The final deal was struck at one hundred thousand LMD—the standard price for fine iron crossbows on the black market. Thad recognized the superior craftsmanship of the three crossbows and chose not to be overly greedy. He didn’t have the luxury of acting like every customer was a mark to be fleeced. That depended entirely on who he was dealing with.

After the angel left, Thad’s expression darkened, shifting between unease and regret. He felt like a fool for believing the angel’s story. But from what he’d heard over the years, it seemed that the people of the Sankta race really were just that “gullible.”

“Shitou, follow him. See where he goes.”

A voice answered from the warehouse, and a pair of fading footsteps soon echoed out of earshot.

It wasn’t a particularly suspicious time of day—Kawalerielki was bustling as usual, packed with tourists from across Terra. A lone Sankta wandering the streets didn’t raise any eyebrows.

But that gear…

Thad recalled the equipment the Sankta was wearing. The more he thought about it, the less it seemed like something a casual traveler would be carrying.

“A messenger… or an enforcer?” he muttered.

He dared not investigate further. If the visitor had been the latter, offending him would mean an end so swift, he wouldn’t even realize how it came.

Before long, Shitou returned with a troubled look. “Boss, we lost him.”

Thad didn’t look surprised. If anything, he seemed a bit relieved. “Forget it. Go let the regulars know I’ve got a new batch of crossbows in. Better quality than the usual junk. Set the price at 180,000 each.”

Shitou nodded and took off to spread the word.

Thad sipped from his drink and turned back to the TV, as though the angel had never walked through his door.

—

After making several runs to the black market, Felix’s wallet had finally returned to the million mark in LMD. Still, it wasn’t enough—not nearly enough. He knew there would be a massive loss down the line.

Fortunately, with the arrival of players, that gap would be filled. They’d bring a steady flow of income and experience points. That was where Felix’s confidence came from.

Thinking back on a few key characters from the original storyline, Felix took the opportunity to rest in the hotel until nightfall. Then, as dusk settled over the city, he stepped out into the evening.

In the city center, along the well-lit Golden Feather Avenue, he stopped before a pub bearing a familiar sign:

“Martin the Terrible”

Under the cover of night, he pushed open the door.

Amidst the clinking of glasses and the haze of tavern chatter sat drunken knights. Some wore timeworn armor, faded and dented from long service. Others gleamed with polished plating, competitive knights easily identifiable by their prideful, pristine gear.

“Oh, what a new face! Welcome to Horrible Martin! You’re a Sankta, right? From a foreign land?” The bar’s bald owner, Martin, was polishing a glass behind the counter. Upon seeing the unfamiliar guest, he greeted him with enthusiasm.

Felix stepped up to the bar and pulled back his hood.

The young face that emerged caught Martin off guard. “You sure you’re of age?”

In Rutland, adulthood was recognized at the age of twenty. In Martin’s eyes, this kid looked like he should still be crying for his mother. Still, there weren’t any strict rules in Rutland banning underage drinking—many students would stop by after school for a glass of low-alcohol sweet wine as a treat.

“Bourbon,” Felix said plainly.

“…Alright then,” Martin replied, still a little skeptical.

Seeing Felix’s mature demeanor and calm presence at the bar, Bald Martin temporarily assumed he was of legal drinking age.

The television next to them was playing the evening news. The host’s voice carried over the quiet clatter of mugs and murmurs.

“At 7:10 this evening, unidentified individuals were reported gathering in the sewers of the Heywood District. Authorities discovered a cache of dangerous goods stored at the site… Residents of the Heywood District are advised to remain indoors and stay calm. The Knights Association has been dispatched to neutralize the threat.”

The drinkers seated nearby let out low scoffs and chuckles. One of them shook his head in exasperation.

“Just another lazy excuse to crack down on the Infected.”

Another man—built like a white bear and reeking of alcohol—grumbled, “That damned bill targeting the Infected keeps resurfacing. What the hell are the Supervisors even doing? Sitting on their hands?”

“Ahem.”

Bald Martin cleared his throat pointedly, a subtle warning to his two long-time patrons. The walls in Kawalerielki had ears.

The two men glanced to the side—only then noticing the Sankta seated next to them, quietly swirling the ice in his glass while watching the television with apparent interest.

“The Infected are like festering boils to the people of this land,” Felix spoke at last, his tone calm and reflective. “They’re desperate to cut them off… yet they forget they once had smooth, unblemished skin.”

He had slipped into riddle-speak again—something he wasn’t quite used to yet. He blamed his lack of recent conversation with Kal’tsit. Practice was needed.

“They’re afraid. Terrified. So they ask: will the boil spread and infect the rest?”

He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking between Bald Martin, the old knight, and the burly craftsman seated beside him. His smile was soft, but the irony in it was impossible to miss.

