Round Seven: On the Island (Middle)

Morrill quickly grew tired of the junk labeled as “deep-sea treasures” at those street stalls.
The “Broken Skull” Inn was easy to find—the waiter at the entrance was shouting loudly, as if trying to ensure everyone noticed, promoting “fine wines,” “dancers,” “thrills,” and “excitement” to lure sailors still wandering the streets to spend their money inside. Morrill and 47 arrived at the inn’s entrance. 47 noticed a string of large fish skulls hanging on a pole by the door, looking rather grotesque under the light coming from the windows and doors.
The waiter wisely didn’t try to pitch anything to these two guests. Who knew if this young woman dressed like a mage was some kind of feminist ghost, or what about that tall warrior who looked like a bodyguard… His expression was strange—was it the effect of some legendary spell?
Upon entering the inn, a loud noise rushed at them.
Though called an inn, it was more like a multi-functional entertainment venue combining a tavern, casino, and brothel. Most of the guests were rude sailors who drank poor-quality liquor, laughed loudly, occasionally slapping the buttocks of female servers passing by, or gathering together to gamble. The slightly salty air was filled with the scent of perfume, tobacco, and sweat, causing Morrill to frown in disgust.
47 pushed aside a drunken man who was swaying around, seemingly looking for a seat, knocking him to the ground hard, then turned his gaze toward the center of the inn’s hall—where two bare-chested men were fighting fiercely on a ring surrounded by barbed wire. Below the ring, people were shouting and waving their arms, including some scantily clad prostitutes.
“Isn’t there a more comfortable table here?” Morrill tossed a gold coin at the inn’s security guard, who was watching those two newcomers warily. The guard caught it swiftly and immediately changed his attitude.
“Come with me, pretty lady,” the guard said, showing yellow teeth and placing his hand on the hilt of his knife, warning those around them with a fierce expression.
The security guard personally led Morrill and 47 upstairs, to a second floor made of sturdy wooden planks. But it seemed he was still unskilled at serving guests; he failed to spot two adjacent seats for a moment, which left him embarrassed.
“You fucking cheat!” a furious shout came from a nearby table, drawing everyone’s attention—except 47. The fight on the ring had just ended; the winner had taken advantage of his opponent’s vulnerability and reversed the situation with a sudden joint-lock technique.
“You win at cards, you win at boxing—bitch, I don’t believe you’re this lucky!” The loser threw his cards everywhere, his long scar on his face twitching with anger. “Don’t try to trick me! Scarface isn’t someone to mess with!”
“Ha… it’s just because you’re too stupid.” The voice was a bit hoarse, with a hint of laziness.

The brown-skinned woman sitting at the same table as three clearly drunk men propped her chair back, resting her feet in high-booted legs on the railing on the second floor, skillfully maintaining her balance. She had a very athletic and tall build—probably not much shorter than 47—especially with her long legs encased in leather pants. Her beautiful face had sharp features, and her fiery red hair fell loosely over her shoulders, perfectly matching her face shape and bright dark green eyes. Her pointed ears gave her an elf-like appearance—but Moriel had never seen an elf this tall.

She raised her glass and drained the remaining wine in one gulp. “Thank you for buying me drinks. I’m still a bit thirsty, but it seems like you guys are done. If you don’t want to keep playing cards with me, then please leave. Look, there are other guests looking for seats over there.”

The sailor who called himself the Scarred Boss was clearly angered. “Damn you, you bitch…” He suddenly stood up and drew his dagger, but stopped halfway—a sharp sword was pressed against his throat. He and the other two hadn’t even noticed when the red-haired woman had pulled out her sword.

“Gentlemen,” the woman said, still in that extremely unstable position, but it seemed she could leap and attack like the most agile cat at any moment. “I don’t mind if you try to get me drunk and take advantage of me… but getting angry and using force isn’t gentlemanly. If you’re so interested in violence, we could have a duel in the arena. I’ll bet all my money that I’ll win. How about that? Or do you still want to keep playing cards to make up for your losses? Hmm?”

