Chapter 8 You Talk Too Much Nonsense
As Lucifer walked into the tavern, dozens of eyes quickly focused on him.
Some patrons subtly reached for their weapons, prepared to strike if needed.
Failoo Island was a dangerous place—a harsh land where the strong preyed on the weak. Those who survived here were usually experienced fighters, always on guard. Whether eating or sleeping, they kept their weapons close.
But Lucifer's young appearance was deceiving, and after a quick glance, most people in the tavern resumed their business.
Lucifer walked up to the bar and took a seat.
The tavern owner greeted him, "What can I get for you?"
"A bottle of rum and a roast," Lucifer replied, placing a stack of money on the counter.
The owner's eyes gleamed as he saw the money, and he broke into a twisted grin. His face was covered in scars, one even cutting across his lips, giving him a sinister look.
Judging by his muscular build and scarred face, it was clear this owner was no ordinary bartender—he was likely a retired pirate hiding out here, away from the Marines.
In less than two minutes, the rum and roast were served.
Lucifer poured himself a drink, took a sip, and cut a piece of roast, savoring the rich flavor.