Geralt

Regulus glanced at it briefly before looking away and heading straight for the bar.

The soles of my boots slammed against the wooden floor with each step.

In some places, the floor was sticky with glue; when you stepped on it, your boot soles made a squelching sound as you pulled them up.

He walked to the bar and placed one hand on the counter.

The bartender had to look up at him.

The dirty cloth in his hand was still twirling in the cup, his eyes scanning down Regulus's hair, finally lingering a little longer on the vertical pupils.

This godforsaken place is frequented by all sorts of people: poachers, herb gatherers, contraband smugglers, those being hunted, and those hunting others.

The bartender has been standing here for at least twenty years. He has a keen eye for people and can tell at a glance who is easy to mess with and who is not.

But it's rare to see someone dressed like that, exuding such a powerful aura, and they're probably not here to drink.

The bartender looked away from him and continued wiping the glasses.

Regulus braced himself on the bar, leaning forward slightly, his voice deep and slightly rough. "Firewhisky."

The bartender didn't even look up, his voice thick with a local accent, mumbled and trailing off, "No."

He tossed the dirty rag over his shoulder and tapped his greasy fingers on the counter twice. "Butterbeer, Ale, water, that's all."

Regulus glanced down at the row of glasses on the bar.

The glass was covered with stains of varying shades, the marks left by the evaporation of the wine, some of which had turned brownish or black, as old as the scratches on the table.

Some cups still had unwashed food residue stuck to the bottom, and a few cups had chipped rims, yet they were still placed in the row of cups waiting to be used.

The things you can drink here are just as rough as the containers that hold them.

He withdrew his hand from the bar, straightened up, and tilted his head to the side.

His amber-colored vertical pupils narrowed slightly, his lips curled to one side, and his face clearly showed impatience. His tone was contemptuous. "Butterbeer? That's for women."

Behind the bar, the bartender's expression darkened; he ultimately didn't dare to lash out.

Running a tavern in a place like this, it's common to run into a few bad-tempered people every day, but this one in front of you is clearly more difficult to deal with than all the bad-tempered people combined.

He glanced at Regulus, then looked back down and continued wiping the cup.

At the table to the right, two wizards in thick robes were drinking from a glass of Butterbeer, one of them holding it to his lips, half-drunk.

Behind the rim of the cup, a pair of murky eyes turned from above the foam and landed on Regulus's back.

He took the cup away from his mouth, tapped the bottom of the cup on the table, and foam overflowed from the rim, dripping down the side of the cup.

Another person nudged him with their elbow and whispered something in his ear, their voice low, probably trying to persuade him, but to no avail.

The chair holding the cup was pushed back, its wooden legs scraping the floor with a sharp sound, and it stood up.

He was quite large, a whole size wider than Regulus, half a head taller, with shoulders as thick as doors, and stubble on his face like wires sticking out of his cheeks.

The fur robe was open, revealing a shiny black collar to the shirt underneath.

He walked this way, his feet stomping hard, making the floor vibrate, each step making a dull thud.

He stopped half a meter behind Regulus, his voice rough and heavy, with a thick northern accent, every vowel carrying a defiant tone.

"What—what did you just say?"

Regulus turned his body first, his heel slamming into the ground, and his shoulder followed.

Looking up at you with amber-colored vertical pupils, you're noticeably shorter than him, and his upturned face makes him seem condescending.

He grinned, revealing a row of teeth, and his tone became even more aggressive. "Are you a woman?"

The wizard's face flushed red from his neck upwards; the blood in his dirty face was dull and stagnant beneath his skin, rising to his cheeks and forehead.

His right hand had already reached his waist, his fingers resting on the wand.

In the corner, the white-bearded old man turned his head, his blue eyes looking over his half-moon spectacles at the bar, his smile deepening, showing no intention of getting up.

The wizard pulled his wand halfway out, the tip still stuck in his Orion's Belt, and pulled his right arm back, straining to pull it out.

Regulus's left hand was already gripping Regulus's right wrist, his fingers tightening, twisting outwards, and pressing down at the same time.

His wrist was twisted to its limit, his entire arm was locked, he couldn't even hold the wand, the tip of the wand was pointing towards the ground, he couldn't lift it at all.

His mouth was wide open, probably wanting to curse something, but he couldn't utter a sound.

At the same moment, Regulus swung his right fist fiercely.

A straight punch, delivered from a short distance, upwards, striking the area slightly to the left of the jaw.

When the trigeminal nerve branch on the side of the mandible is struck at this angle and with this force, the brain will experience an instantaneous shock, and vision and balance will be disrupted simultaneously.

The wizard's head snapped back, his mouth was stuck halfway open and he couldn't close it, and his eyes rolled upwards.

He staggered back two steps, his knees buckled, and his buttocks hit the edge of the table behind him, causing him and the table to fall backward.

Cups and plates clattered all over the floor, Butterbeer spilled onto his leather robe, running down his collar.

