Chapter 64 Rainy Night

Rain came down in sheets.

Howling wind swept across the night while thunder rolled overhead, each flash briefly illuminating the dark sky.

Splash!

A battered leather shoe slammed into a roadside puddle.

Filthy water sprayed everywhere, thick with black, foul-smelling mud.

Joey pulled his oversized burlap coat tighter around himself.

It hung over his thin frame almost like a cloak.

His head remained lowered, face hidden beneath the hood, but his feet never slowed.

He didn’t need to look up to know where he was going.

Like a sewer rat returning to its nest, he slipped through the maze of narrow alleys with practiced ease.

The occasional trace of moonlight leaking through the rain was enough for his decent eyesight.

As he went deeper, the road changed beneath his feet.

Solid stone paving gave way to rough gravel.

The gravel became softer.

Then even that disappeared beneath muddy earth.

The neighborhood changed with it.

The neat brick houses with warm light glowing behind their windows gradually fell away, replaced by dilapidated wooden shacks visible only as dark outlines.

Farther still stood cramped straw shelters that creaked and shuddered in the wind.

Joey kept going.

His home wasn’t here.

Years ago, he’d had a place that had felt reasonably safe.

Then his parents died.

After that, the house became the cozy nest of his uncle and aunt, while Joey somehow became the outsider.

There was nothing there worth missing.

He lost track of how long he’d been walking.

By the time the stormy night had grown even darker and the last few lights in town had begun going out, his thin legs finally stopped.

His shoes sank deep into the mud.

In front of him stood a patched yellow-brown tent.

“Home.”

Joey scraped the mud from his soles against a nearby stone, lifted the flap, and hurried inside.

Only then did he breathe out.

Rainwater had collected on the roof, making one section sag badly, but the material was tough enough that nothing had leaked through.

A small spark of satisfaction rose in him.

He dragged a stool out from a corner, climbed onto it, and stretched onto his toes.

With one hand, he pushed up against the sagging roof.

The trapped water spilled away down both sides of the tent.

Cold dampness pressed thickly against his fingertips.

Come to think of it, Ingram had given him this tent.

Apparently, it had once belonged to an adventurer who had retired years ago.

The man had needed money badly, so Joey had gotten the tent for almost nothing.

The thought brought back the image of Ingram frowning as he scolded him earlier.

Joey clicked his tongue.

Most of what the sheriff did for him wasn’t particularly useful.

Still, Joey knew the man had always tried to help.

And Joey wasn’t above taking advantage of that.

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a chunk of black bread he’d bought that afternoon.

Normally, the crust was as hard as a brick.

The rain had soaked it enough that it was even colder now, but at least it had softened a little.

After hiding the half-empty money pouch Ingram had given him in a corner, Joey dragged out a battered old stove and expertly got a fire going.

He wasn’t an idiot.

Of the two adventurers he’d met today, one had been a short fellow who grinned like a fool and looked easy to trick.

The other…

That one was dangerous.

Cold face. Hard eyes. Two longswords on his back.

The sort of person Joey would normally cross the street to avoid.

He’d only dared make a move earlier because he’d known Ingram was nearby.

Even if the theft failed, as long as he wasn’t hacked to pieces on the spot, all he had to do was cause enough of a commotion.

Ingram would come over.

Unfortunately, not only had Joey been caught red-handed, he’d somehow chosen the one target who had just gambled away every coin he owned.

Joey bit into the black bread and muttered under his breath.

“Lousy gambler!”

A few sparks floated through the damp air.

The stove fire struggled to stay alive, burning weakly but steadily enough to give off some warmth.

Joey stretched his hands toward it.

His expression turned thoughtful.

“Midsummer Festival’s next month. The market should get busy soon.”

He chewed slowly.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and find some rich outsider who doesn’t know any better…”

Thump!

A heavy footstep sounded outside the tent.

Joey froze.

“Who’s there!?”

He kept his voice low.

No answer came.

But through the roar of the rain, another footstep sounded.

Closer.

Joey’s hand shot to his waist.

He pulled free a rusty short dagger wrapped in strips of old cloth and gripped it with both hands.

“Who is it? Say something!”

Still no answer.

Then the footsteps stopped.

Joey sat rigid in the corner as the tent shuddered under another gust of wind.

Beyond the faint orange glow of the stove, a broad, powerfully built silhouette stood motionless outside the entrance flap.

Bang!

…

Bang!

A large, calloused hand slammed down on a wooden table.

“I’m telling you, when I faced that Cave Bear, I didn’t even blink! I slid right under it and-”

The adventurer reeked of alcohol.

His face was bright red, and one boot was planted on a chair as he shouted his story to everyone within earshot.

“Hahaha! Didn’t you say a few days ago that you circled around behind it and stabbed through its spine with a dagger? How’d the story change again?”

Someone at the table laughed.

“Hey, you don’t understand! That Cave Bear-”

Xia Nan sat nearby with a half-finished cup of water in front of him.

His stomach was full, and the warmth of the meal was slowly spreading through his body.

He narrowed his eyes in contentment.

Beside him, Alton was listening to the drunken adventurer’s boasting with open fascination.

Every so often, the halfling even plucked a few strings, adding dramatic accompaniment to the man’s increasingly ridiculous tale.

“Hey, speaking of things getting killed… you lot heard about what’s been happening in Kalanfor lately?”

Apparently tired of listening to the Cave Bear die for the hundredth different time, another adventurer leaned forward and lowered his voice mysteriously.

“What could happen in a little town like this? Couple of people die?”

His teammate didn’t look impressed.

Adventurers lived around death.

An ordinary murder was less interesting than stumbling across a random Goblin by the roadside.

“Hold on. Listen first.”

The storyteller glanced around the table.

“A friend of mine works as a guard in town.”

He lowered his voice another notch.

“He said one of the bodies had every bone pulled out of its arm.”

Someone frowned.

The adventurer continued.

“No wounds on the outside. Nothing.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Just a limp tube of flesh.”

Boom!

Thunder exploded beyond the windows.

At exactly the right moment, Alton dragged out a sharp note on his strings.

The sound cut through the room like something from a ghost story.

The adventurer telling the tale jumped.

Then he turned toward Alton with an embarrassed glare.

“Buddy, you really don’t need to-”

Knock, knock, knock!

The urgent pounding at the door cut him off.

The noisy room fell silent.

Every head turned.

The wooden door trembled beneath another knock.