Chapter 233: Amber’s Old Friends

The moment Amber snapped her fingers, Scarface Anton reflexively grabbed hold of a nearby wooden pillar. Several others in the tavern also instinctively clutched onto whatever fixed objects they could find—or, without any shame, plopped down hard onto the floor. Their movements were so smooth and practiced, it was as if this had become second nature to them. But the rest just stood there, bewildered, staring at the sudden, inexplicable changes around them, unsure how to react. And soon enough, they wouldn’t have to.

A murky, hazy shadow suddenly spread out from Amber’s side. Wherever the shadow touched, everyone instantly felt the world spin wildly. In less than a second, the entire tavern’s patrons were forcibly dragged through what could only be described as a “shadow jump.” Though it lasted less than a heartbeat, it threw everyone off balance. Those who had grabbed onto something fared better, but the ones who’d just stood or sat dumbfoundedly were now sprawling all over the place, struggling to get back up.

Watching this spectacular scene unfold, Amber nodded with satisfaction, finally reclaiming a shred of pride as a “master.”

Her combat strength was admittedly weak—but that depended on who she was compared to, and in what field. As a shadow infiltrator, it was understandable she couldn’t match Gawain or his entourage head-on. But how many true extraordinary professionals were there in this tavern?

If there were any, they wouldn’t be hanging around a place like this!

Here were only idle scoundrels and con artists. Their greatest skills were a few sleight-of-hand tricks or some scams. Even the infamous “Scarface Anton” was just a half-baked infiltrator, barely qualified as a low-level professional. They were gutter rats, the dregs of society, clinging together for warmth. The strongest among them wasn’t even worthy of being noticed by real professionals.

Amber, at least, was an extraordinary professional—and a master of shadow power, no less. She even called herself the Chosen of the Night.

The title “Queen of the Tavern” wasn’t self-appointed.

After a long while, the dizziness and neurological disorientation caused by the shadow’s mental shock gradually subsided. Those sprawled on the floor clumsily got back up, but not a single fool stepped forward to challenge her. Anyone who survived in this environment was cautious and clever, skilled at sizing up a situation in an instant and finding the safest way out. They’d already figured out how to protect themselves in that split second.

Seeing this, Amber curled her lips slightly. “This batch still isn’t worth my time.”

“Boss, you’re back?” Scarface Anton forced a smile, still fighting off the lingering dizziness. “You said a couple years ago you found clues about your real parents, then suddenly disappeared… Did you find them?”

“Nope. My real folks are probably dead somewhere. I’m not gonna find them this lifetime,” Amber waved her hand dismissively. “But I found something way more interesting.”

“More interesting?” Anton blinked. He knew this former gang leader who once ruled the sewers and black alleys often chased after “interesting things”—usually meaning loot to steal or suckers to scam. When she talked about those, she always wore a mocking grin. But now, her expression was genuinely excited, no hint of joking. “What did you find?”

Amber just smiled. “Ever heard about the resurrection of the founding duke?”

“Yeah, heard about it,” Anton shrugged, signaling his men to restore order in the tavern. “That rumor’s been out for a while—we even helped spread it. A few months ago, some mercs passed through here, hired a bunch of people to spread the word.”

“Damn, you actually made money off my…” Amber shot Anton a glare but cut herself off, switching gears. “Are all the folks here?”

“If you mean everyone in this town, then yeah,” Anton gestured around the tavern. “It’s winter, and these bastards are stuck inside all day, practically drinking themselves to death.”

Amber pulled out a small dagger and scraped it along the battered wooden bar, searching for the marks she’d carved years ago. Unfortunately, most were gone—fights and cheap booze had worn them away quickly. “Ask everyone if they want to do something legit for a change.”

By now, quite a few “old acquaintances” had gathered near the bar. A woman with slightly dark skin, dressed like a witch, blinked at Amber’s words. “Legit? Boss, you still got legit business?”

Amber raised a hand, twirling the dagger expertly beneath the “witch’s” collar, snipping a few threads. “Witchy Gypsy, why didn’t I cut out your tongue back then?”

