Chapter 441 Gutter Rat

"Wait here for me a moment."

Rain pattered down. His unkempt hair was soaked, plastered miserably to his scalp.

"Bloody-Nosed Rat" Jerry called out to his two underlings, then ducked into the dark, narrow alley ahead without looking back.

He needed to head back to his nest to grab some money.

Those two adventurers they'd run into earlier had definitely held back. Normally, if a petty thug like him accidentally offended big shots like them, he wouldn't live to see the next morning.

No one cared if a gutter rat died in some sunless corner, and those two were no exception.

Yet here he was, still breathing the foul but wonderful air of the alley.

'Praise the great Goddess of Luck!'

Jerry sighed emotionally to himself. He decided that tonight, he would take the protection money he'd painstakingly squeezed out of a few households earlier and find a casino to properly demonstrate his devotion.

But before that, he had to spend some coin to get his two brothers' broken arms treated.

Of course, "treatment" really just meant going to some unlicensed clinic in the alleys for a few bandages. Once healed, they'd probably be left with lingering complications for the rest of their lives.

Jerry knew this perfectly well.

After all, his own thoroughly crooked nose bridge had been treated at that exact clinic.

Jerry naturally would have loved to go to the Cormorant District, or even the bright, clean, large clinics in the White Cliff District, or perhaps seek healing from the Church.

But he had no money, nor did he have the right to enter.

For now, at least they could receive somewhat reliable treatment within an acceptable price range. Having a few lingering issues was still better than being crippled for life.

Jerry's rat nest was located deep within a street in the Saltwater District known as Eel Alley. The residents here were just like eels—slippery and dark, gasping for survival in the filthiest corners.

Beneath his feet lay rotting planks and sludge-like garbage that had been piling up for who knew how many years. The air permanently reeked of stale urine, a scent now fermenting in the rain and growing even more pungent.

Jerry, however, had long since gotten used to it. His short, scrawny figure darted like a rat through the trash. Every fork and corner of the cramped alleyway was firmly etched into his mind.

Before long, he arrived at the door to his little shack.

Calling it a shack was a stretch; it was really just a dead space wedged between a crooked, moldy wooden partition and the stone wall of the neighboring house. The "front door" was an old cabin hatch he'd scavenged from who knew where, currently secured tight with a rusted iron chain.

Groping in his crotch, Jerry pulled out an equally unremarkable small key. He leaned close to the door, fiddled with it, unlocked the padlock, and unspooled the chain.

He then pressed his body against the door, jammed his knee against its bottom-left corner, and slid his right hand into the gap. Pushing upward with his arm and leg simultaneously, he threw his weight against the wood to shove it inward.

With a stiff creak, the wooden door finally yielded an opening just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

The shack had no lights; it was pitch-black and cramped. Rainwater leaked through cracks in the roof, dripping into a clay pot Jerry had set out before leaving. It had already collected a shallow layer of water.

Naturally, there were no luxurious furnishings inside. A crude wooden bed barely larger than a coffin, a frayed and patched cloak, an overturned barrel serving as a table, and that cracked clay pot—which doubled as a chamber pot and a rain catcher—made up his entire worldly possessions.

It was far from respectable, and it had even less to do with comfort or safety.

But for this little rat who had grown up in the alleyways of the Saltwater District, it was his sole refuge in the world, the only place that truly belonged to him.

Out of caution, Jerry didn't immediately start moving once inside. Instead, he stood in place, waiting patiently for a few seconds before carefully turning around and poking his head out the door. He scanned left and right to ensure he hadn't been followed.

Only then did he hurry over to his broken bed. Dropping to the ground, he thrust his hands deep into the bedding made of rotting straw and reeking, tattered wool.

After a bit of feeling around, he pulled out a rather shriveled-looking coin pouch.

Still feeling uneasy, he glanced back toward the door a couple of times before shielding his hands with his body and tipping out a few coins that glinted with a golden luster.

Stuffing the gold coins deep into his undershirt, Jerry shoved the pouch back into its hiding spot. He meticulously rearranged the straw and fabric over it, restoring the bed to its original state.

Only then did he get back to his feet and head for the door.

