Chapter 491: Urgency
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 491: Urgency
"Uncle Fu De, give me a piece of meat."
As the sun began to set, the young boatman, having finished a full day’s work, started his trek home. Before leaving the market, he stopped at a familiar butcher shop. He picked through the various cuts that were being marked down for quick sale, eventually settling on the cheapest piece available.
"Oh? You’re actually willing to spend on meat? Did you get paid today, kid?"
"I did! A full two thousand Emiels!"
The young boatman, his skin tanned dark by the sun, grinned to reveal a row of bright white teeth. Two thousand Emiels was a decent wage for him; at current prices, it could buy four hundred pounds of black bread.
Of course, he couldn't spend it all on bread. His sister’s school fees were two months overdue and needed to be paid immediately, and the roof at home was leaking, requiring repairs.
Despite the many demands on his coin, he wanted to indulge in a small luxury. It had been over a month since his family had tasted even a hint of meat—ever since his father had been injured moving cargo at the docks, the entire burden of the household had fallen on his shoulders. They had been living on a razor's edge.
"To be honest, I have the current market to thank for being able to afford meat at all!"
"The market?"
The butcher, moving with practiced ease while surreptitiously adding a little extra weight to the scale, asked casually, "You mean the grain prices this year?"
"Yeah! Last winter, black bread cost ten Emiels a pound. If prices were like that now, I wouldn't have a copper left over for meat."
The young boatman grew animated as he spoke. In previous years, grain prices would essentially double every winter. Only this year had they remained stable, seeing only a minor increase.
"I heard it’s all thanks to that new Magistrate."
"Is that so? But haven't people said he’s just embezzling the disaster relief grain to sell for himself? Look at this year—hardly any of the great nobles have come down to the Lower District to hand out free bread."
"Psh, what good is 'free'?" The boatman curled his lip in disdain. "Those free loaves just get snatched up by the street thugs anyway. I never see a crumb of it. It’s the price of bread that matters. I’ve got two good hands and two good feet; I don’t need to live on handouts."
"Fair point. Here, that’ll be twenty Emiels."
As they chatted, the butcher wrapped the cut of meat in newspaper and handed it over.
"Wait, Uncle Fu De, are you hurt?"
The young boatman blinked as he took the meat. He noticed a thick layer of bandages wrapped around the butcher’s right arm, which had been hidden by his sleeve until now.
"Ah, this?" The butcher chuckled. "A disobedient beast gave me some trouble this morning. It’s nothing. The beast has been dealt with."
"I see." The boatman laughed along. "Well, stay safe. I’m heading off. I need to get home and cook for the family before it gets dark."
Families in the Lower District usually finished their chores before nightfall to save on the cost of candles. By stopping for meat, he had already cut it close.
But just as he turned to hurry home, the butcher called out to him. "Hey, wait. Don't go that way."
"Why not?" the boatman asked, confused. "I take that road every day."
"You can't today. Word is a horse went mad and crashed in the middle of the street. The Guard Corps is currently clearing the mess."
"Just one horse... that shouldn't block the whole road, it's wide enough."
"Who knows? But if I’m telling you not to go, there’s a reason for it," the butcher said, lighting a cheap cigarette and taking a slow drag.
Seeing the butcher’s meaningful expression, the young boatman felt a sudden shiver. He thought of the things that frequently happened in the Lower District—street murders, gang wars... the kind of business ordinary people were better off not knowing.
A "mad horse" was likely just the official story.
"Then I’ll take the long way. Thanks, Uncle Fu De. Dammit, now I’m definitely going to be late... Whatever, I’ve already splurged on meat; a little candle wax won't kill me."
Muttering to himself, the boatman quickened his pace and detoured in the opposite direction.
Once the youth had vanished from sight, the butcher’s expression instantly flattened. He crushed the low-quality cigarette and bowed respectfully.
"Lord Rat King."
"Mm."
A short figure stepped out from the back of the shop. It was Sam, the Rat King.
Sam looked up, gauging the light in the sky. "Based on the time, it should be about finished."
"Yes. The brothers stationed outside sent word that the commotion inside has ceased."
"Then let’s go."
"Understood."
Sam walked toward the cordoned-off building.
Along the way, men dressed in Guard Corps uniforms were setting up roadblocks. However, when they saw Sam, they bowed respectfully. They weren't actually the Guard Corps; they were Sam’s subordinates in disguise, tasked with keeping the public away.
Lord Bruce said that not a single member of the real Guard Corps would come to this street today, and he was right. It seems his relationship with the Guard Corps... no, likely with the higher-ups, is incredibly deep.
Sam thought of the Magistrate who had purged the corrupt Guard Corps with such ruthless efficiency. Though he had yet to meet the man today, his reverence grew.
Without allowing any subordinates to accompany him, he entered the building alone.
A faint scent of blood hung in the air, but the scene wasn't as gruesome as Sam had imagined. Aside from significant damage to the walls and floors, he couldn't even find the corpses of the monsters, let alone bloodstains.
It was as if they had been erased from existence.
