Wildberry Cliff.
At the center of the camp stood a temporary wooden house.
The Tide Retreat Gang's leader, "Rotten Vulture," sat on an overturned wine barrel, a thin fish bone for picking his teeth clenched between his lips.
After struggling at sea for more than thirty years, his skin had been almost completely cured by saltwater and sea winds, giving it a rough, dark complexion;
The stubble close to his scalp was streaked with gray and white. His cheekbones jutted out, his lower jaw was gaunt and fleshless, and his strangely sinister hooked nose and triangular eyes gleamed with murderous intent.
At a glance, he truly resembled a vicious eagle-vulture circling above the sea in search of prey.
At that moment, three foul-smelling Shahua Mermen stood before the Tide Retreat Gang's leader.
The one at the front was especially burly. Muscles bulged beneath its scales, stretching them taut, and when it stood upright, its head nearly touched the ceiling. Of its four arms, two were folded across its chest, one hung naturally at its side, and the last gripped a heavy brown leather pouch.
"Thud."
The merman tossed the pouch forward, and it slammed heavily onto the table. The clatter of coins inside made the thugs behind "Rotten Vulture" Geli swallow nervously.
"The goods, all inspected. Quantity enough."
Its fleshy gills fluttered as the merman opened and closed its mouth. Along with its uniquely sticky accent came Common Tongue that sounded especially awkward.
"Want more. Next month, at least seventy."
The word order and logic of Shahua Merman Language and Common Tongue were completely different. On top of that, this merman elite was not particularly proficient in Common Tongue, so it could only speak in short, simplified phrases.
Fortunately, given the situation, its meaning was not difficult to understand.
"Seventy?