Jerry's savings weren't much. Or rather, with his lifestyle, even if he wanted to save money, he simply couldn't hold onto it.

These few gold coins had been painstakingly hoarded over the years, saved only whenever luck graced him with a fat sheep to fleece.

Normally, he'd be far too reluctant to spend them.

But the current situation was different.

For one, he was on the verge of making a name for himself. He had finally secured two underlings, so naturally, he had to shoulder the responsibilities of a "boss."

Seeing him spend his own money to get them treated—just like in the tales of rising big shots he had heard from bards—his two lackeys would surely realize how much he had sacrificed for them. Then they would completely pledge their loyalty and become his most faithful subordinates.

For another, to some extent, he was already an unofficial member of the Horned Shark Gang.

Once this matter blew over, Jerry would officially have an organization behind him.

In the future, just collecting protection money for the big brothers would yield enough skimmed fat for him to party all night in the taverns. It would be incredibly comfortable.

The thought of this beautiful future made Jerry break into a wide grin, making the dull ache in his nose bridge from the rainy weather feel much better.

His ill-fitting, mud-caked leather boots suddenly stopped.

"Bloody-Nosed Rat" Jerry stood before his wooden shack, his body freezing entirely.

His nostrils flared as his brow furrowed instinctively.

Though heavily diluted by the rain, he caught the faint, coppery tang of blood.

Thanks to his upbringing in the chaotic alleyways, Jerry was highly sensitive to this smell.

Alarm bells rang frantically in his head.

His brain rapidly analyzed the situation, but within a few breaths, his expression returned to normal, pretending he hadn't noticed a thing.

But just as he decided to fake ignorance and take another step forward—

The shadows deep in the alley behind him suddenly writhed.

"Shhk."

The cold gleam of sharp metal flashed past.

A large, freezing hand reached out from the rain behind him, clamping tightly over Jerry's mouth and reducing his explosive scream to a fleeting whimper.

Scalding blood sprayed from his windpipe, mingling with the icy raindrops to paint his soaked collar an even deeper crimson.

His feet thrashed wildly against the ground as his hands clawed upward at the arm that felt harder than steel. Yet, his life force was rapidly and silently draining away with the blood gushing from his throat.

His body, which had been struggling in agonizing pain, began to convulse.

His eyes first constricted, growing bloodshot, then dilated and lost focus as his arms fell limply to his sides.

A dozen seconds passed, or perhaps a few minutes.

When Jerry's weight shifted backward and he was laid down in the mud, he truly became a corpse.

"Huu..."

He exhaled softly.

The hot breath from his lungs condensed into white mist in the cold air.

A tall, gaunt middle-aged man stood beside Jerry's body, blood still coating his fingers and the blade of his dagger.

His face was sinister, scarred by a blade mark that slashed diagonally down from his forehead, slicing through half of his eyebrow.

A few wisps of shadow energy that hadn't completely dissipated lingered on the surface of his leather boots.

Confirming that the petty thug at his feet was completely dead, Broken Brow sheathed his dagger at his waist. He crouched down, his large, calloused hands patting Jerry down in search of something.

He seemed incredibly experienced. Within seconds, his fingers plucked out the few gold coins Jerry had hidden deep within his undershirt.

But clearly, this professional Rogue's target wasn't just this meager wealth.

When he finished searching every inch of Jerry's body and still failed to find what he wanted, a vicious glint flashed in his eyes.

He had already thoroughly searched the shack earlier, turning up equally empty-handed.

It wasn't on him, nor was it in his nest.

In just a single morning, where else could this little rat have stashed it?

No one knew.

But at the very least, he had achieved his primary goal for this trip: making sure "Bloody-Nosed Rat" took his last breath.

Confirming he hadn't missed anything.

The sinister-faced Broken Brow glanced down at the corpse at his feet, then at the crude shack ahead, a flash of disgust and contempt in his eyes.

The shadows writhed, and he vanished from the spot.

The light rain continued to drizzle down.

The old cabin door hadn't been closed. It hung half-open, letting the cold wind howl in, emitting a mournful creak as it swayed.

Blood seeped outward.

Jerry simply lay there, no different from the countless dead rats rotting in the corners of the Saltwater District right now.

...

...

