With Letho, his super-bodyguard, following the woman upstairs, Roy no longer dared to win money as brazenly as before. He'd learned his lesson: after winning a few hands, he'd deliberately lose a couple, so no one got so frustrated they saw red, and everyone got the impression he wasn't winning much.
In reality, he'd won quite a lot. In less than an hour, he'd raked in twenty Crowns.
The important thing was, no one could uncover his secret.
But what Roy never expected was that a middle-aged man in his thirties would be even more shameless than him and cheat right under his nose.
With his Perception above seven, Roy could see the man's sneaky card-swapping tricks perfectly. In short, they were laughably clumsy.
But he didn't call him out right away. Without Letho, he was on his own. If he angered the local gang, wouldn't that mean disturbing Letho's amorous dreams?
"Hey, kid. You've won a fair bit. How about buying us brothers a drink?"
The pale-faced Mustache grew even more brazen at the sight. He reached straight for Roy's money and casually scooped up ten Crowns.
Roy stared blankly at him, earning a look of contempt in return.
Mustache understood at once. He figured his luck was in today—he'd come across a little fat sheep. So he really is a spineless little brat. I'll make a killing off him this time!
He reached out again, not for the money this time, but for the cards: that tantalizing Skellige deck.
Everyone present wore a different expression, but not one of them stood up for Roy.
"Poor kid. The Sparrow Gang has got its eye on him!"
"He shouldn't have stayed in the tavern alone. He ought to go find that Witcher."
There was a thunderous BANG! Everyone saw a blur, then a dagger crusted with dried blood stood embedded in the Gwent board, between two fingers of the hand Mustache had reached toward the cards.
It had nearly pierced his palm.
"Phew..." Mustache snatched his hand back as fast as if a bee had stung him. His leering face had turned deathly pale; he was badly shaken.
"W-where did that dagger come from? How did I not see it?" He realized he'd lost his composure. A grown man like him had been frightened by a half-grown boy with skinny arms and legs. He was instantly overcome with humiliation and rage. "You little bastard, do you know who I am? You dare provoke the Sparrow Gang? Are you tired of living?"
Roy ignored him. With a quick sweep of his left hand across the board, the pile of Crowns vanished under everyone's eyes. Then he pulled out the dagger, held it up before his face, and gently blew on it.
After killing a few people outside the city, his state of mind had shifted somewhat. He'd killed animals, people, and Monsters. The blustering coward in front of him looked inexplicably ridiculous.
"Sorry..." Roy said with a humorless smile. "I've spent years traveling with a Witcher master. We often run into things like wild dogs, Drowners, and Ghouls, so I'm used to carrying a weapon in case of trouble."
"After all, when you run into those things, if you don't chop their heads off..." Roy narrowed his eyes at Mustache. His childish face held a grown man's ferocity, making for a bizarre sight.
"...I'm the one who dies!"
Mustache's heart lurched. He rubbed his reddened eyes hard. Just a moment ago, he'd seen a mass of thick, blood-red tentacles burst from the boy before him and reach for him...
When he looked again, the bloody apparition had vanished. But a chill lingered in his heart. The kid seemed downright uncanny.
"Fine. You've got guts. I didn't bring a weapon today, so I'll let you off for now! But you'd better watch yourself when you leave."
"The Sparrow Gang will take good care of you." He tossed out his threat and hurried backward. Just as he was about to leave the tavern, he suddenly felt a cold object brush past his head, chilling the hair beside his ear.
He reached up and felt a bare patch. A tuft of hair was missing.
"Yikes..."
He turned around. The dagger that had nearly chopped off his fingers was stuck in the wall behind him, its handle still quivering.
"Leave my sixteen Crowns."
Roy's voice rang out, cold and clear.
After Mustache dropped the money and fled in disgrace, no one felt like playing cards anymore. Apparently afraid the Sparrow Gang might come after them and drag them into trouble, everyone scattered in a matter of moments.
Roy rubbed his numb arm, put away his dagger, and took a breath. He'd put all his strength into that throw, and had almost lost control...
That was close. I nearly went wide and blew that bastard's head off. Then I'd have been in trouble.
He'd felt the downside of his uneven physical development. If his Agility had been higher and his body better coordinated, he wouldn't have made such a mess of that dagger throw.
Seeing Roy standing with his head lowered, the tavern keeper assumed he was afraid and earnestly advised him, "You should leave, lad. No matter how good you are, you can't take on a whole group."
"There's no need to worry about that." A deep, gruff voice rang out, and at the same time, Roy heard heavy footsteps behind him.
"Allow me to introduce myself." A dwarf approached Roy, wearing a round cap, an open-front cape, a tunic that hung to his knees, long stockings, and pointed shoes.
That was right—a bona fide dwarf.
Roy's eyes widened. This was the first time since arriving in this other world that he'd seen a nonhuman—or, rather, one of the Elder Races.
The dwarf before him had dark circles around his eyes and a plump, potbellied build. A thick mass of brown beard hung down to his waist. He looked like an adult dwarf well over fifty-five.
He was less than five feet tall—about a meter and a half—and even half a head shorter than Roy. Yet among dwarves, he was considered a tall one.
"I am Seville Hogg, a wine merchant based in Edessberg."
"Hello, Mr. Hogg. I'm Roy. Let me guess..." Roy's eyes shifted. "You didn't come here to see me."
Seville's belly stuck out as he spoke. His voice sounded deliberately lowered, with a rough, hard edge like stone. "You're right. I heard that a Witcher had come to Edersberg, so I came to ask that master for a favor. But first, allow me to ask: what School does the Witcher belong to? In any case, I'll deal with that repulsive coward from the Sparrow Gang for you."
"Don't worry. He's not from the School of the Cat." Roy was almost too tired to complain about just how much people hated the School of the Cat.
The dwarf visibly relaxed. "That's good. I won't disturb the two of you today. I'll come by tomorrow morning."
"I'll take care of that little bastard to show my sincerity. Grol, put all of today's expenses for these two guests on my tab!"
After giving the tavern keeper, Grol, his instructions, Seville turned and left without another word.
Roy watched him go, his gaze turning profound before quickly returning to normal.
This Seville Hogg was seventy years old, though he didn't look it at all. Dwarves really were a long-lived race, as the stories claimed. His attributes weren't anything special.
But Roy had observed three interesting abilities in him.
Toughness (passively ingrained): Dwarves have long lifespans and great vitality. Adult dwarves have 20 more Health than humans. Strength (passively ingrained): Dwarves are known for their strength in wielding two-handed weapons and their abundant stamina. Adult dwarves naturally have 1 more point in Strength and Constitution than humans. Stout (passively ingrained): Dwarves' short stature and potbellies make them slower than ordinary humans. Their appearance also fails to attract members of the opposite sex from other races, and may even provoke disgust. Agility -1, Charisma -1.
Roy felt those three abilities could be called racial talents. That left him wondering: if dwarves had racial talents, why didn't humans?
No, humans do have racial talents, Roy thought. Otherwise, dwarves and elves—both long-lived and strong—couldn't have been driven by a human tide into a corner of the world.
At that moment, the tavern keeper Grol's voice interrupted his thoughts. "You're in luck, lad. Mr. Hogg just happened to come by to check the tavern's accounts. Since he's getting involved, you don't need to worry about the Sparrow Gang anymore."
"He's just a wine merchant, isn't he? Why would the local gang care what he thinks?" Roy asked curiously.
"The dwarves have a monopoly on most of the local wine, since they're one of the Elder Races renowned for brewing and smithing. Mr. Hogg is the nephew of Brovar Hogg, an elder of the Mahakaman dwarves, and manages the wine trade across Edessberg. If the Sparrow Gang wants to keep making a living here, they have to show him respect."
"So what's troubling him?"
"Mr. Hogg..." Grol sighed. "He's been plagued by nightmares for months. He probably thinks some evil spirit is behind it."
Before you continue