.
Ding—
The elevator carrying me and Tolstoy hit the first floor, and the reaction was instant.
"Oh god! Mommy!"
"Kyaaah! His face! Kyaaaaah!"
"Whoa, shit! What'd he do to his face?"
"R-Run! He's nuts!"
Earth had tattoo records from 500 BCE, but here, they seemed utterly alien. Especially a five-headed serpent on the face—had to look grotesque.
"Pffft-hahaha! Yes! Perfect! This is exactly what I wanted!"
Seeing Beauty Tower's first-floor patrons freak out and flee at his face, Tolstoy threw his head back like a madman and bellowed with laughter.
"Haha, never seen you this satisfied before. Thanks."
Watching him grin at the fleeing crowd, I wondered if he was a true sadist. Heard he wasn't married yet—hard to imagine the North's future.
Whatever, not my problem. Already pocketed the gold.
I'd charged Tolstoy 3,000 gold for treatment—a thousand a day for three days. Solid business. Plus, protecting local customers left me satisfied—until the commotion drew in the sturdy Northerners who'd stood guard outside Beauty Tower for three days.
"D-Duke?"
"Oho, looking so majestic! Perfectly done, Your Grace! Congratulations!"
"Congratulations!"
The redheads flinched at the sight of Tolstoy—they were just as shocked.
"Alexandro, even you think my face looks scary?"
"Magnificent! I dare not stare at Your Grace's face for more than two seconds! Dungeon beasts will flee the same!"
"Kehhehe, good. It's spot-on."
Swish—
Tolstoy slipped off his necklace and handed it to me.
"Here, take this."
"......Pardon? Me?"
Right now, I wasn't a doctor—I was a tattoo artist. That necklace was clearly the shape-shifting magic sword. No use for me, but valuable. I reached for it gratefully—
"D-Duke! Drubre to him?!"
Alexandro bellowed desperately.
"No! That's one of only two treasures in Lancaster Duchy!"
"So what? There's another one."
"Your Grace! You can't say that so lightly! Without Drubre, you have no sword for dungeon runs! How will you—?!"
Alexandro tried in vain to dissuade his duke, but Tolstoy waved him off irritably.
"Ugh, enough. I said it's fine. Came to boost my rep anyway—no need for dungeons now. Let's sightsee around and head back."
"Your Grace!"
"Stop. That's an order."
"Yes, sir."
After several back-and-forths, Tolstoy—pleased with my work—shoved the sword called Drubre into my hands.
"Use it well. It's not just a sword—versatile stuff. Ask that guy if you don't know how."
Tolstoy smirked at Walter, who'd been waiting on the first floor. Walter scowled the instant he saw Tolstoy's face. Yeah, better keep these two apart.
"Thank you, Your Grace! I'll put it to good use! Come back anytime for touch-ups if the colors fade—we do retouching to—"
"I'm out."
Tolstoy flinched briefly, then bolted from Beauty Tower. Outside erupted in shouts soon after.
"Good work, Director! Or should I say, Baron?"
"Walter, just call me Director. Titles feel awkward."
"Understood."
I chuckled and gestured for Walter to sit at a cafe chair.
"Walter, I've been wondering. How exactly do you know the Northern Duke?"
"Ran into him in a Northern dungeon while wandering. His crazy Northerners mistook me for a monster and attacked. That's when I crossed swords with him."
Swords on first meet—explains why Walter hates Northerners so much.
"But he seems to like you a ton? Calls you a friend even."
Walter tsked loudly, visibly annoyed.
"Friend? He's an unhinged lunatic. Our skills match, so we kept bumping into each other in dungeons. Every time, he'd mock me—said my scary face was great, no, better than his."
"......"
"Wanted to kill him more than once. He's the bastard who named my sword scream 'Demon's Wail' because monsters flee screaming from my face."
Just meant to lighten the mood before asking about Drubre, but things got tenser.
"Uh...... got it. Anyway, he gave me this sword. Know how it works? Said to ask you."
Know the usage and value before selling—take it to the guild and flip it quick. No need for me to carry a sword.
"Technically, it's a necklace."
"Necklace?"
"Yes. One that changes form."
"......?"
I could almost hear its value skyrocketing. Time to schedule those touch-ups.