"Wild Heart" Bar

When Angel woke from her nap, she found that the Sun had already sunk beyond the window. The slanting rays of sunset bathed the entire bedroom in gold.

After the Tarot Club had ended earlier, Angel had felt it was still too early for dinner and decided to get some more sleep. She tidied up Lily Granger's room a little, then lifted the dust cover to find the bed beneath surprisingly clean. So she treated it as her own bedroom and collapsed onto it.

She looked up at the wall clock. The hour hand had already passed five in the afternoon.

Resisting the tempting suggestion in her mind that said, I want to sleep more, Angel went to the kitchen and used pickled mutton, chopped and washed potatoes, and onions to make her first proper meal in this world.

"Isn't this even more pathetic than breakfast?" Looking at the mutton stew and sliced White Bread before her, she could not help recalling the tangy, salty Feneboote Noodles and rich, creamy mushroom soup at the Silver Crown Restaurant. It really was easy to go from frugality to luxury, but hard to go from luxury back to frugality.

She still needed to save money for a fake identity and any other unexpected expenses. She currently had no income and was living off her savings, so she had to save wherever she could.

Having thought it through, Angel took a bite of the White Bread. Then she picked up a spoon, ignored the fact that the soup had not cooled yet, scooped up some mutton broth, gave it a token blow, and drank it.

Too much salt... Or perhaps the mutton had been pickled for too long. The soup tasted like brine mixed with the rank odor of mutton. Yet Angel, who had skipped lunch, still gulped down the piping-hot broth. Even the poorly fermented bread began to taste delicious alongside it.

Sure enough, when someone was hungry, everything tasted good.

She finished the mutton soup and bread in just a few bites. The intense fullness made Angel squint in satisfaction. If she did not need to go out that night, she would have wanted to return to the comfortable bedroom and lie down immediately.

"Alas, even after changing worlds and identities, I'm still doomed to toil..." Angel sighed inwardly and began preparing for the evening's operation.

She first went to Cole Granger's bedroom on the second floor and found a set of clothes suitable for moving around in. They were a little too large, but still far better than a dress.

She then returned to the study, took out the Revolver, unloaded every round, disassembled it into parts, and began maintaining it before use.

The tools came from Cole Granger's collection. He had bought them on the shop clerk's recommendation when purchasing the handgun. They were comprehensive, but he had never used them.

"As expected, even the rifling is worn..." After carefully inspecting the Revolver's condition, Angel curled her lips. The barrel was made from poor material, the bullets were too hard, and the weapon had received no maintenance. The damage was practically inevitable. It greatly affected shooting accuracy, and the tools she had could not repair it. She could only clean the gunpowder residue from the chamber, cylinder, and hammer, lubricate the frame, and polish the wooden grip, doing her best to restore the weapon to its best condition.

The bullets, neatly packed in a box and wrapped in oil paper, were .45 caliber. The immense recoil would sharply reduce the accuracy of rapid fire, but for a handgun—which was essentially a "melee weapon"—its greater lethality and stopping power were unique advantages.

After selecting twenty rounds and inspecting them one by one, Angel loaded the Revolver fully and placed the rest into a speed loader, five rounds per set.

Next came the true melee weapon: the Dagger Cole Grant, as an Assassin, preferred to use.

It was a short steel dagger with blood grooves on both sides, a coating to reduce glare, and a leather sheath. As a former Templar Knight, Angel was not particularly skilled with daggers. She merely tried swinging it a few times, memorized its weight and length, then sheathed it and strapped it to her left thigh.

She put on a cloak, concealing both her face and weapons. From the desk drawer where she kept her money, Angel counted out fifty pounds. After some thought, she added another twenty in case of emergencies.

Fully armed, Angel stood quietly in the living room until the wall clock's hands neared nine. Only then did she open the back door and step into the brightly lit streets of Tingen City beneath the Crimson Moon.

Rather than take one of the Hired Carriages found everywhere or the cheap but more crowded rail Public Carriage, Angel walked along Narcissus Street to the neighboring Iron Cross Street.

