Unexpected Visitor

Watching Letho, his super bodyguard, head upstairs with the woman, Roy didn't dare keep winning money as brazenly as before. He'd learned his lesson—win a few rounds, then deliberately lose a couple, keeping anyone from getting red-eyed while creating the illusion he wasn't raking in much.

In truth, he was winning plenty. In less than an hour, he'd already pocketed twenty Crowns.

The key was that no one could catch on to his secret.

But what Roy never expected was that a man in his thirties would be even more shameless than him, cheating right under his nose.

With his Perception over 7, he saw the middle-aged man's sleight-of-hand card swap crystal clear—in short, pathetically laughable.

Still, he didn't call him out right away. Without Letho, he was outnumbered and outmatched. If he pissed off the local thugs, he'd have to go interrupt Letho's romantic escapades.

"Kid, you've been winning a lot. Buy us brothers a drink."

The sallow-faced Mustache grew bolder at that, reaching straight for Roy's coins and scooping up ten Crowns with a light grab.

Roy just stared blankly at him, earning a contemptuous glare in return.

Mustache figured he'd hit the jackpot today, stumbling onto a fat little lamb. "Sure enough, a scaredy-cat brat. Let me bleed him dry!"

He reached out again—not for money this time, but for the cards, that mouthwatering Skellig deck.

The onlookers exchanged glances, but no one stepped in to help.

"Poor kid, already caught by the Sparrow Gang!"

"He shouldn't be alone in a tavern. Should've stuck with that Witcher."

A loud thud rang out. Before anyone could blink, a dagger crusted with dried blood was driven straight into the Gwent board, wedged between two fingers of Mustache's reaching hand.

A hair's breadth from skewering his palm.

"Whoa..." Mustache yanked his hand back like he'd been stung, his weaselly face pale with fright.

"Where... where did that dagger come from? I didn't even see it." Realizing he'd lost his composure—a grown man scared by a scrawny half-grown kid—he flushed with rage. "You little bastard, do you know who I am? Picking a fight with the Sparrow Gang? You tired of living?"

Roy ignored him. His left hand swept lightly across the board, and a pile of Crowns vanished before everyone's eyes. Then he pulled out the dagger, held it upright in front of his face, and blew a soft breath.

After killing a few people outside the city, his mindset had shifted a bit. He'd killed animals, men, and monsters. This blustering coward in front of him just looked absurd, almost comical.

"Sorry," Roy said with a cold smirk. "Out in the wild with the Witcher master, you run into all sorts—Wild Dogs, Drowners, Ghouls. I'm used to keeping a weapon handy, just in case."

"After all, when you face those things, if you don't chop their heads off..." He narrowed his eyes at Mustache, his youthful face twisted with an adult's savagery, eerie and unsettling.

"...I'm the one who dies!"

Mustache's heart skipped a beat. He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes hard—just now, he'd seen a mess of blood-red tendrils, thick as gore, burst from the kid and lunge at him...

When he looked again, the bloody vision was gone, but a chill crept down his spine. This kid was seriously creepy.

"Fine, you've got guts. I didn't bring my weapon today, so I'll let you off! But watch your back once you step outside."

"The Sparrow Gang will take good care of you." He spat out the threat and backed away fast, nearly out the tavern door, when a cold sensation brushed past his ear—something icy grazed his head.

He touched the spot and found a bald patch—a tuft of hair missing.

"Hiss..."

He spun around. The dagger that nearly lopped off his fingers was stuck in the wall behind him, the hilt still quivering.

"Leave my sixteen Crowns."

Roy's cold voice rang out.

After Mustache dropped the money and slunk away, the crowd lost their appetite for cards. Afraid of the Sparrow Gang's retaliation dragging them into trouble, they scattered in no time.

Roy rubbed his numb arms and stashed the dagger. That last throw had taken everything he had—he'd barely kept it under control.

"Close call. Almost blew that bastard's head off. That would've been a mess."

He felt the downside of his unbalanced physical development. If his Agility were higher, his body coordination better, that dagger throw wouldn't have been so sloppy.

The tavern owner saw Roy staring blankly and thought he was scared. He urged him sincerely, "Kid, you'd better leave. No matter how skilled you are, you can't take on a whole gang."

"No need to worry about that." A deep, gruff voice cut in, and Roy heard heavy footsteps behind him.

"Allow me to introduce myself." A dwarf with a round hat, open chest, shoulder cape, knee-length tunic, and pointed shoes stepped up to Roy.

A real dwarf, no mistake.

Roy's eyes went wide. This was the first non-human—or rather, Elder Race—he'd seen since arriving in this strange world.

The dwarf had heavy dark circles under his eyes, a potbelly on a Stout frame, and a thick brown beard reaching his waist. He was clearly an adult dwarf over fifty-five.

He stood under five feet (1.5 meters), half a head shorter than Roy, but that was tall for a dwarf.

"I'm Seville Hogg, a wine merchant settled in Edessberg."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Seville. Let me guess..." Roy's eyes darted. "You're not here for me."

Seville puffed out his belly, his voice deliberately low and gravelly, rough and hard like rock. "You're right. I heard a Witcher had entered Edersberg... so I came to ask a favor of that master. First, let me ask bluntly—what school is the Witcher from? Either way, I'll handle that scumbag from the Sparrow Gang for you."

"Don't worry, he's not from the School of the Cat." Roy was already tired of how much the Cat School was hated.

The dwarf visibly relaxed. "Good. I won't disturb you two tonight. I'll visit again tomorrow morning."

"I'll take care of that little bastard as a show of sincerity. Grol, put everything these two guests spend today on my tab!"

Seville gave the tavern owner his orders, then turned and left without a wasted motion.

Roy watched his retreating figure, his gaze turning profound before quickly returning to normal.

This Seville Hogg was actually seventy years old, yet his appearance showed no sign of it. Dwarves truly were a long-lived race, as the rumors said. His attributes were nothing out of the ordinary.

But Roy observed three interesting abilities from him.

Toughness (Passive, Permanent): Dwarves have long lifespans and robust vitality. An adult dwarf has 20 more health points than a human.

Strength (Passive, Permanent): Dwarves are known for their skill in wielding two-handed weapons and their ample stamina. An adult dwarf is born with 1 more point in Strength and Constitution than a human.

Stout (Passive, Permanent): Their short stature and potbellies make dwarves slower in movement than normal humans. Similarly, their appearance is not favored by other races' opposite sex and may even incur disgust. Agility -1, Charisma -1.

Roy felt these three skills could well be called racial talents. He then wondered—since dwarves had racial talents, why didn't humans?

No, humans had racial talents too, Roy thought to himself. Otherwise, the long-lived and strong dwarves, along with the elves, wouldn't have been pushed into a corner by the tide of humanity.

Just then, the tavern owner Grol's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Young man, you're in luck. It just so happens that Mr. Seville came today to check the liquor accounts. Since he's stepped in, you don't have to worry about the Sparrow Gang anymore."

"Isn't he just a wine merchant? Even the local gang has to show him face?" Roy asked curiously.

"Most of the local fine wines are monopolized by dwarves, after all—they're an ancient race renowned for their brewing and forging skills. Mr. Seville, as the nephew of Borin Hog, an elder of the Mahakaman dwarves, manages the entire liquor business in Edessberg. If the Sparrow Gang wants to keep making a living here, they have to show him face."

"So what's troubling him?"

"Mr. Seville..." Grol sighed, "has been plagued by nightmares for months. He probably thinks some unclean thing is at work."