Chapter 33: The Rhythmic Tapping On The Ebony Table

Gen had just put down his spoon and took the last sip of his tea when hurried footsteps sounded sharply outside the door.
The inn’s door swung open again. Night wind rushed in, cold and biting, carrying the damp, musty smell of moss and sewer stone.
The oil lamps set on the wooden table flickered wildly, their pale yellow light wavering as if about to be snuffed out. One lamp nearly went out and had to be rekindled with several snaps, casting twisted shadows of people on the ceiling.
No one inside the inn spoke. Under the dim light, three familiar silhouettes stepped inside — the same three troublemakers from earlier. But this time, behind them were over a dozen others, each with a grim, hardened face, carrying clubs, short axes, or knives sheathed at their waists. Some still had the faint scent of dried blood on their sleeves. Their formation was chaotic yet clearly organized, like a pack of wild dogs unleashed on the prowl this night.
The cold wind still howled through the open doorframe, causing the lamp near the counter to flicker nervously, as if ready to go out completely. In the unsteady light, the heavy footsteps of the newcomers echoed ominously, sounding like tolling bells announcing bad omens.
The three ruffians appeared again, and everyone understood their intentions this time. The whole ground floor seemed to freeze.
The shaggy-haired man, bear-like and bulky, was still seated, slicing dried meat. Without looking up, he muttered softly, "Tch… It’s only early evening, and the cockroaches are already crawling all over the place."
The twin brothers sitting at the corner table glanced at each other. One barely curled his lips in a whisper: "The gang from the South District… punctual as always."
"Right. Whenever there’s a guest at an inn, they swarm over like flies to honey," said the red-haired girl near the counter, still turning the magic spindle but not taking her eyes off the newcomers. She smiled faintly, "They don’t dare really make a move here. This area borders the Merchants’ Guild’s security zone, and… the landlady has some old connections with the guards."
"So for months they only dared to bang on doors, spread rumors… just enough to scare customers away, but never the guts to commit real crimes."
Another Adventurer cut in disdainfully, "It’s because the Adventurers’ Guild doesn’t interfere in civil matters. Land disputes are between the locals — whoever holds the ground owns it. They just wait for Emi’s family to sell out and then leave."
The other twin whispered quietly, "But today is different. Someone’s refusing to play by their dirty rules…"
All eyes turned toward the table where Gen still sat, his spoon silent now. Under the oil lamp’s glow, his eyes gleamed with a cold sharpness. A breathless silence fell over the dinner.
The air near the door instantly thickened with murderous intent. The landlady’s face turned pale as she gripped Emi’s shoulders tightly.
The man who had been knocked down earlier raised an eyebrow and looked at Gen.
"Ah ha, still sitting there eating? Good. Eat your fill, then stand up."
Gen didn’t move. His gaze slowly swept over those standing outside the door, then returned to the speaker. "Where?"
The man sneered, "Don’t play innocent. The South District’s waiting for you."
Another man stepped forward, voice full of challenge: "That’s our turf. No laws, no guards. Anyone who steps in… better know how to get out."
Gen said nothing. He silently fixed his sleeve neatly, then looked at the landlady: "Thank you for dinner. It was very good."
"W-wait…" she stammered, "They brought too many people. You should call the Adventurers’ Guild… or… or notify the soldiers."
"No need." Gen cut her off calmly. "I’m just going with them for a bit."
"What?!"
The man next to the first one suddenly laughed loudly, clapping his hands sharply: "Well, looks like you finally get it. But don’t get the wrong idea — not everyone’s invited to the South District of Venezia."
"Right." Another chimed in quickly, "The rules there aren’t like the center, protected by the Guild."
"Hope you’ve got the guts to face Callum."
Gen looked at them once more, then stepped outside without hesitation.
Outside, dusk had fallen. A crescent moon hung between the old rooftops. The air smelled sharp, a mix of rotting moss from the canals and oil smoke drifting back from the poor district to the north.