His companion jumped to his feet, his hand already touching the wand, then his eyes followed, and he froze.

In the blink of an eye, the person was lying down, head tilted to one side, chin red and swollen, eyes unfocused.

The person stood beside the table, one hand still resting on the wand sheath inside their robe, unsure whether to pull it out again or sit back down.

He looked ahead at Regulus, then down at his companions on the ground, then back at Regulus.

Then he released his hand from the wand, squatted down, grabbed his companion's arm, pulled him up, hoisted him onto his shoulder, and walked towards the back door.

I quickened my pace as I passed the bar, not daring to turn my head, and didn't utter a single word.

The back door opened, and two figures, one tall and one short, squeezed out. The door swayed twice behind them before closing.

Regulus withdrew his left hand and turned it over to look at it.

My fingers had something sticky on them, from that guy's cuff; I couldn't tell if it was oil or something else.

He frowned slightly, his fingers curled slightly, and a tiny orange-red flame flickered at his fingertips. The heat traveled across his skin, and the dirt on his hands was steamed into a wisp of smoke by the high temperature, leaving them clean.

He shook his hand and looked back at the bartender.

The bartender huddled behind the bar, finally putting down the dirty cloth. He leaned back, his hands braced against the counter, looking like he'd seen this kind of thing many times before but still wanted to hide.

"Ale."

Since we're already here, we should at least have something with alcohol on it.

The bartender paused for a moment, then shakily reached for the bottle on the shelf behind him, tapped the bottle neck against the rim of the glass twice, poured a full glass, and pushed it over.

Regulus picked it up, turned, walked through the tavern, and headed towards the corner.

The eyes of everyone else in the room followed him.

Next to the two empty tables with thick fur robes, there was another table where an old man in a felt hat and a thin, middle-aged witch watched him walk by.

No one came up to speak. Just now, he knocked one down with a single punch, without even pulling out his wand. Everyone who saw it knew what was going on.

Regulus pulled out a chair, sat down opposite Dumbledore, placed the Ale on the table, rested one hand on the edge of the table, and leaned back in a relaxed posture.

Dumbledore's smile deepened slightly.

He looked at Regulus's face, then at the glass of Ale in front of him, and then back at his face.

With the change in appearance, even the way they interact with people has changed; they now resort to violence, finishing off opponents with a single punch, and then complaining about the mess.

This doesn't match up at all with Mr. Black from Hogwarts.

Regulus looked back; the amber met the blue, separated by a cup of tea and a cup of Ale.

His tone was casual, with a relaxed air that came with being used to being out and about. "I heard you're hiring?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow above his glasses, tilted his head slightly, and a smile flashed in his blue eyes, "That depends on your abilities."

After saying that, he glanced at the glass of Ale in front of Regulus, his expression becoming somewhat complicated, and he also had a slight headache.

A smile still lingered on his lips, but his brows were slightly furrowed.

It's not quite appropriate, but I don't want to lecture you directly.

Regulus sensed something was wrong.

Dumbledore to the side and waved his hand toward the bar.

The bartender peeked out from behind the counter, looking over nervously.

The white-bearded old man nodded slightly to him and made a gesture.

The bartender frowned, bent down and rummaged under the bar, then straightened up and shook his head.

Dumbledore blinked, seemingly a little surprised, then made a gesture.

The bartender rummaged through the bottles again, this time pulling out a dusty bottle from the corner. He opened it, smelled it, and his face scrunched up.

After smelling it, I hesitantly poured myself a glass, brought it over, and placed it on the table.

A glass of sparkling water.

It wasn't very clean; it was yellowish and cloudy, with a very thin layer of limescale clinging to the cup walls, and a few tiny white particles floating on the surface, probably residue from the bottom of the cup that hadn't been cleaned properly.

But it is indeed a glass of sparkling water.

Dumbledore pushed the glass of Ale from Regulus to the corner of the table, then raised his blue eyes, looking over the edge of his Half-moon Spectacles with a gleaming smirk.

"It's too early for you to be drinking Ale."

Regulus looked at the glass of sparkling water in front of him, then at the Ale that had been pushed to the corner of the table, and then at the expression on Dumbledore's face.

The expression on his face was hard to define—it was a mix of helplessness and a desire to laugh—but it ultimately settled on a look that was hard to describe.

The old man confiscated his wine; he couldn't very well take it back.

Of course, we need to drink water; people can't live without water. But we can't drink it now; it would be too embarrassing.

If he doesn't want to drink, can the old man force him to drink by pressing his head down?

He reached out and pushed the glass of water aside, to another corner of the table, where it and the Ale each occupied opposite corners of the table.

Dumbledore looked at his expression, a clear smile on his face, his blue eyes curving behind his Half-moon Spectacles.

Then he held out his hand. "Dumbledore."

Regulus reached out and clasped his hands together above the table.

"Geralt."

Dumbledore blinked, smiled at him, and said in a light tone, "I am indeed hiring. Shall we talk?"