His heart pounding, Sam continued forward cautiously until he reached a massive, ruined hall.
It appeared to have once been a bar's lounge. A gaping hole had been punched through the ceiling—and not just one floor, but six. It looked as though a meteorite had plummeted from the roof, smashing through every level until it hit the basement.
Light filtered down through the hole, illuminating dancing dust motes. In the very center of the wreckage sat a figure. His black formal suit was still pristine, without a single drop of blood from the fierce battle.
"Lord Bruce."
Sam approached carefully. As he bowed his head, his gaze swept past the statue-like figure and he froze.
Lying naked before the seated Muen was Wood, who had returned to his human form. He appeared physically unharmed, but he was no longer breathing.
"It's Sam, I see," Muen said softly.
"It is I." Sam knelt down on one knee. "Are you... alright, my Lord?"
"What could possibly happen to me?"
Muen looked up, his face partially brightened by the descending light. His features remained profound, carrying a faint, composed smile. Yet, the darkness that flickered and vanished in the depths of his eyes for a split second still made Sam look away in fear.
"I am glad you are unharmed."
"Mm."
Muen nodded slightly and looked back down at Wood. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his knees, as if he were deep in thought.
"Sam."
"Yes?"
"Do you know about Beastification?" Muen asked suddenly.
"Beastification?" Sam paused, then replied, "Of course. I believe it’s a transformation that occurs in those with bestial bloodlines, triggered by external stimuli or atavism."
"Can an ordinary person without a bestial bloodline undergo Beastification?"
"How could they? Without the bloodline, they’re just ordinary humans."
"Indeed. Without the bloodline, they are just ordinary humans." Muen turned his head, staring directly at Sam. "Based on your knowledge of Wood, do you think he possessed such a bloodline?"
"Of course not. Usually, those with such bloodlines show signs through their fighting spirit or mana. I’ve known Wood for over a decade; he never..."
As he spoke, Sam’s body suddenly stiffened. He slowly lowered his head, looking at the naked man with a gaze of incomprehensible horror.
"Are you saying...?"
"Yes. Neither Wood nor his subordinates possessed a trace of bestial bloodline. In fact, such bloodlines are quite rare; it’s impossible for everyone to have one."
"But... but they all..."
"They all turned into monsters. Humans without bestial bloodlines, beastified into monsters." Muen murmured, "That is the terrifying part."
After killing Wood, Muen had used the Black Book to read his soul's records. He had discovered that the source of this Beastification was a drug sent by the Old Ghost.
Supposedly, the drug was meant to boost one's strength for a limited time. It seemed the Old Ghost hadn't lied; their strength had indeed increased significantly in a short period. The Old Ghost simply failed to mention that the drug had a minor side effect.
Initially, Muen had assumed the drug was like the potion from the Amon incident—something that over-stimulated an existing bloodline. But that wasn't the case.
They were ordinary people. They had no special bloodlines. They became monsters solely because of that tiny pill.
"It seems this has escalated far beyond a simple gang war in the Lower District."
A drug this bizarre could never have originated from the Old Ghost. Even if he was a "ghost" from ten years ago, a man who had nearly ruled the underworld of Belland, he couldn't have produced something like this.
The source of the drug could only be the people behind him.
The Inner Council.
Those two words surfaced in Muen’s mind once more.
"But... aren't they being a bit too urgent?"
A drug this horrific and strange could be a game-changer whenever it was deployed—for instance, in the upcoming struggle for that position. Yet, those people were so eager that they used it just to reclaim the Lower District?
Why?
To restart the forbidden drug trade? For the smuggling routes? Were they so short on cash that even selling off their manors couldn't fill the gap?
Or was there something in the Lower District that they desperately needed?
"It seems that pure speculation won't provide the answer."
After pondering for a while longer without a lead, Muen sighed. He pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and slowly stood up, placing his top hat back on his head.
"My Lord?" Sam snapped back to attention and bowed. "Are you going to..."
"Don't follow me. I have things to do."
Muen straightened his clothes and strode out of the building.
"Things to do?"
Sam watched Muen’s back—a silhouette that looked as if it were marching toward a battlefield—and his expression grew solemn. After such an intense battle, the Lord was moving on without a moment's rest...
It had to be something of vital importance, something that likely concerned the very safety of the Lower District.
...
"I’d like a room. One with a bath."
Ten minutes later, Muen appeared at an inn in the Lower District.
After securing a room with a bathtub, he finally shed his disguise and enjoyed a long, hot soak. Afterward, he lay down on the bed and gradually drifted into sleep.
Yes, his "important business" was sleeping.
Of course, sleep wasn't strictly necessary for someone like Muen anymore; his immense spiritual power was enough to sustain him for at least half a month without rest.
However...
When attending a date with a lady, how could one show up looking travel-worn and exhausted?
To be met with a lady’s disdain would be a far more terrifying catastrophe than the destruction of the entire Lower District.
Wait.
But if it were Celicia... and she glared at him with those cold, disgusted eyes...
On the soft bed, Muen’s eyes snapped open, his sleepiness vanishing instantly.