As its name suggested, Iron Cross Street was not a single street but two streets crossing perpendicularly, divided into Upper Street, Lower Street, Left Street, and Right Street. Narcissus Street intersected with Iron Cross Left Street, while Angel's destination—the "Wild Heart" Bar—was located on Iron Cross Lower Street.

She slowly passed through City Hall Square at the intersection, avoided a circus Clown handing out flyers, and followed Iron Cross Left Street, broad enough for six carriages to pass side by side, until she reached Iron Cross Lower Street.

There was indeed a reason Iron Cross Street was divided into "upper, lower, left, and right." Lower Street was clearly far more run-down than the Left Street she had just passed through. Not only was it narrower due to the many vendors occupying the roadway, but its paving stones were uneven from years of neglect. Even the pedestrians' clothes and demeanor differed noticeably from those on Left Street, let alone compared to Narcissus Street.

Nearly every building along the road was a three- or four-story apartment block without private balconies. Laundry hung messily outside the windows, sewage flowed before the entrances, and trash was discarded everywhere. Though it was a main street, it looked filthier than even the back alleys of Narcissus Street.

Walking here, Angel even had the illusion that garbage might be thrown down onto her head at any moment.

Iron Cross Street was no longer as lively at night as it was during the day, but many vendors still tried to make one last sale, and the number of pedestrians was no fewer than elsewhere. Angel held her pockets tightly, wary of possible pickpockets in the crowd. She skirted the mobile stalls amid endless cries of hawking, breathed air mixed with enticing aromas and foul stenches, and trudged through puddles and garbage.

After much difficulty, she arrived before the slightly ostentatious roaring wolf-head sign of "Wild Heart." Greedily inhaling the alcohol-laden air, she actually felt as though she had been reborn.

In the memories Angel had inherited, Cole had visited the "Wild Heart" Bar several times. Sometimes he had met with clients there, and sometimes he had come to gather information. In his mind, it was an information hub and a drunkard's paradise, but certainly not a dangerous place.

But in Angel's eyes, "Wild Heart" concealed far more danger than it appeared to.

She had merely circled the bar's outer wall once before attracting the attention of the burly man standing guard at the entrance. Bare-chested and thick with muscle, the doorman stared intently at the "hooded figure of unknown origin," as though ready to call for backup at any moment.

The second-floor window of the apartment building across the street remained open, yet no light shone from within. Angel could sense faint gazes sweeping over her from inside. That was probably the bar's hidden lookout.

A carriage was parked beside the bar's back door. Its driver dozed in the front seat, while the horse was already harnessed. The moment its owner boarded, it could depart immediately.

It might have been the carriage of some noble who had parked at the back door for privacy, or it might have been an escape route for an important figure in the bar. Angel believed it was the latter.

There was also more standing water on the street in front of the bar than elsewhere. On closer inspection, several drains near the bar had ceased functioning. If municipal workers had not simply been lazy and allowed them to clog, then the sewers beneath this stretch of road had likely been repurposed.

Returning to the entrance, Angel gained a deeper understanding of this outwardly inconspicuous bar. She hesitated over whether it was worth risking herself for proof of identity, but in the end, she decided to trust the Hanged Man from the Tarot Club.

If I get scammed, I hope Mr. Fool punishes him.

After grumbling inwardly, Angel stepped into the bar.

It was nearly midnight, yet the bar still had many customers. Most were nearby residents who had come for a drink after work, while some were unemployed laborers with nothing to do, numbing themselves with alcohol. In the dark corners, furtive conversationalists were brewing new conspiracies. A group of excited drinkers surrounded the center of the hall, sometimes shouting wildly and sometimes lowering their heads in regret. In two cages half-sunken into the floor, a Dog Catches Mouse gambling match was underway. The gamblers stared intently at the dogs they had bet on, wishing they could turn into dogs themselves, crawl into the cages, and tear through the competition.