No sooner had he stepped out than the formation snapped shut. Thirteen men formed a living chain — the front led the way, the rear followed steadily, while those on the sides pressed close, shoulders almost touching, leaving Gen no room to sidestep or retreat. The noose tightened instantly.
Emi wanted to call after him, but the landlady laid a hand on her shoulder and shook her head, eyes full of worry.
As the group led Gen off the old alley, the central square of Venezia gradually came into view — brightly lit and unusually crowded.
Light from the gas lamps washed over worn cobblestones, casting a cold gray glow. By the fountain stood Celestia’s soldiers, pitching temporary camps all around the square. Their silver armor reflected the pale light, making them look like living statues.
Gen walked among the circle of thirteen armed men, head bowed slightly, steps steady but taut like a drawn bowstring.
His eyes flicked to the side in a quick, instinctive scan.
Damn it! Celestia’s soldiers were still here?
If he had known he’d have to pass through this place, he would’ve turned back to slaughter these men back in the alley. Here… all eyes were on him.
A group of guards just rose from their rest, whispering, some fingers brushing the hilts of their swords. They’d drawn too much attention.
Then, high above on the tiled roof of a fancy restaurant by the square — where Princess Charlotte and her group were resting — a shadow shifted quietly.
The night wind swept over the tiles without a sound, only the old, steady eyes of Aaron watching.
The man was like a shadow of the world itself, still sitting in the dark corner on the rooftop, silent as if he’d been there since the sun hadn’t yet set. His gaze pierced through the crowd, through the light and noise, settling on a familiar face. For a moment, his eyes sharpened.
Alexander... Gen?
The name surfaced in his memory like a worn, dog-eared report. A lowly soldier, ranked last in training. A nobody, with nothing but the ability to quietly survive unnoticed.
“…Strange.” Aaron’s eyelids twitched slightly.
Someone who was supposed to be half a day’s journey from the Empire’s capital, why was he here in Venezia?
His voice was dry and thin, like stone scraping on stone. The wind brushed his sleeves, carrying away the breath he held tight.
Aaron frowned deeply. A person like Gen, whom he’d once seen at the barracks — obedient, dull, unremarkable — couldn’t possibly be involved in anything big. But… the look in Gen’s eyes as he glanced across the square, though lowered, was sharp and deliberately evasive.
Aaron didn’t leave the rooftop hastily. His aged gaze followed Gen’s retreating back until the group disappeared into the alley.
As they turned into the alley beside the square, the streetlights slowly vanished behind them like a closing door.
At first, the street was still paved with stones, but many were chipped, raised by tree roots, or simply ignored by those unwilling to repair them. The walls on both sides were damp with moss, cracked lengthwise. An open drainage canal ran along the left, its water slow, pitch black, thick with sludge.
A few minutes later, they reached a T-junction where the square’s light was completely gone. From here, Gen was led southwest along a narrow canal, clogged with trash and stagnant water.
From the square to the South District territory was about ten minutes on foot.
Not far geographically, but for locals, it was a turn no one wanted to take after sunset.
The first sign of change upon entering was… the smell.
The air grew damper and fouler, mixed with cheap liquor, decomposing animal carcasses, burnt trash, and rusty metal. Even a light breeze made Gen hold his breath.
The architecture shifted as well. Wooden houses propped up on shaky stilts, some leaning against old stone walls as if a mere bump would bring them down. No street lamps — only flickering flames from burning iron pans, casting faint glimmers like wild beast eyes in the dark.
Voices were no longer conversations but groans, manic laughter behind wooden doors, clinking glasses, nails scratching stone walls — sounds that made even the sober turn away.
They didn’t stop.
They passed an abandoned distillery, a former infirmary now a gambling den, and a shallow well covered with tarpaulin — rumored locally as a place to hide bodies.
Next, they came upon a small square without a fountain, just an open patch of dirt stained with sand and dried blood. A few men were dueling there, surrounded by a cheering crowd tossing coins into the ring.
