Academic gathering with a lich-Chapter 120 - 116 The Old Swindler
Ralph recovered much faster than expected.
In the morning, Karen had breakfast under Ralph’s watchful eye. Although Karen’s act of knocking herself out might have been wise, the chilly Ralph needed no reason to blame others.
Karen, like a scared little squirrel, shrank under Ralph’s silent gaze. There was no scolding, no punishment; it was precisely this kind of silent aggression that was the most frightening. Karen didn’t even feel like enjoying her feast; she could only hastily fill her stomach and then hide behind Lyle.
Lyle propped up the bowl of mushroom cream soup with his spoon. The food in Naranya all had a sweet taste. At first try, you would like this flavor, but upon having it again, the only thing remaining on your palate was the cloying sweetness. Lyle’s fingers were also trembling slightly, but luckily he had Shuishui stabilize his arm in advance to prevent exposing this facade.
At this time, Ralph was wearing his familiar sheriff’s black coat; Lyle didn’t know whether he had discovered the girl’s nightgown or whether it had made him angry. Ralph carried the indifferent expression he brought with him to Naranya, and Verlet wore the same serene smile as when they first met. Both adults had bottled up their secrets within themselves.
"After breakfast, we will leave this place, Verlet will coordinate with Baron Tyron about the follow-up of the vampire Karent. Our mission here is done, newbies."
There was no excess reprimanding; up until the three of them boarded the carriage for the return trip and bid farewell to Verlet, Ralph hadn’t said a word as if the remnants of fatigue were still in his body. Therefore, Lyle and Karen remained quiet as well, watching Ralph lean his head against the window sill, his eyes lifelessly gazing at the sunlight filtering through the window screen.
Lyle looked at Ralph’s profile and a delusion seemed to form in his mind.
Had he gotten a bit more handsome?
After a day’s rush, following Cassandra’s report, the three of them went their separate ways.
Lyle was thinking about his night’s activities at Andrey’s place; Shuishui’s Endowment Method wasn’t complete yet, it seemed he would have to spend a substantial amount of time with Mister Scholar.
...
Brute Bendao was a swindler on the streets; in his youth, he too had a legendary life. However, as he grew older and his body weakened, he turned into a hunchbacked old scammer with a pair of yellowish eyes and yellow teeth, still glib-tongued.
The groundless street rumors and his disdainful moral quality had spent the last bit of his credibility in his hometown. Childless and impoverished, he had to return to the land where he had once soared. The cunning master Brute, old in age but not at heart, planned to make one last play with the "treasures" inside his tattered cloak.
His bulbous, booze-soaked nose sniffed the air here like a hound, a stench of heavy dampness and rotting wood, this place hadn’t changed a bit from ten years ago. Even though the street he was on now seemed much cleaner, the deep-rooted reek remained the same.
Ten years ago, he would have been in this run-down alley, competing with dozens of rivals for those sheep ripe for the slaughter. Now, it was just him. Ha, how much easier this was. Old Brute certainly didn’t believe those scoundrels had turned over a new leaf; more likely, the bad eggs simply hadn’t outlasted him. Haha, eighty-year-old Brute still brisk in his step.
This alley connected to the main street, and Brute was like an old cat crouching on a trash can, watching the pedestrians on the street.
He was no longer the reckless lad he once was; time had stolen his strength and vitality, but it had also granted him cunning and experience. Those dressed flamboyantly, with pride written on their faces, weren’t ideal customers. Standing on the pinnacle of their lives, they wouldn’t even consider his dubious treasures, let alone legitimate ones. Those snooty pigs wouldn’t be moved by the ramblings of a stinky old man, sometimes not even by the words of a normal person.
Those gentlemen with distressed expressions but slightly better attire, yes, those poor souls beleaguered by life’s troubles, they were like little lambs. They might not be loaded, but they were easy enough to satisfy Brute’s hunger. Their worries made them face reality, dulling their wits as well. Absolutely, they wouldn’t pass up a lifesaver, even if it meant overlooking the very piece of driftwood meant to save them. Old Brute’s good friends, all of us struggling in this world, helping each other out a bit isn’t too much to ask, right?
Brute had found his mark, a suitable fellow. He wore an ill-fitting leather coat, perhaps left to him by his deceased father. His right hand was shoved deep into his clothing, surely clutching a treasure, just like Brute’s own. His left hand held tightly onto his lapel, the knuckles bearing marks where a grand ring used to sit—a rich family’s ring, now nowhere to be seen. He looked around warily, like a lamb surrounded by wolves. Don’t worry, good friend. Old Brute will help you. Good friends should exchange their treasures, shouldn’t they?
Brute’s eyes took on the same panicked look, and he hesitated as he walked toward the man, resembling an old man in desperate need of support.
The man saw the old man approaching him.
In the past, he would have easily kicked aside someone as lowly as this, without a second glance. But his father had passed away, and his ignorant self couldn’t hold onto the family fortune. Both he and his mother were destitute. He’d been despondent and had complained, having lost his friends, comfort, and luxury. Nothing was reliable, except for his mother. Just as she had nursed him when he was little, she painstakingly taught her child to stand again. He became a coachman, using his reasonably good looks and riding skills he’d learned to drive for a noble, scraping by.
But his mother fell ill; she had mustered the strength to cure her rich son’s ailment, yet she, advanced in age, became the most seriously ill in the changing environment.
He panicked. How could a spoiled noble treat illnesses? How to cure his mother, the only answer he could think of was money, a lot of money. He had pawned his little trinkets for an utterly humiliating price. But he had no choice; at that moment, he was just a child with no one to rely on.
When sick, one must see a doctor. But Cassandra had no hospitals now, and those who were once medical scholars were as badly off as he was. He had to resort to under-the-table dealings to get effective drugs. Damn it, and the transactions could only start after midnight. His old self would certainly have been lying in a soft bed by now. Damn the weather, hoping no cold wind sneaks into my house.
The old man with an expression just as forlorn as his own approached him.
He couldn’t help but ask, "Are you here for a trade? Got the medicine?"