“My tongue makes me money when I wag it,” the woman took a half-step back, flashing a flattering smile. “Why don’t you tell us about this ‘legit business’ of yours? We’re all ears…”

“Simple. I’m working for that resurrected founding hero now—don’t give me that look like you don’t believe it. I’m his personal bodyguard. Personal bodyguard, got it? I don’t even have to knock when I enter his room. Bottom line: I’m rolling in it now. But I haven’t forgotten you losers. Now you’ve got a chance. If you’re willing to clean up your act, you can live like decent people too. Still don’t get it? The duke wants to hire you!”

The tavern fell silent. Amber hadn’t expected such a reaction.

“Why so quiet? Not interested?” she asked, curious.

“We don’t believe it,” Anton said, his scarred face twisting between a laugh and a cry. “We know about the founding duke down south, but someone like him wouldn’t deal with people like us. Boss, you’ve been hitting the shadow potions too hard again, haven’t you?”

“Figures you’re all hopeless,” Amber sneered, tossing a cloth bag onto the bar. A clatter sounded as the bag spilled open, revealing a handful of gleaming gold and silver coins—freshly minted, perfectly symmetrical, smooth and flawless, each stamped with the Cecil territory’s crest. “You can doubt my words, but the money’s real.”

The eyes of those at the bar immediately widened.

They rarely saw gold coins, though silver was sometimes within reach. Cecil silver coins had recently become popular in the southern regions. They were high quality, heavy, and minted with such precision that every coin was flawless—no scratches, no dirt—like they’d just come straight from the mint.

Anton had been lucky enough to get three Ansu silver coins before—but those were clearly older and worn. These coins were pristine, as if freshly minted.

Anton’s face tightened. “Boss, stealing from a noble’s mint is a death sentence!”

Amber shot him a fierce glare. “Tell me—do you really want to be crushed under a rock? I’ll pick you up and smash you like one!”

Anton shrank back, silent.

Clearly, Amber was telling the truth.

The long-missing boss had somehow ended up beside that founding hero, becoming a personal bodyguard to a great noble. Such a fairy tale had actually come true.

“Talk it over,” Amber waved her hand, casually pushing the coins into a more visible spot on the bar. “But let me be clear: money’s good, but it’s not easy to earn. The duke doesn’t want a bunch of thugs and scoundrels ruining his reputation. Anyone who takes the money has to come with me to Cecil territory first, learn the rules and laws, then get down to real work. If you can’t learn the rules…”

Amber didn’t finish the sentence, but her threatening glance swept the room, making everyone’s necks shrink.

In truth, there’d be no terrible punishment. According to Gawain, the simple rules could be taught in a month or two—even idiots could learn them. And if they couldn’t, a few more lessons would do the trick. But Amber knew this crowd was a bunch of hopeless cases—maybe someday they’d learn proper rules, laws, and morals, but first they needed to be driven onto the right path with both carrot and stick.

That unspoken threat silenced the tavern—and made the offer feel all the more real:

Good fortune doesn’t fall from the sky. Only when there’s risk involved can it be genuine.

Dealing with nobles was dangerous—everyone in the black alleys knew that. But their boss seemed to have them covered…

And the founding hero’s reputation was good…

They just didn’t know why a great noble would hire a bunch of thugs, thieves, and con artists. But how bad could it get? Surely they wouldn’t be sent to the battlefield or to drive out monsters?

As the tavern buzzed back to life, Anton quietly sidled up to Amber, lowering his voice with curiosity. “Boss, how the hell did you get so close to such a big shot?”

“Not much to it,” Amber waved him off casually. “I pried open his coffin and woke him up.”

Anton: “…What?!”

Amber picked up the half-finished cup of cheap ale in front of her, sighed as she brought it to her lips. “Yeah, so don’t get caught stealing by the person you’re stealing from, or you might end up dragging yourself into it… Ugh—pour me some water, will you? This stuff’s worse than watered-down wine. What the hell did you mix in here?”

“This is the dilution ratio you gave me back then…” Anton said, half laughing, half crying. “Forget it, I’ll get you some water.”

“Never mind, I’ll just make do,” Amber shook her head, staring at the foamy, low-quality brew with a wry smile. “People and elves alike—such creatures are all too easily addicted to pleasure…”

(End of chapter)