Chapter 36: No Need for Thanks

  This was a typical integrated establishment in Bracada—combining an inn, a tavern, and a brothel. Its distinctive hall was filled with mercenaries, merchants, and prostitutes. The noise of half-drunk men, the coquetry of prostitutes, and the bickering of haggling all merged into one, creating the unique, chaotic atmosphere of this town.

  With a loud "bang," the tavern door was kicked open. A young man walked in, his face half-hidden by a dirty robe, and the exposed lower half of his face was also covered in dust—a common look in the city, yet it instantly drew the gaze of everyone in the tavern. The mercenaries, in particular, looked at him with obvious hostility; the alcohol in their veins fueled the brutality honed by years of living on the edge of danger, making them extremely sensitive to such arrogant behavior.

  A crisp "ding"—not particularly loud, but it instantly silenced all the commotion and restlessness in the tavern.

  The sound came from a small, round object glinting with a golden hue, tumbling through the air and into the intruder’s palm. Everyone present recognized that glow at a glance: it was not the dull reddish-yellow of copper coins, and no other metal in the world had such an alluring color—nearly everyone had seen that shade in their dreams.

  "I need to hire someone," the intruder said, sitting down at a table. His tone carried a hint of impatience, making him seem even more audacious, but no one thought he was overstepping now. The gold coin spinning between his fingers was almost a "passport" for any occasion or action. "Choose the strongest among yourselves. If he can get past me, I’ll hire him. One gold coin a day."

  He was only hiring for a day, yet the pay was a hundred times the monthly salary of an ordinary mercenary. Nearly half the people in the tavern stood up abruptly, each clutching their weapons (their means of earning a living), and stared at their rivals with murderous intent. After a moment of mutual assessment, several people sat back down dejectedly.

  "Put down all your weapons. I don’t want to cause trouble for the magistrate—just a fistfight will do," the intruder ordered, ordering a drink and sipping it without even glancing at the crowd in front of him, as if they were beneath his notice.

  Seeing this, the merchants and prostitutes hurried upstairs to flee; the bartender and the owner watched helplessly, wanting to step forward to stop it but lacking the courage.

  The remaining "job seekers" kicked aside the tables and stools to clear a space. No one knew who made the first move, but a chaotic bare-handed brawl erupted in an instant.

  There were the dull thuds of flesh hitting flesh, the crisp cracks of bones breaking, the screams mixed in between, and the occasional roars of encouragement... Dozens of fists, feet, fingers, elbows, knees, even heads and teeth were used as weapons, with everyone desperate to leave their mark on their opponents. It was definitely a spectacular sight rarely seen, yet the instigator of this scene seemed uninterested. He still sat at the table by the door, sipping his drink in small sips, occasionally glancing up before frowning immediately, as if dissatisfied.

  This was the thirteenth tavern, and he had said the same thing at each one. Starting from the fourth tavern, he had ordered a beer, and now he was even a little drunk himself. He even began to wonder if what he was doing would cause the collapse of Bracada’s mercenary industry. Just as he was lost in thought, he suddenly noticed something interesting.

  The sounds of flesh colliding gradually faded, and finally, just like the previous twelve times—among the people lying all over the ground, a black-and-blue "champion" stood unsteadily.

  "I’m the strongest!" the champion shouted, wiping the nosebleed that kept flowing with a look of great accomplishment.

  "Why do you say you’re the strongest?" The gold coin was still spinning between the man’s fingers, and the man spinning the coin looked a little drunk.

  "Because I’m the only one left standing! All my opponents have fallen, so I must be the strongest!" The champion looked proud, and the continuous nosebleed seemed to be his "medal of honor."

  "Is that so?" The tone of this question was drawn out.

  "Of course it is!" Before the champion could finish the last word, he suddenly heard a crisp "crack" from his jaw—five teeth flew out of his mouth, and three of them were swallowed directly into his stomach. The severe pain hit afterward, knocking him unconscious.

  "So, does that mean you’re the strongest?" the drunk "examiner" asked. From the very beginning, he had been watching this final winner—watching him get knocked down with a single punch at the start of the fight. The spot where he fell was coincidentally a corner that was not easy to step on; his falling posture was even better, allowing him to jump up as quickly as possible and land the most powerful blow.

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  "I was already the strongest. If I wasn’t so hungry and weak, I wouldn’t have had to use such tricks," the final winner said weakly, his body also unsteady—as that one blow had almost exhausted all his strength. He was thin and looked shabby, with messy hair covering half his face, but under his tattered clothes, one could see a lean yet well-defined figure.

  "Then now, if I knock you down, will I get this job?" This winner still wanted to make a final push.

  "Why not use such tricks? At least in terms of the result, you really are the strongest," the drunk man said, looking at him with a smile.

  The winner said nothing, walking step by step toward him, gathering his strength and determination with each step.

  The distance closed. The winner knew that if he wanted to be the real winner, all his hopes rested on the next blow—he had no extra strength or chances left. And the drunk man in front of him still looked at him with a drunken smile.

