Chapter 900: The Behemoth
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 900: The Behemoth
"A fish?"
In the room, the man named Tyren didn’t even look up. He merely flicked his cigar, letting bits of ash fall onto the head of the informant kneeling before him. The man kept his head bowed, not daring to move an inch.
"What kind of catch are we talking about?"
"Supposedly a big fish from the Slav Kingdom."
"A Slav? One of those northern barbarians? Those people love to huddle together and aren't exactly known for their brains. How big could he be?"
"The tailor said the man spent the entire day wandering all over the West District, throwing money around like water. He bought all sorts of luxury goods to deck himself out. Just for a single custom formal suit, he dropped five hundred thousand Emiel."
"Five hundred thousand?"
Tyren’s brow twitched. The figure finally seemed to catch his attention. He straightened up slightly from his reclined position on the sofa, his gaze landing on the informant.
"Just for one suit? He’s not just putting on airs to look rich?"
"No, sir. It wasn't a deposit; it was paid in full. The big fish pays for everything in full. They say he’s already spent over a million Emiel in a single day, and that number is still climbing. He didn't seem the least bit pained by the expense."
"Over a million..."
Hearing that number made Tyren wary instead. "He’s not some pampered idiot son from a Great Noble house, is he? Moving against someone like that is too risky. These are sensitive times; the Royal Capital is under tighter security than usual. We can't afford to act recklessly."
"No, the tailor is certain the big fish has no noble lineage," the informant replied. "He said the man is almost certainly just a stupid upstart who stumbled into a fortune for some unknown reason."
"Oh? Why is he so sure?"
"The tailor said that of the five hundred thousand for the custom suit... he could pocket four hundred and ninety thousand as pure profit."
"..."
Tyren fell into a pensive silence.
He didn't know much about formal wear. In his line of work, he would never be caught dead in those gaudy, impractical rags that hindered movement. But he understood the weight of a profit margin where forty-nine parts out of fifty were pure graft.
"An upstart? A Slav? No backing?"
"Exactly. The tailor said the man has absolutely no class. He acts like a high-rolling playboy, but in reality, even the girls at the perfume counters were secretly sneering at his atrocious taste."
"Sounds like a self-important fool."
Tyren didn't jump to conclusions based on appearances alone. He continued his questioning: "Are there any noble events coming up?"
"Yes. Word is that Count Reeves is hosting a grand victory banquet at his manor in three days to celebrate the Kingdom's successive triumphs on the front lines."
"Three days... and the Slav’s suit is due in three days as well?"
"Yes, sir," the informant nodded.
"Then it all makes sense."
A foreign Slavic upstart with no roots in the Royal Capital, hoping to use the banquet in three days to break into high society and pave a way for himself. Using a suit as armor and gold as a brick to knock on doors, attempting to carve out a territory in a new, strange land—this was the standard playbook for any parvenu with wealth but no status or backing.
The Slav didn't seem quite as stupid as Tyren had first imagined.
However... this was the Royal Capital of a kingdom.
Perhaps in other places, money could easily pave a smooth road. But in the high society here, if you lacked noble blood or a respectable title, relying solely on vulgar cash would only get you a face full of dirt. Those insatiable nobles, who prided themselves on their supposed refinement, would happily accept every bit of flattery and tribute offered, only to kick the giver out the door without a second thought.
"So, why let such a boring and useless cycle repeat itself?"
Tyren stood up fully, stubbing out his cigar. As he moved, the lifelike tattoo of an evil ghost danced menacingly across his corded muscles, and a violent, predatory aura instantly filled the room. He traced a scar on his chest, seemingly reminded of some past humiliation; even the ghost pattern on his skin seemed to glare with rage.
"Rather than letting that Slav’s 'tribute' go to those fat-bellied noble lords, it would be better..."
Tyren let out a cruel, wide-grinned laugh. "...to put it toward something more meaningful."
*
As the night deepened, Bruce stepped out of the doors of an underground tavern.
His trench coat still carried the heavy scent of high-end liquor and a faint trace of perfume. Clearly, only minutes ago, he had been engaged in a spirited drinking game with "good girls" who thrived on the madness of the night.
Of course, the boundaries of that game had been strictly limited to "drinking" to showcase his wealth. Any attempt at a more intimate encounter had been subtly deflected by his superior physical control, nipping any potential "next stage" in the bud.
After all, he was fishing for information, not looking to end up on someone else's hook. As a devoted, good man, a sense of boundaries was one of his essential virtues.
"Damned weather. Why is it still raining? My new perfume is getting washed out."
After a moment of self-indulgent intoxication over his own virtuous character, Bruce grumbled some nonsense and staggered into the darkness with the gait of a drunkard.