Gangs, or rather unofficial small factions, existed in every settlement of intelligent beings.

They could be wicked underworld syndicates extorting profits through casinos and brothels, or they could simply be temporary clubs formed by a few fishing enthusiasts.

Most of the time, the local government's tolerance and the demographic makeup of a town's residents drastically influenced the nature of these groups.

Take Nym and Barracuda Bay, for example.

The former was located inland and was the most important major commercial hub in Cloudclimb Province. It was essentially the core of every nearby human settlement, its prosperity going without saying.

Its internal power structure was clearly defined; the City Lord's Estate and the Church jointly controlled everything in the city.

Although ungoverned, sunless regions like the Nym Sewers existed, the nobles and the clergy still maintained an iron grip over the city's overall order.

No rat dared to stand in the sunlight.

For an underworld force like the Gray Badger Gang, their boss had to suck up to the upper echelon just to eke out a living space in the pitch-black sewers.

Order and rules loomed over everyone's heads. Even the most foolish Class Holder wouldn't choose to oppose the authorities in such a place, as there was absolutely no profit to be made. The income simply didn't match the risk.

But Barracuda Bay was different.

Despite also being a core city in the province, it was arguably even more important due to its status as a port.

Yet, it was much like the chaotic, lawless expanse of the ocean beyond the bay.

Barracuda Bay was nowhere near as stable and orderly as Nym.

Its internal factions were intricately tangled. The disputes and dirty deeds between the Governor's Mansion, the Church, and the trading companies were bad enough. But most crucially, unlike Nym, Barracuda Bay housed a branch of the Adventurers' Association.

This caused the number of adventurers in town to explode exponentially compared to other major cities.

And as everyone knew, on the Aifala Continent, adventurers were the source of chaos.

These powerful individuals who wielded transcendent power recklessly enjoyed the privileges their power brought them. They trampled over ordinary people without the slightest psychological burden.

Consequently, ambitious gang after ambitious gang sprouted up like weeds in the maze-like alleys of the Saltwater District.

Content with the status quo and worried their rivals might seize any opportunity to attack, the city's major factions naturally avoided breaking this fragile balance, turning a blind eye to these minor factions.

It was precisely because of this that the Gray Badger Gang in Nym City—despite having more members and a broader territory—was led by a boss who hadn't even attained a Class Level;

Meanwhile, the Horned Shark Gang appeared to be at the bottom of the gang hierarchy in Barracuda Bay, with a territory no bigger than a fingernail, yet its boss was a powerful Class Holder with a Class Level as high as Level 5.

Moreover, to some extent, the latter's boss, "Horned Shark" Lyle, held a part-time job as an "adventurer" alongside his status as a gang boss.

Though both were gangs, their core natures and the things they were capable of doing were completely different.

Xia Nan only came to realize this after experiencing it firsthand.

These subtle differences between cities were never recorded in local cultural almanacs or travelogues.

You had to actually visit both places and feel the atmosphere for yourself to distinguish the contrast.

As a professional adventurer with decent actual combat strength, if Xia Nan wanted to retire and live a peaceful life, Nym was undoubtedly the better choice.

But if he needed to track down a gang member—or perhaps let loose a little and leverage his superb combat abilities to initiate a massacre... the environmental superiority of Barracuda Bay spoke for itself.

Especially when he had a certain degree of official backing.

During their trip to the Baron Estate, they had capitalized on the mutual interests between Hein and Baron Farrow, as well as the intelligence gathered from "Bloody-Nosed Rat" Jerry.

This earned Xia Nan and the others a considerable amount of regard regarding the baron's missing daughter.

Baron Farrow not only promised a heavy monetary reward if they actually found his daughter, but he also leveraged his noble privileges to temporarily grant Xia Nan's group command over an entire squad of guards.

This effectively endorsed their upcoming activities in the Saltwater District, legalizing actions that would otherwise fall into a gray area.

Of course, given Xia Nan and Hein's personalities and ways of doing things, they weren't about to use this opportunity to cross any moral bottom lines.

Leading the twin Warriors from Hein's party, the group left the Baron Estate and, following their original plan, headed straight for the Horned Shark Gang's core stronghold in Scimitar Alley.