One of Gen’s companions whistled low: "Quite a crowd. Looks like a big fight tonight."
Finally, the group stopped in front of a three-story building made of half stone, half wood, shabby but larger than usual. On the crooked wooden signboard hanging above, the characters had faded, leaving only a clear symbol of a foaming beer mug pierced through by a dagger.
The thick wooden door was pushed open forcefully, creaking with a sharp "crack" like breaking bones. The air inside immediately hit the nose — a heavy smell of yeast mixed with sweat, tobacco smoke, and dried blood that hadn’t been wiped from under the tables and chairs.
The tavern was spacious, able to hold nearly fifty people, but the arrangement of tables and chairs resembled a small arena. Round tables surrounded a central empty space, as if waiting for a brawl to break out. On the ceiling hung oil lamps casting a dim light, just enough to see each other’s faces, but not enough to read expressions clearly.
It was nighttime, and about twenty rough-looking men were gathered, drinking as if they would die tomorrow. Some glanced toward Gen, then clinked their mugs without much interest, or perhaps they were just used to seeing people brought here.
“Close the door.” Gen spoke, his eyes flicking toward the last person who had just stumbled in.
“HA HA! Look at him acting like this is his home!” A man laughed loudly, slapping Gen on the shoulder, his coarse laughter drowning out the discordant sound of a crude musical instrument playing somewhere. The group herded Gen to a corner deep inside, where a set of furniture clearly distinct from the rest was placed.
A large ebony table, chairs upholstered in animal fur, all bearing marks of worn-out luxury, as if taken from some mansion and discarded here.
On that chair sat a man with his legs crossed, his hands casually draped over the shoulders of two provocatively dressed women. One had curly red hair, dark lipstick, and eyes sharp like a cat’s claws, constantly pouring wine for the man in the middle with long, graceful fingers. The other had blonde hair, a more absent gaze, but a faint smile clung to her lips, as if she had learned how to pretend to be cheerful beside drunken men.
The man between the two women was a young man with slightly curled blonde hair, shiny and sleek as if freshly washed with some oil used only by nobility. His clothes were cut in a royal style, luxurious but not formal enough to hide the rudeness in his eyes.
“Oh, finally you’re here. We’ve been waiting just for you.” He stood up, arms wide open as if welcoming an old friend: “I’m Callum. Don’t let the fancy look fool you — I’m no noble by blood, just someone who knows where to make money.”
The two women remained seated, their eyes flickering from Callum to Gen. The redhead curled her lips in a smile, as if expecting some fun was about to begin, while the blonde squinted slightly, unconsciously clutching the edge of her skirt.
Gen said nothing and directly pulled out a chair opposite Callum, resting his arm on the table.
“What do you want?” Gen asked.
Callum sat back down, placing both hands on the table, lazily tapping his fingers in rhythm.
“Don’t you already know? I heard… you interfered with some of my little matters at the inn in the North.”
“I saw three guys dressed like scavengers threatening the innkeeper, disturbing my meals, so I told them to get lost.” Gen replied casually.
Callum burst out laughing, but this time no one else in the tavern joined him: “Get lost? Ha! Well, if everyone in this area could just say that to my men and have them leave, I wouldn’t need to pay bribes for guards or pay informants.”
Gen’s eyes narrowed slightly: “You want to test me?”
Callum propped his chin on his hand, his gaze suddenly turning ice-cold as he studied the calm figure opposite him, then slowly said: “No, I want to know… if I can use you.”
The tavern fell silent for a moment. Even the clinking of mugs stopped.
Callum pulled out a small wooden box from under the table and placed it on the table.
He opened the lid.
Inside was a bundle of hand-rolled native cigarettes made from dried samari leaves and powdered gaeth bark, famous for creating a "light, dreamy" feeling that made smokers lose their sense of time.
He pulled one out, lit it with a flint stone, then blew out a ring of pale purple smoke.
“You don’t smoke?” Callum asked, offering the box.