“Of course not,” he continued. “They’ve already built high walls around the boil. They’ve applied protective ointments in the name of purification. They’ve cut off entire pieces of their own flesh to banish the boil far away—so the sickness won’t reach them.”

“Medically speaking, they’re not wrong. Any doctor will tell you—only complete removal of the boil can prevent infection.”

He didn’t look up as their expressions shifted ever so slightly.

“In fact,” he added, still swirling the ice in his drink, “our bodies always carry hidden diseases. When we’re overworked, soaked in cold rain, or left hungry and exhausted… our defenses fail. The boils rise again. In medicine, this is called a pathological recurrence.”

The old knight furrowed his brow. “Then tell me—how do we stop from digging out these poisonous boils, again and again?”

Felix’s smile lingered, but there was something distant in his gaze.

“I wish I knew.”

A silence settled between them.

The old knight finally sighed and shook his head. “I used to think all Sankta lived in their ivory towers. People untouched by the dust of our world. But… of course, I didn’t mean you. Ahem. My apologies. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” echoed the old craftsman, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now I finally understand what you were saying. But we’re just rough folk—can you speak plainly next time? Enough with the riddles!”

Bald Martin chuckled softly and gave his head a shake, though he didn’t join their toast.

Felix took a sip of his bourbon, sneering inwardly. One day, he thought, he’d tie that white bear from Ursus in front of Kal’tsit and make him listen to her lectures for an entire day. See how long he could last.

Thanks to the years of conversations he’d had with Kal’tsit in his previous life, the “Riddler’s opening line” he’d just delivered had the intended effect. It brought the group closer, and more importantly, made them believe Felix must come from a powerful background. Both the old knight and the old craftsman harbored their own frustrations with the Infected issue, but they also knew they were powerless to change anything. In Bald Martin’s words: compared to the Commercial Federation, they—the knights—were nothing more than tools, bound to obey orders.

Crude words, perhaps, but there was no denying the truth behind them.

“Brother Felix, what brings you to Kazimierz ?” the old craftsman asked with a friendly slap on Felix’s shoulder. “Work? Or are you here for the knight competition?”

After a few rounds of drinks, names had been exchanged. The old knight went by Fogwald, and the old craftsman’s name was Koval. They had once fought side by side. Their names were too complicated to toss around in casual conversation, so they asked Felix to just keep calling them “Old Knight” and “Old Craftsman,” mercenary-style.

Felix poured himself another drink. “I’m a Messenger. Came to Kazimierz to deliver a letter. But I’ve been paying close attention to the 21st Kazimierz Knight Competition coming up next year.”

“Oh? Thinking of entering?” the old craftsman asked with a grin.

The old knight looked him up and down, his gaze lingering on Felix’s gear. He took a swig from his glass before commenting, “Not bad at all. Your equipment’s impressive. It’s no tournament-grade armor, sure, but it’s still intimidating.”

Koval leaned closer, clearly intrigued. He buried his broad, shaggy head into Felix’s shoulder to inspect the coat more closely. “This… this isn’t the work of a smith or any craftsman I know. Wait a sec—what the… It’s a machine! My turtle!”

“I’m a mechanic,” Felix replied with a laugh. “This armor boosts my defense and helps me move faster. And for a courier, that’s all that matters.”

The old knight gave a solemn nod. As a veteran of past wars, he understood just how grueling and vital the courier profession was. Lives had depended on those who ran across battlefields with critical intel.

A few more drinks passed.

The old craftsman suddenly sighed, glancing between Fogwald and Bald Martin before muttering, “That little girl from the Nearl family, Maria… she’s been clinging to me lately. Who would’ve thought she’d take an interest in us craftsmen? I’ve tried everything to get her to give up, but she’s relentless. Just nine years old, swinging a hammer like she owns the forge—absolutely shameless.”

Bald Martin chuckled and shrugged. “Even if you wanted to teach her, you’d have to get past Zofia first.”

Ding!

A prompt suddenly appeared in Felix’s field of vision:

[Do you want to accept D-Rank Mission: “The Troubles of the Old Craftsman Koval”? Yes / No]

Felix blinked in mild surprise. It was rare to trigger a quest involving a character with genuine plot significance.

Yes.

[Mission Details: Old Craftsman Koval mentioned that the youngest daughter of the Nearl family possesses an unusual passion for craftsmanship. You’re unfamiliar with the Nearl family, but you’re enthusiastic and willing to offer help. Whether you persuade Koval to accept Maria as a student, or convince Maria to walk another path, the decision is yours.]

[Quest Objectives:

Maria Nearl begins her journey in craftsmanship (Optional)

Maria Nearl gives up craftsmanship (Optional)]

[Reward: 9,000 EXP]

[Special Reward: ???]

This was the kind of mission where the ending depended entirely on the player’s choice. In past games, there had been many such quests—missions that forced players to make difficult decisions. Should they execute an Infected on the spot, or let him go so he could see his wife and daughter one last time, finding peace before the end? Each choice could completely alter the course of the story.