  He feinted with his left shoulder forward, stepped forward with his left foot, and swung his right fist with all his accumulated strength—there was a "crack!" A good wooden table was smashed to pieces by this punch, with wood shavings flying everywhere.

  But that powerful fist was caught the moment it smashed the table and exhausted its force. The timing was perfect; if the holder pulled and twisted it slightly, he would never be able to throw such a powerful punch again in his life.

  He knew he had lost. Even at his full strength, he was probably no match for this man. He was already desperate—he had wandered in this strange city for days, going hungry for days, and he had staked all his remaining hope on this opportunity. A final, futile sorrow welled up in his heart, making his hands and feet go weak, and he almost collapsed.

  But the next second, he felt a small golden object being stuffed into his fist. "You passed. Now go eat a good meal, take a bath, sleep comfortably for a night, and recover your strength," the words, like the sound of nature, filled him with surprise and joy. He turned to look at the man who had spoken.

  At such a close distance, the two finally saw each other’s faces clearly and exclaimed at the same time: "It’s you?"

  In the evening, in a room at the best inn in Bracada, Ethan lay on the bed, carefully recalling everything he had seen that day in the goblin lair—the terrain, the number of goblins, their wariness and attitude toward him, and the cave where Chris was held. Just as Lord Bolgan had said, this group of goblins seemed to be kidnapping someone for the first time, with little experience and even less vigilance. It seemed that there was a good chance of rescuing Chris.

  When he had been trapped in worry and frustration during the day, Lord Bolgan’s words "use our own way" had suddenly awakened him. That’s right, he should have thought of this earlier! Ethan immediately decided to use the method he was most accustomed to and skilled at to resolve this troublesome matter neatly—act directly and finish it once and for all.

  Of course, this was not an easy task; a helper was necessary, but not too many. That was why he had gone to the city’s taverns to find a suitable person. Unexpectedly, after searching almost all the taverns, the person he finally found was an old acquaintance.

  Rodhart walked in. Compared to more than a month ago, he had lost a lot of weight, but the perfect lines of muscles and bones could still be seen on his bare upper body, proving that his physical condition was still good. He had just eaten the best meal he could find in Bracada, then taken a bath in the inn’s specially made large bathhouse, and now he looked much more refreshed. After cleaning his hair and face, he had regained his former handsome and upright appearance.

  "Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to leave tomorrow," Ethan jumped up from the bed, pointing to the clothes and a sword that had just been bought for him, "Those are for you."

  Rodhart remained silent—since the two had recognized each other, he had not taken the initiative to speak. But his eyes kept flickering, as if he didn’t know what to say.

  "Thank you," Rodhart suddenly bowed to Ethan, "Whether it’s today or what happened before, I really thank you very much."

  Seeing him do this suddenly, Ethan quickly waved his hand, "No need to thank me... Are all those villagers okay?"

  Rodhart said, "They’re all fine. I tricked a lot of money out of Aery City, took them far away, and now they’ve found a new place to settle down. It’s just that no one can go back to the original place anymore." When he mentioned this, his expression didn’t change much. It seemed that he had already emerged from the great sorrow and self-blame—which was by no means an easy thing.

  Ethan noticed a scar at the corner of Rodhart’s mouth; that should have been left by the kick he had given Rodhart in the face back then. The innocence and vitality that had once been on Rodhart’s face had long been washed away by pain and cruelty, leaving no trace of childishness. Instead, there was a kind of firmness and determination. This temperament merged with his already handsome face, forming a unique charm that only belonged to a man.

  Ethan shook his head, "No, you can go back. No one knows what you once did anymore—those people are all dead."

  Rodhart shook his head dejectedly, "They might be able to go back, but I can’t. I don’t have the face to face them, and they don’t want to see me anymore. That’s why I came here alone to make a living, but I never thought..." He curled his lips into a self-deprecating smile, "It turns out that even making a living is so hard."

  "It really isn’t easy," Ethan sighed with emotion—thinking back to more than a month ago, he had still been waiting for food in a tavern in Aery City, and now their situations had completely reversed.

  Rodhart smiled bitterly, "But now, there are many people who want to ‘make a living’ by catching me. I heard that neither the Imperial Envoy nor the magistrate of Aery City has gone back. Could it be that you..."

  Ethan said, "I didn’t kill them, but they really are all dead." The things that had happened in between were too bizarre, and he didn’t know how to explain them in detail.

  "Now all the blame for this case has fallen on me. I took the Imperial Envoy’s seal back to cheat money, and I’ve become the only clue in this case. I’m now wanted nationwide. Fortunately, my face was covered in blood at that time, so no one saw my appearance clearly," Rodhart looked at Ethan sincerely, "I really thank you, truly."

  But what Ethan feared most was others pouring such strong emotions on him. He waved his hands repeatedly, a little impatiently, "No need for thanks, no need for thanks! I still need your help tomorrow."

  "Okay," Rodhart replied firmly.