The three sailors backed down because they saw a dangerous killing intent in the female swordsman’s eyes—if things escalated, they would definitely be killed. They weren’t completely idiots.

The Scarred Boss sheathed his dagger and signaled his companions to leave. But after taking a few steps, he seemed embarrassed and turned back, shouting threats, “Don’t be so arrogant, bitch. This isn’t a place where you can act wild…”

Before he could finish speaking, he clutched his head and crouched on the ground. Because he wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, he headed straight for Moriel. 47 stretched out an arm to block his way, and the Scarred Boss naturally crashed into the sharp armor. Fortunately, 47 only placed his arm there without using force; otherwise, the Scarred Boss would likely have become the “Rotten Boss.”

“Please sit down, beautiful lady. Oh, and you too, wonderful creature.” After the annoying sailors left in disarray, Moriel and 47 naturally took their seats.

“I’m not a creature,” 47 said, looking down as another battle began in the arena.

“Ha, it doesn’t matter if you deny it.” The female swordsman sat up straight, her gaze fixed on Moriel’s tattooed face. “I’m not some naive country bumpkin. I can tell from your eyes—my judgment has always been accurate. My name is Chloe. Want to play cards? Or have a drink?”

“Moriel.” The female mage lifted her hood, a gesture that made the female swordsman raise her eyebrows slightly.

And so, they drank and played.

Morrill and Chloe were playing a card game where each drew three cards and compared them in size, which seemed utterly boring to Forty-Seven. Although the fighters on the arena kept changing, short but intense battles followed one after another as the boxers threw punches, kicked, and tripped at each other—using every possible tactic. Even from Forty-Seven’s perspective, it was quite exciting, though the lack of real strength in their blows was undeniable. What was even more surprising was that the female swordsman Chloe could determine the winner with just a quick glance, never missing.

There were more and more empty wine bottles under the table, yet the two women showed no sign of stopping—making one wonder if their stomachs were connected to the abyss or if they were simply immune to alcohol.

“For a girl, you have quite a tolerance for alcohol,” Chloe said as she flipped her cards to reveal them on the table: a pair of knights. She had won again.

“You know, I’m starting to suspect you’re cheating now,” Morrill said, downing her drink in one gulp. At Chloe’s suggestion, the bet was that the loser had to drink—most of those empty bottles belonged to Morrill.

Chloe smiled slightly mockingly. “Don’t try to detect magic in me. That would be very rude.”

Morrill’s face turned slightly red. “If it isn’t detected, it doesn’t exist… I’ll find out. Deal the cards, madam.”

After Morrill increased the bet, Chloe gave up after a few rounds. After drinking a few more drinks, they started raising the stakes again for the third round.

On the arena, a short fighter was beating his opponent mercilessly—seemingly proving Chloe right once more.

“Emperor, I won,” Chloe said with a snap of her fingers.

Morrill shuffled her cards before placing them on the table in surrender.

“I have to admit, I didn’t see it coming,” she said. “If I want to turn the situation around, I’ll have to use magic.”

Chloe flipped her cards in her hands and said to Morrill with a laugh, “Just kidding… It’s just a little trick.”

Armed soldiers burst into the inn, asked a few quick questions, and rushed up to the second floor via both staircases, interrupting any further discussion about the card game.

“You’re under arrest, female mage,” the leader said, holding his curved sword tightly as if ready to draw it at any moment. No fewer than twenty crossbows were pointed at Morrill and Forty-Seven.

“Why?” It was Chloe who asked first.

“That bastard Simon Havalian assassinated Mr. Derek, the head of the island’s merchant guild, and stole his beloved ship, the Hermit Crab…” the captain growled. “Everyone connected to him must be captured!”

Morrill grabbed Forty-Seven’s hand, signaling him to stay calm.

“Suspecting us of being his accomplices? How unfortunate,” she said after thinking for a moment. She stood up. “Well, I hope your cells are clean.”

The dungeon didn’t meet Morrill’s standards, so she had no choice but to stand on a wet pile of straw meant for prisoners to sleep on.