Gen just shook his head.
He knew types like Callum — a man who fancied himself the center of the slum, with money, underlings, but always trying to own what he couldn’t control.
Gen glanced around once, then asked back: “Where’s the owner?”
Callum raised an eyebrow, then whistled toward the bar: “Josh! Someone’s asking!”
From behind the counter came a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a potbelly, and a limp walk. His clothes were stained with grease and dried wine, smelling as if they hadn’t been washed for a long time.
“Y-yes! I’m Josh… what can I do for you, sir?”
Gen looked at him for a moment, then asked: “Is there any drink here that’s actually worth drinking?”
Josh blinked several times, confused as if he’d never been asked that before. He glanced at Callum, who showed no reaction, so he forced a smile and stammered: “Uh… we have Black Wormwood wine, brewed from wormwood roots and ripe xarem bark… it tastes a bit bitter but keeps you warm.”
“Anything else?” Gen asked calmly, as if just a casual customer passing by.
“There’s… there’s Ancient Fig Bark smoke wine, and some Red Barley wine from the Northern village…” Josh said, sweat beading on his neck: “Also… there’s Roaring Dragon Wine, but it’s no dragon at all, just the name — drinking it usually makes you hot-tempered…”
Gen silently leaned back in his chair, a flicker of disappointment passing through his eyes.
On Earth, there was a time when he sat in a dim bar in old Vienna, sipping a proper Scotch, the oak-charred aroma lingering down his throat.
But here? A rundown tavern in the slums of a rotten fantasy town, where “good wine” only meant you wouldn’t die immediately after drinking it.
“All right, one glass of Black Wormwood wine.”
Josh nodded, shuffling away, his footsteps dragging like an old rat on rotten wood.
Callum chuckled softly, propping his chin, watching Gen: “You look like someone who knows good liquor. Too bad here, everything’s just a cheap imitation of the past, and no one knows the original.”
Gen didn’t look at him, just quietly said: “And you… look like someone who doesn’t know what’s real in life.”
That sentence dropped like a knife stabbed into the ebony table between them. The atmosphere sank. The nearby underlings bowed their heads slightly, hands resting on their hips, eyes squinting as if preparing to charge.
Callum still smiled, but only half-heartedly. The look in his eyes no longer held mockery, but also no respect.
He tapped his fingers lightly on the ebony table, each click like a silent countdown.
After a while, he spoke in a low voice: “Do you know… many who sat in that seat before you… ended up pulled from the river with their throats cut wide open?”
“Drink’s here!”
Josh’s hoarse, trembling voice suddenly cut through the tense moment.
The middle-aged man with greasy hair and a limp hurried over, carrying a wooden tray holding a dark, shimmering glass of wine, setting it carefully in front of Gen with a mix of reverence and worry.
“Black Wormwood wine, sir. Just reheated, still warm.” He didn’t look at Callum or glance at the underlings, but everyone felt the clear intention in his actions, breaking the frozen tension around the table.
Gen looked at the wine, then at Josh, his eyes softening briefly.
The tavern owner limped back a few steps, hands clasped in front of his belly, trying to keep calm. His broken leg made him lean to one side, his heavy steps seeming ready to topple with the slightest stumble.
Gen quietly said: “Thank you.”
Just one word, but Josh bowed in return, quietly exhaling.
Callum observed the whole scene, fingers still tapping on the table, but his eyes narrowed.
“Josh is actually a good tavern owner.” His voice sounded like recounting a trivial memory: “A few years ago, I tried to buy this tavern. He said ‘No.’ Just one word, and it cost me a night of fun with friends… so I broke one of his legs.”
Callum smirked, adding as if to reward himself: “If I’d broken both, who’d pour drinks for us, right?”
He continued thoughtfully: “The only thing that made him fail was thinking he could stay neutral forever in a lawless place.”
Josh stayed silent, retreating step by step toward the bar, his back slightly hunched as if bent by winds that had been blowing for years.