The light rain continued to fall.
Bruce’s steps were unsteady, the picture of a total sot. His eyes remained hidden in the deep shadows of his hat, making it difficult for any observer to read him. In truth, he wasn't just acting; he really was drunk. After several bottles of high-end wine without lifting a finger to suppress the alcohol's effects, no one could claim the flush on his face was faked.
And so, on this quiet, rainy night, the Slav from a foreign land wandered through unfamiliar alleys after a boisterous feast, heading toward the luxury inn he had booked earlier that day.
Lonely.
Helpless.
Utterly non-threatening.
Like a naive fawn wandering through a forest teeming with danger, he would soon attract a true hunter.
"Who’s there!"
Bruce suddenly froze, looking warily toward the front of the alley.
"Yo, isn't this our esteemed guest? It's so late; why are you wandering around a place like this all by yourself?"
A figure stepped out from the shadows. He bowed to Bruce, his etiquette as sloppy and comical as before. Bruce squinted, seemingly struggling to focus his vision through the overlapping shadows before finally recognizing the man.
"You... the Tailor Shop Owner?"
"That’s me." The owner grinned. "Long time no see, Mr. Bruce."
"You... what are you doing here?"
Having drunk far too much, Bruce still maintained the cold edge of a Slav, but his speech was noticeably slurred. "Are you here to deliver my suit?"
"Yes, I’m here to deliver the suit."
"Didn't we say three days? It’s only been one..."
"That’s because I have another grand gift to give you."
"A grand gift?"
"Yes. After our chat today, I realized my behavior was truly shameful. How could I deceive you like that? Therefore..." The tailor’s eyes reflected Bruce’s current state, and the smile on his face widened. "I’ve come to be more honest. I want you, our foreign guest, to truly understand the 'hospitality' of this city!"
With those words, a sudden chill erupted.
The tailor looked like a typical greasy middle-aged man, complete with a beer belly, but his movements were incredibly fast. In the blink of an eye, he had closed the distance to Bruce. Not only that, but several other figures leaped from the darkness, completely cutting off Bruce’s retreat.
He had been a helpless fawn, but now, Bruce was entirely surrounded by hunters.
"Don't blame me. Blame your own stupidity."
The blade in the tailor's hand drew closer. Though he wasn't aiming for a vital spot, he could already envision his prey howling in agony in a pool of blood...
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Several dull impacts suddenly rang out. Before the tailor could even react, he felt a sharp pain in his cheek and was sent flying backward. After crashing through several piles of junk and even shattering a section of a wall, the tailor finally managed to steady himself. Clutching his bleeding face, he looked at the fist-swinging Bruce in horror, a tidal wave of shock crashing through his mind.
He had miscalculated.
This Bruce wasn't just some ordinary upstart. He was also...
"You... you’re actually a Third-Tier Martial Artist!"
The tailor’s voice turned hoarse. As a "nail" planted in this district by his boss, he, the famous "Tailor," was only at the Second-Tier! As for the others involved in the ambush, barely half of them could even be considered Martial Artists; the rest were just street thugs who were good at brawling. Against a legendary Third-Tier Martial Artist, they had no hope of resisting.
"Hmph, idiot!"
Bruce looked down at the tailor with a sneer of disdain. "Did you really think I’d parade around like that without any confidence? Not all Slavs are brainless."
"You!"
Seeing himself mocked by a Slav, the tailor was livid, but then he suddenly began to laugh. "Ha... good. It’s a good thing I wasn't reckless and chose to play it safe."
"Hmm?" Bruce frowned. "You mean you have another card to play?"
"It’s not so much a 'card' as it is a necessity. Since I knew you were a big fish, how could I not offer you up as 'tribute'? Outlander, this district has its own rules!"
Clack.
As soon as the tailor finished speaking, another set of footsteps echoed through the night. They weren't loud, but they were incredibly heavy and distinct, as if stepping directly onto everyone’s hearts.
"With such strength, it makes sense that a Slav could become an upstart. It fits the logic. It seems there’s no trap; I was overthinking it."
A massive figure finally stepped into view. The man was easily over two and a half meters tall and built like a fortress. Under the dim light of a nearby lamp, the evil ghost tattoo on his chest looked terrifyingly lifelike.
"Haha, scared now?"
Seeing Bruce staring at the newcomer in silence, as if paralyzed by fear, the tailor mocked his pathetic little prey while bowing his waist a full ninety degrees in respect.
"Allow me to introduce him. This is the true sovereign of this district—the Behemoth of the West District, the Blood Food Devil of Tavillan. Even the Security Team fears him, and his name alone is enough to stop a child’s crying... the legendary, undefeated Lord Tyren!"