While Kael watched the four items in the case glisten under the lamplight, Maelin Quor passed him by. It was only after the aged man walked toward Garrick's desk that he recognised the leather overalls he always wore when working.

  Maelin Quor's grey beard and bald head were more well-known than Garrick's in the slums. After all, who didn't know the wealthiest merchant of the central avenue? Kael did, especially because his mom used to beg beside his shop. "More traffic," she had said with a smile he would never see again. There was also a detail he never quite understood about the man. Instead of watching people's faces, he always seemed more interested in their hands.

  "Welcome, old friend!" Garrick smirked, his arms spread warmly.

  "Friend, indeed. But our friendship won't last past this night if you sent a whore to pull me out of bed without a good reason." Maelin Quor pinched between his brows. "My wife won't let me hear the end of it."

  "A set of fine items for a fine man to appraise. Five silver crowns for each hit." Garrick gestured toward the open case with his right hand. He raised his left hand, half turning to hide the movement. But Kael knew he was pressing a finger on his lips. Their functions were not for him to know.

  Are they more than weapons? Perhaps something related to Brannick's strength and the awakening of something within Dad. I can't believe he's getting paid seven times more than I from a safe office. Unfair...

  As he pondered, Brannick threw his dad's cloak on the table. "Assess this one, too. The lad wore it when he returned."

  Kael's eyes narrowed. It was not his place to talk or make demands. Garrick had been clear. But... he didn't want to lose it. "Can... Can I keep the cloak if it's nothing special?"

  Garrick raised a brow, and Maelin Quor raised a thick monocle from his apron to his right eye. The monocle moved forward with a click. Kael saw from the other side how Maelin's gray pupil appeared much broader.

  He unfurled the cloak, coughing when the dust of the mine clogged his throat. After a glance, he threw it in front of Kael, sneering. "Just an old rag that reeks of rot and death. I'm not playing Garrick. The price rose to two gold crowns for the batch, whether you want these items or not."

  "See, Kael? That's how you use leverage." Garrick closed his eyes, his voice educational. Yet, it turned quizzical as he flipped the ledger on his desk. "But I do seem to remember something quite interesting, my dear, dear Mael Quor. Don't you owe me? A sizable sum I allowed you to repay me in instalments fifteen years ago. Should I..."

  The scar tracing two lines down his narrowed eyes made their golden glow more menacing. "Should I collect what's mine tonight? I guess we can both stop playing. I'm just not sure who benefits from vain threats. All for what? Five silver crowns at best? I've known you sharper, old man."

  Silence didn't even have time to settle; Maelin waved his hand awkwardly the moment Garrick mentioned his debt. "Ah! We've known each other for decades. You know how I am: grumpy when I wake up, the nicest to my customers the rest of the day. Fifty per hit, you said. Decent, decent enough. Hahaha. It's just between that cloak and the dubious ledger that doesn't fit in any slots. It's almost as if the kid picked up some trash on the way."

  "Get to work, Mister Nicest. Keep the ledger for last," Garrick pursed his lips, then turned toward Kael. "Keep or burn the rag. I don't care."

  Kael folded it with a hand trembling as much from relief as from horror.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  That was why everyone knew Garrick. No matter who you were, as long as you lived in the slums, you owed him. Food, money, water, housing—he almost owned half the slums. And he always recovered his money, one way or another. That was why his mom never borrowed from him, nor any gang lord.

  I'll never borrow from anyone. I won't need to if he pays me.

  He watched Maelin Quor assess the pair of dark gloves first. The man's face instantly turned solemn when he poked the sharp nails. The diamonds at the knuckles made him turn toward Garrick and nod. "You want this one."

  "Great." Garrick threw the glow at Brannick. "I know you'll use them well."

  Brannick caught them, but didn't replace his old gloves. Instead, he nodded. "As I should."

  Maelin Quor lifted the white frame of the curved knife, his eye tracing the black edge. But this item didn't need appraisal. It actively drank light from the lamp. "You want it."

  Garrick handed it to Silma. "Aren't we lucky? Two out of two, and this one... Mhh... I can't wait to see what you can do with it."

  The knife vanished into Silma's sleeve. She tilted her head, winking. "Present me with the opportunity to use it, and you'll see."

  When Maelin Quor appraised the third item, his eye widened. He opened the cylinder, caressed the wooden grip, and peered into the pipe. Then, he handed the item to Garrick with both hands. "Congratulations. This one will definitely be of great use to you."

  Garrick took what Kael found a strange item, with a broad grin. "Excellent. You wanted two gold crowns? You get them. See? I'm a simple man. Pleasing me works much better than opposing me, right? What about the last one, that ledger?"

  Maelin Quor reluctantly pulled the ledger up. It dripped corrosive liquid on his leather gloves, pooling into the defined grooves of the other items. The ledger's lack of any such marks confirmed it was just added trash. Still, he flipped the damp cover open. The first page was blank, and so were the next ones.

  Even from his position, Kael saw that the paper almost turned to mush and smelled decay. But it did nothing to answer his question. How did it end up in the case?

  "It's a miss." Maelin Quor shook his head. "Told you the brat picked up trash on the way."

  Garrick's expectant smile twisted. He pursed his lips, throwing the ledger in front of Kael. His voice rumbled with more than disappointment. "Take your garbage with you and get lost, lad."

  The gaze froze Kael on the spot. Where he felt a target drawn on his chest, he now felt one between his brows. It terrified him. But not getting his pay after suffering to retrieve these treasures terrified him even more.

  "S-Sorry, Garrick. But—"

  "You still want your two silver crowns?" Garrick slammed his palm on his desk. "Very well, let's see what you owe me then. Without Silma's balm, bandages, and sling, your arm would have healed crooked. Your legs would have been contaminated in the dirty slums. Your corroded skin would have stung you until the day you died, but you won't even bear a mark. That alone is more than two measly silver crowns. The linen shirt you wear, those comfy leather shoes, and those warm pants, they're another silver. I even returned your trash to you. Dry it. Scavenge the paper. Sell it to whatever bastard has money."

  He paused, detaching each word. "But get lost while I'm still asking nicely."

  Shivering, Kael wrapped the ledger in the cloak. Garrick could kill him anytime. No, in fact, it was weird he let him off this easily. Better take the loss, as disgusting as it was, and leave while he still could. He knew it was his only way to survive, yet he paused in front of the door, his white knuckles trembling.

  Brannick pushed him out before he could talk back. He scrambled out of the bar, clenching the bundled ledger, tears trailing in his wake.

  This humiliation... He'll brand it in his memory. Never again.

  ***

  Inside the office, Brannick waited for Maelin to leave before asking, "What now? Do I silence him?"

  Garrick shrugged, "Rivals already know we were up to something in the mine. This time, you returned with a case. No, Brannick. If I wanted silence, I would have tasked you to kill him in the mine. The two you took with you are already talking. Soon, everyone will know we got our hands on relics."

  He lit a cigar, smirking. "But what if I alter the narrative? The lad found the treasure. I paid, healed and dressed him, but learned later that he had stolen from me. Instead of losing men ambushing us, the mad dogs will tear each other chasing a useless cloak and ledger."

  He poured three glasses of fragrant alcohol. Pushing them to Silma and Brannick, he twirled his artifact around his finger. "Forget about him. Two years. With these relics, we'll be ready in two years."

  Brannick and Silma lifted their glasses. "Two years." They repeated before downing the alcohol.