The bartender behind the counter, who had been polishing wooden beer mugs, had already noticed Angel when she entered. Cloaked as she was, she seemed completely out of place here. Even the Conspirers in the corners exposed their faces and hands as a basic courtesy.

After sweeping her gaze over the chaotic, clamorous bar, Angel finally turned her attention to the bartender. She walked around the dog cages and approached the counter.

"What'll it be? Rye Beer, one penny. South Wales Beer, four pence. Newly arrived Butter Beer, seven pence. Served cold!" Seeing the customer approach, the bartender launched into his practiced sales pitch.

"Captain sent me. He said you can help people get proof of identity here." Angel did not order a drink and stated her purpose directly.

The bartender stopped polishing the mug. He looked up at the clock hanging high above, its outer glass already shattered. It showed five minutes until ten. "It's not time yet. You came early."

"I can wait."

The bartender set down the mug and rag. "Fine. I'll call you when it's time. Want a drink?"

"Then give me a Half and Half. Extra sugar." Only then did Angel remember that the Hanged Man had also given her a passphrase.

Having heard the correct passphrase, the bartender finally nodded and turned to mix the drink. Before long, a Half and Half—a mixture of beer and wine—was placed on the counter.

"Wasn't that supposed to be a passphrase? You're actually serving me alcohol?" Angel frowned at the bartender.

"Might as well make some money. This glass is one Soule."

Angel counted out twelve pence and tossed them onto the counter. She took the glass and sat at an empty table.

She had assumed that the bartender would call for her as soon as ten arrived, but to her surprise, she sat there until a quarter past ten without receiving any word.

Seeing the bartender chatting with another customer, she finally lost patience and was about to rise and ask him when the bartender pointed toward her. The "customer" turned around, and Angel realized that he was the person she had been looking for.

"New here?" The man wore a black trench coat that concealed his build. His messy black hair was caked with grease, and his face looked as though it had not been washed in half a month. Carrying an enormous wooden mug, he dropped heavily into the seat across from Angel. Without waiting for her reply, he continued, "I'm Hagg. Everyone knows I'm always late. I usually don't show up until ten-thirty. Only rookies like you come early."

Angel ignored the veiled mockery in his introduction and stated her request directly. "I need proof of identity. I'll provide all the information, and it must have records that can be verified."

Hagg took a large gulp of beer and let out a satisfied "Ha" before answering, "Forty pounds. Come collect it in a week."

"Captain didn't say that. Thirty pounds." Angel did not particularly care about the extra ten pounds, but experience told her that such concessions would only make the other party more brazen.

"Hmph. Tell that Captain not to use prices from years ago to trick rookies like you into taking advantage of me. Not even if he saved my life." Hagg became unusually furious upon hearing Angel's offer. "Every time the Kingdom Party changes, we have to bribe people in Backlund all over again. Those parasites ask for more and more. How much do you think we can make? Besides, Tingen hasn't been peaceful lately. A lot of students have gone missing from the university, and I heard several committed suicide yesterday. The police are checking outsiders everywhere. You don't want to be arrested as an undocumented person, do you?"

"Thirty pounds."

"You can't do business like that... Thirty-five pounds. That's the lowest price, and I'll get it done in three days." Hagg made a concession.

"I can give you forty pounds, but I need it tonight." Seeing that he had yielded, Angel adjusted her request at the right moment and handed over a diary page covered in writing. "The identity information I need is on this. You can make up the other blanks however you want, but don't make it too outrageous."

Hagg was clearly surprised by the extra five pounds Lost and Found. He reflexively took the paper offered to him, pondered it for a while, then nodded. "Fine. I'll squeeze you in. Wait here for two hours, have a drink," he pointed at the untouched glass in front of Angel, "or go watch Dog Catches Mouse."

Angel shook her head. "I'll wait here."

Although she did not dislike alcohol, drinking in a place where she might need to fight at any moment was not a good choice.

And she had even less interest in such a boring gamble as Dog Catches Mouse.