"Hey, Carl, Oliver, take a look. Do I look official enough now? Do I have the swagger of a mercenary who can walk into the Afterlife Bar?"
In Little China of Watson District, when they were still over fifty meters from the Afterlife Bar, Jack patted down his clothes and asked his two friends to judge his appearance.
"Pretty average."
Oliver glanced at the Saratoga Submachine Gun Jack had deliberately tucked at his waist, its grip exposed, then patted the Shingen Smart Submachine Gun tucked at his own hip. "You're trying too hard. I've got you beat."
"What exactly are you two doing?"
Carl felt that ever since the two idiots had learned they were going to the Afterlife Bar, they had become a little foolish. The closer they got, the worse it became.
He had not expected his calm attitude to earn him questioning looks from Oliver and Jack. "Carl, do you even know where we're going?"
"Of course I do. Isn't it a bar where mercenaries specifically pick up jobs? I heard it used to be converted from an underground morgue. What's the problem?"
"The problem is huge!"
Jack spread his arms wide, making an exaggerated gesture. "Only mercenaries who step into that place can be called truly capable, understand, Carl? Morgan Blackhand, Veland the Old Serpent—world-famous legends;
back then, they were just like us, dressed ordinarily, walking into the Afterlife Bar on an ordinary day. Then they took on a few world-shaking jobs. Try to look a little excited, Carl. We're doing what those legends once did!"
"I don't think there's anything to get excited about."
A bar converted from a morgue—just thinking about it made the place feel gloomy. It probably would not be comfortable inside. Still, Carl was very interested in these so-called world-shaking jobs.