The moral alignment options were clear: Orderly Good or Chaotic Evil.

In Felix’s memories of the game from his previous life, he recalled that Maria Nearl would eventually have her own character arc a few years down the line. By then, she had become a craftsman. Crafting wasn’t just a skill for her—it was her passion, her true hobby.

“Ahem.”

Felix cleared his throat softly, drawing the attention of the three men back to him.

“I think,” he began with a calm smile, “that we should respect individual choice in matters like this.” His tone remained light. “When I was still studying in Rutland, some of my classmates loved making desserts, some were into building guns, and some even liked pulling pranks involving explosives…”

At that point, he thought of a certain bomb-loving lunatic, and quickly took a sip of bourbon to keep a straight face—describing her positively like this was already generous.

“They pursued what they loved, and still enjoyed their school life to the fullest. Hobbies and academics don’t have to conflict.” He turned to the old craftsman, his expression sincere. “You said the little girl is only nine years old. Why not make an agreement with her? Let her practice craftsmanship for just two hours a day. The rest of her schedule can be arranged by her parents.”

Bald Martin clicked his tongue in approval. Strict as Zofia was, he had a feeling she wouldn’t reject this kind of reasonable compromise.

“Okay, okay! Felix, that’s a good idea! Cheers!” The old craftsman slapped the table with delight, sending a splash of wine onto the old knight’s face. Fogwald grimaced and spat it out immediately.

“How about this—I’ll invite Zofia and Maria over in a couple of days to talk this through. Sound good, Old Martin?” Koval beamed, clearly already buzzed. He gave Felix a squinty-eyed look. “And you, since this was your idea, make sure to show up tomorrow if you can. No matter what happens—success or failure—I’ll treat you to a drink!”

“It’s a deal.”

The two clapped hands in agreement, laughing heartily. The old knight chuckled and shook his head, while Bald Martin silently wiped his wine glass, a smile creeping across his face.

From Felix’s words and actions, all three men had come to the same conclusion that night: he was a good person, someone they could treat as an equal and a friend.

They drank well into the early hours of the morning. When it was time to leave, Felix leaned against the wall, bid farewell to the old knight and the old craftsman, and walked off into the night—reflecting that this kind of life was dangerously decadent.

Felix, oh Felix! How could you be so depraved? Have you already forgotten the plan you made before? Confucius once said, “I examine myself three times a day.”

He couldn’t keep living like this.

Day two: More drinking.

Day three: Still drinking.

Felix felt his life had flipped entirely upside down. Waking up at noon, working in the forge until nightfall, then heading straight to the chaotic Night City. He’d drink with the two old Bidens until dawn. Recently, Bald Martin had been treating him with more kindness than usual—perhaps because he had spent quite a lot of money there.

But this still wasn’t the most corrupt life he’d ever lived.

In Kazimierz, there was a slave trade. Once your relationship with the Chamber of Commerce reached a certain threshold, you could purchase such “goods” through them. In his previous life, he had spent a million LMD to buy six slaves—each one a beautiful Kuranta girl. When he wasn’t in Kazimierz, they looked after his house. Occasionally, he’d contact them to send deliveries or help with errands.

But the game didn’t let players take off their pants—and he had been furious about that!

So, whenever he was in Kazimierz, he would ask the six lovely girls to dress up and accompany him. They would go shopping with him, accompany him to the metal shop to pick out materials, dine with him, bowl with him, and watch knight tournaments together.

Ahem. Felix wasn’t that kind of person. Above all, he was a gentleman.

He might occasionally enjoy a lap pillow from a beautiful girl… ahem. But this is getting dangerously close to a ban-worthy passage.

As a 16+ rated game, Ark was absolutely clean. If a player touched an NPC too many times, the system would trigger an alarm. After several warnings, the player would be forcibly logged out and made to “cool off” for five minutes.

A lap pillow was the absolute limit of physical contact.

He glanced at the time.

Well then—time to drink again.

Yawning as he wandered through the alluring streets of Night City, Felix arrived at Terror Martin’s place. He pushed open the door, and immediately spotted three women sitting at the bar.

One adult woman, one girl who looked like a high school student, and one who looked like she was still in junior high.

What caught his eye first—was the golden hair.

Bald Martin was wiping a wine glass with a grin. When he saw Felix enter, he greeted him warmly and then turned toward the adult woman at the bar. “This is the Sankta I mentioned who’s been a regular these past few days—Felix Shawn Lanshem.”

The woman stood and approached Felix. She was slightly shorter than him, but the aura she gave off was the sharpest Felix had ever encountered.

“Zofia. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lanshem.”

“Felix is fine. It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Zofia.”

Felix responded with a courteous knight’s gesture. After shaking hands, he bent forward and kissed the back of Zofia’s hand.

Only a true knight was worthy of such chivalrous etiquette.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep