Bravehearts Bar

After discussing the plan of action and the time to meet that evening with Owen, Cyril returned to 93 Weldi Street. He still needed to make some preparations, find a way to get himself some weapons, and figure out other ways to make money.

Robbing gangs had merely been a spur-of-the-moment idea. It was not a business he could sustain for long. Earning whatever he could was only secondary; the key was to take the opportunity to complete his acting as an Apprentice.

He already had some leads on a real way to make money and planned to try his luck shortly.

"If Roselle hadn't already walked every path available to transmigrators, I wouldn't have ended up so down-and-out that I had to talk someone into robbing gangs with me."

"Roselle, the lifelong enemy of every transmigrator. At the same age, I'm still struggling to make a living, while he was already having deep exchanges with noble ladies and young misses."

"Damn it..."

As he muttered resentfully, he saw the door to the washroom at the end of the second-floor corridor pushed open from within.

A young man with black hair and black eyes, lean and aloof, with quite a handsome face, stood behind the doorframe and looked at him expressionlessly. No, there was still a hint of expression—helplessness, resignation, and disdain from a top student toward a poor student.

If one ignored their clothing and temperament, he resembled Cyril by ninety percent. Add in their temperaments, and the resemblance dropped to fifty percent.

Cyril Glay's twin brother, the only academic prodigy in the family, Haven Glay, a physics student at Backlund University.

"Why didn't you go to school either?"

Cyril looked at him in surprise. He remembered that his twin brother's coursework was extremely demanding, which was why Haven occasionally had him attend class in his place while he slipped out to relax.

Haven Glay put the gold-rimmed glasses in his hand back on his face and quickly swept his gaze over Cyril. The expression on his face relaxed slightly.

"I ran into old Professor Fells at school, and only then did I learn that your life alone at home had been so eventful. You even used it as an excuse to get such a long leave from old Professor Fells."

"You'd better stop going to that club. Father and Mother are still in East Chester County and won't be back until the end of the month at the earliest, so they've decided to have our elder sister come back and keep an eye on you for a while."

Haven deliberately emphasized "keep an eye on." Although Cyril was the one who had caused trouble, that supervision was clearly aimed at both of them. Their carefree days with none of their parents or elder sister at home were about to end.

"..."

Familiar faces flashed through Cyril's mind one after another. He silently sighed in his heart... In the end, he still had to face the problem he most wanted to avoid. No wonder transmigrators liked being orphans so much.

After a pause, he skipped over the subject and casually asked, "So you didn't go to class because you skipped school?"

Haven: ...

Cyril waved a hand and changed the subject again. "Forget it. Do you have any money? Lend me some."

Haven looked at him as though he had expected this all along. "How much do you want to borrow?"

After thinking for a moment, Cyril named a conservative amount. "A hundred pounds?"

The expression on Haven's face visibly stiffened for a moment before he calmly said, "Repeat your previous sentence."

Cyril said, "Lend me some money?"

Haven said, "No. Goodbye."

Without giving him another chance to speak, Haven quickly stepped past him, went downstairs, and left the house.

Cyril opened his mouth as he watched the other man's rapidly disappearing figure, then finally let out a silent breath.

He had actually wanted to ask whether Haven could use his connections with several professors from Backlund University's physics department to get a handgun, or directly assemble a firearm from materials himself.

But he had no suitable excuse, and it might arouse suspicion later, so he ultimately did not say it.

"Ah, brotherly affection that isn't even worth a hundred pounds..."

After lamenting that, he returned to his room, put on a rather inadequate disguise, took his only savings of 10 pounds and 13 soli, then headed out.

Iron Gate Street in the Backlund Bridge district, Bravehearts Bar.

As soon as he reached the middle of Iron Gate Street, he saw what appeared to be a heavy black wooden door and a burly man nearly two meters tall standing there with his arms crossed.

He did not know whether it was the powerful memory brought by his own special nature or Adam's help, but even details he had skimmed over while reading before were now exceptionally clear.

