Chapter 192: Information
Kael frowned.
That was too sharp. Too fast. Too accurate.
"How’d you know?" Kael asked.
The bartender didn’t even glance at his gauntlets. He didn’t need to. He nodded toward Kael’s feet like he was pointing out a stain on a shirt.
"Your boots, they’re the only thing you never changed from your gear, they’re still the same boots that newbies wear. I’d recommend you change them soon." He said.
Kael’s expression soured.
Of all the things. All the armor. All the runes. All the custom gear.
The damn boots.
He’d been so busy not dying that he forgot the simplest tell in the world: one piece that didn’t match the rest.
He could already picture it, someone in a crowd seeing "good gear," then noticing the newbie boots and realizing exactly what that meant.
A fresh kill. A fresh story. A fresh target.
He shifted slightly on the stool, more tense now, and the bartender raised a hand before Kael’s suspicion could boil into action.
"Don’t get any foolish ideas, not a single one in this tavern wants trouble, especially me. I have no intention to chase customers away either," he said as he continued wiping one of the glass cups.
Kael studied him from behind the helmet’s slit. The man’s hands were steady. His eyes were calm. Not submissive, just experienced.
"Why are you... nice."
"Hah," the bartender couldn’t help but laugh, "Nice, that’s a first. No, I’m not nice, just pragmatic. If I were to endanger one who cleared the first floor by themselves by having a loose tongue, I’ll regret it later, won’t I?"
"I see..."
The bartender tapped Kael’s gauntlet and said, "This is not a tower’s item; you made this yourself, I suppose? Rune casting?"
Kael’s shoulders tightened instantly.
That wasn’t something you said out loud. Not here. Not with drunk ears nearby and sharp eyes pretending to be drunk.
Kael looked around.
Most of the room was loud enough to hide a murder, but that didn’t mean there weren’t listeners.
"Don’t worry, everyone’s too drunk to care; they have much to gossip about."
Kael didn’t fully believe that, but he also didn’t have a better option. Denying too hard made you interesting. Confirming too proudly made you prey.
"Yeah, something like that," Kael replied, drinking more.
"There is a blacksmith who lives around the block, called Andre. Give him a visit, you’ll thank me later." The bartender said.
Kael’s mind snagged on the name like a hook.
Andre.
A blacksmith. A real one. Not a shop imp. Not a scam window. Someone who might actually understand metal, runes, and crafting, someone who might improve his gear or at least share knowledge of how Kael can do it himself. This was good information.
"I’ll do that then," Kael said.
"Also, I wouldn’t start looking for information on the first floor randomly. Did you unlock your map yet?" The bartender asked.
Kael’s fingers paused on the glass for half a second.
That question wasn’t casual. That was a test.
"Yeah, what for?" Kael asked.
"Go to the information guild and buy an initiation book. You already have a helmet on, don’t remove it, no matter what. Make sure your information is locked from prying eyes. So far, you have probably never been inspected. I didn’t inspect you, so it’ll protect your identity, and I don’t want the heat. But one unfortunate inspection will probably get you into a heap of trouble."
Kael swallowed. Not from the drink, his throat had gone dry for a different reason.
"How do I do that?" Kael asked.
"Simple, just say Lock Information."
Kael didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even pretend this was optional.
"Lock Information."
[Your status screen has been locked from external Inspection. Your name and level will be hidden from prying eyes unless you allow it.]
"Oh, thanks for that..."
"Good, everyone has it locked, unless they’re insane, or extremely powerful, and that is usually the case for both."
Kael exhaled through his nose, slowly. A small weight lifted off his spine. Not all of it, nothing ever all of it, but enough that he didn’t feel like every stranger’s gaze was a blade.
He finished his drink.
The bottom of the glass was cold. The last sip burned like a warning.
"How much do I owe you?" Kael asked.
"I doubt you can afford it; it’s on the house," he said.
Kael narrowed his eyes.
He didn’t like gifts. Gifts came with hooks. Hooks came with blood.
"I’m serious, I’m not that broke..." Kael said.
"That’s Veltari Scotch. A cup is worth twenty thousand cores." The bartender smiled.
Kael couldn’t help but be astonished at the absurd price.
His brain actually stalled for a beat, like it refused to accept the number. Twenty thousand cores wasn’t a "drink." Twenty thousand cores was a city’s worth of murder.
"Shit, better give me wings for this price..."
"Well, you’ll understand why it’s expensive later, though I hope you won’t need to anytime soon," the bartender smiled.
Kael didn’t like that sentence either. It sounded like the kind of "later" that involved screaming.
Still, he nodded once. He could accept help. He just wouldn’t accept being owned by it.
"Thanks for the drink, old man, though I didn’t get to know your name."
The bartender’s cloth paused mid-wipe. Just for a heartbeat. Then he resumed as if nothing had happened.
"Names are very powerful here, just call me boss. Everyone likes calling me that," the bartender smiled at Kael, who nodded and stood up.
Kael didn’t argue. He’d learned that lesson already.
’Show me the blacksmith,’ Kael muttered, and immediately an itinerary to several locations pathed from where he stood.
"Andre the blacksmith." Kael corrected as he walked out of the bar.
The paths changed to become one. A nearby blacksmith.
Kael moved out of the bar and began following the new path.
He kept his pace even. Not hurried. Not wandering. He moved like a man with a destination.
Behind him, the inn’s noise swallowed itself back into the street. Ahead, the community floor stretched out like a marketplace of monsters wearing human skin, guilds, hunters, opportunists, heroes, and liars.
Kael adjusted his helmet slightly, feeling the leather settle against his brow.
He’d survived a floor designed to kill.
Now he had to survive a floor designed to recruit.
And somehow, that felt worse.