“Miss Morriel? How did you end up here too…?” Ror, the sea elf next door, exclaimed in surprise when he saw Morriel and the others locked in as well. Not only him—Simon’s entire crew had been captured, some even naked, seemingly dragged out of their beds. However, the sailors of rank 26 and below, who were slaves, were not among them; it seemed slaves didn’t even qualify to be arrested.

“Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have followed Simon!” Some sailors began to complain. “He’s a well-known selfish scoundrel!”

The sailor who spoke spat bitterly. “He owes so much money to Mr. Derek—I knew Mr. Derek wouldn’t let him off! I never thought he’d even dare kill Mr. Derek! This is the end for us—we can’t escape blame and will definitely be hanged as accomplices! I knew it…”

“Shut up! You have way too many useless ‘knows’!” Ror roared angrily. Morriel noticed that although his skin was dry from lack of water, his spirits seemed much better than when they first disembarked. “It won’t be that serious! We still don’t know what’s really going on! Will the captain kill Mr. Derek? And steal his ship?”

“Oh, Ror. It seems the prison has made you quite resilient.” Morriel asked through the iron bars. “Though I didn’t expect to meet here, have you learned anything interesting that interests me?”

“The attacks by the sharkfishmen aren’t random.” Ror licked his lips. “Apart from us and the Fantasy, many ships have been attacked by them lately. Almost no one dares to set sail recklessly…”

He paused. “Though it’s harsh to say… I heard that I’m not the only sea elf who hasn’t noticed the sharkfishmen. That somewhat reassures me. Now, I must find out what’s blinding my senses… If the sharkfishmen have developed a new way to hide their presence, it will be a serious threat to us sea elves.”

“Whatever you do, wait until you get out first,” said the second officer of the Fantasy grimly—he was originally the third officer of the Red Wine Queen, whose predecessor unfortunately didn’t survive the encounter with the sharkfishmen. “But now we have to spend the night in this stinky dungeon. Damn it, I had bought that bitch a night’s stay!”

Incidentally, he was one of the few who were naked.

“Hmm… so what will become of us?” Morriel continued. “I mean, will we really be hanged as accomplices of Simon?”

Ror was quite surprised; he hadn’t expected Moriel to ask such a question. “Of course not, how could that be? Even if it were really the captain who killed Mr. Derek and stole his ship, it has nothing to do with us. Any fool knows he had accomplices. We’re all here—who helped him take the ship away? You needn’t worry at all, Miss Moriel. It’s normal to arrest people here without distinguishing right from wrong when something goes wrong, but executing someone is a completely different matter. I reckon they’ll release us in less than two days. We’re free sailors, not slaves… And you’ll probably be released even sooner. The island’s leaders won’t ignore the fact that you’re a powerful mage.”
“Thank you, Ror.” Moriel said nothing more.
A cockroach crawled up Forty-Seven’s arm toward his shoulder—only to be flung away instantly. Forty-Seven watched it hit the wall with a crisp thud, fall down, struggle a bit, turn over, and then crawl away as if unharmed.
Can’t you stop this boring game?
Moriel didn’t speak, but her voice clearly reached Forty-Seven’s sensory system, as if speaking directly in his mind.
How did you do that? Forty-Seven also stayed silent, trying to respond mentally instead.
Mind link—a minor spell. Moriel told him, “I’ll find a way to keep this spell active on you, so you won’t disappear when it’s needed.”
There’s no need for that. If I find a target that needs to be eliminated, I’ll eliminate it myself.
Is that so? That’s exactly what I’m worried about. You almost fought those who came to arrest us while we were at the inn.
Oh? Then do you think staying here now is a good choice?
Of course. I think some people want to create chaos—now you know that arresting us doesn’t mean things are that serious. If we resist, it might not be so simple. In that case, we’ll either have to leave or turn the whole island upside down. In either case, we won’t be able to get any clues.
Alright. I’ll follow your advice. Let’s spend the night here… I’ve never stayed in a proper inn before.
Just wait. Those people won’t be happy seeing us so obedient.