For example, the exact location of Bravehearts Bar before him.

After last night's Twilight Hermit Order gathering, he had considered getting in touch with some Beyonder circles as soon as possible. When he thought of Bravehearts Bar and old Mr. Eye of Wisdom, this address had simply popped into his mind.

When he saw the nearly two-meter-tall burly man acting as a guard at the entrance, Cyril's heart inevitably thumped. As an Easterner, he had never faced someone of that build in person before.

Even though he was already a Beyonder, he still felt that the man could knock out two of him with one punch.

His expression remained calm as he glanced at the man, then walked straight past him and pushed open the bar's door.

The burly man guarding the entrance did not react at all, as though Cyril were merely a stranger passing him on the street. Yet when the strong scent of malt liquor wafted out from behind the door, his throat unconsciously bobbed.

The bar was quiet at this hour. At the counter sat a bartender repeatedly polishing glasses and a Grey-robed Man drinking the most ordinary beer as though it were premium red wine. In the corner were two guests sleeping off their drunkenness, as well as a staff member arranging tables and chairs.

Honestly, this was the most backward, even rundown, bar I had ever visited. I had thought a bar in another world might have its own unique charm, but apparently not.

Thinking that, Cyril kept himself from showing any disgust or discomfort. He walked to the counter, pulled over a barstool at random, and sat down.

"A glass of South Wales Beer."

He only remembered a few kinds of alcohol, and a place like this could not possibly have high-end goods such as Olmier Red Wine or Sonia Blood Wine.

"Five pence," the bartender replied expertly.

Cyril handed over a one-soli banknote. After taking it, the bartender gave him seven pence in notes and a large wooden mug filled with golden liquor.

Cyril only took the drink and did not take the seven pence the bartender handed over. Instead, he smiled lightly and asked:

"I'd like to buy some unconventional items. I heard there was a channel for that here."

"Sir, you may have been deceived. This is a legitimate bar."

As he answered, the bartender placed the seven pence in notes before Cyril.

The smile on Cyril's face froze. This was not how things were supposed to go. Shouldn't he have been told to find the person in charge of the gray-market business here?

As he stood there in a daze, a hoarse, low voice tinged with weariness sounded beside him.

"Heh. Ten pounds, and I'll take you there."

Cyril looked in surprise at the Grey-robed Man sitting two barstools away. The face beneath the gray hood was pale enough not to seem human, thick malice lurked in his brown eyes, and his entire body exuded a hint of madness and repression.

As he focused his attention, he suddenly saw the dense, restrained spirituality on the man's body.

A Beyonder, and not a low Sequence either. He had some method or ability to conceal his special traits, otherwise I wouldn't have only noticed his dense spirituality now.

After a pause, he asked with a slightly scrutinizing tone, "You know what I want?"

The other man curled his lips faintly. "Of course. A rash newcomer."

Cyril nodded slightly, then reluctantly took out the only ten-pound note he had on him and pushed it in front of the man.

He was somewhat worried that the man might deceive him. Of course, he was not worried about there being a trap; he was worried that his only ten pounds might vanish for nothing. As for danger, an Apprentice might not be good at fighting, but escaping was first-rate.

Under Cyril's gaze, the Grey-robed Man put away the ten-pound note before letting out a slightly pleased chuckle.

"Your luck is pretty good. There happens to be a gathering at noon today."

Cyril nodded slightly and raised the richly fragrant, tempting beer that had cost him five pence to his lips.

It was crisp and refreshing, bitter yet fragrant, but he was not used to it. He had rarely drunk beer before; he preferred fruit wine and sake, the kind of drinks that could actually be considered alcoholic beverages.

It cost me five pence, so I can't waste it.

Thinking that, he lowered his head and took another large gulp, then frowned and set the mug back on the counter. He still was not used to this liquor, which seemed somewhat low-quality to him.

Looking at the mug that was still more than half full, he tried to amuse himself bitterly. Now I have another reason to make money: so I won't have to drink cheap liquor in the future.