Chapter 60: Where Is Zorak?

They slowly entered the bar.

The inside matched the exterior. Exposed brick walls lined the space, dark red and scarred with age. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, thick and heavy, stained almost black from decades of smoke and humidity.

The floor was uneven stone, worn smooth in some places, cracked in others. Gas lamps hung from iron chains, their flames casting flickering amber light across the room.

The bar itself was a long slab of polished oak, nicked and gouged in a thousand places, but still solid. Sturdy. Immovable.

People sat scattered across the tables. Some alone, nursing whiskey in silence. Others in pairs, speaking low over their drinks.

Hahahaha

A group near the back corner laughed at something, their voices rising briefly before settling back into the low hum of conversation.

Nothing seemed amiss.

No one looked up when Jorg and Makun entered. No one stared. It was just a bar. Old, tired, and completely ordinary.

Makun scanned the room, unsure what he was supposed to be looking for.

Jorg walked straight to the bar without hesitation.

Makun could only follow after him.

The bartender, a middle-aged Hispanic man, stood behind the counter wiping a transparent glass. His black hair was neatly combed, slicked back with precision. His mustache stood out in a beautiful design, thick and curled at the ends, waxed to perfection.

He saw Jorg arrive in front of him and looked up.

“How can I help you sir?”

Jorg placed both hands on the bar, leaning forward slightly. His voice was low, calm.

“Lead me to Zorak.”

The middle-aged man’s eyes widened, as did the eyes of some people who sat inconspicuously in the room.

Usually, for such a thing, you needed a secret code, a secret word. However, this man who came out of nowhere just mentioned the name Zorak like that, not scared of the consequences, not scared of what it might do.

Those who reacted were mystics aware of what this place truly was, while people who had nothing to do with mysticism continued sipping their drinks quietly.

When Makun reached the bar behind Jorg, he felt it. The pressure from the bartender. He could feel Ashe circulating through him. This man was a mystic, one stronger than him.

He looked around, paying more attention this time. Now he felt it even more. There were other mystics in the room, some weaker than him, some stronger, some at the same level.

Why did he not feel it when he first entered? Did they have something to hide their presence as mystics? He was curious.

After the initial surprise, the bartender calmed down and acted professionally.

“Let us move upstairs, sir,” he said, while slowly walking around the counter to the stairs.

Jorg and Makun followed the man as they slowly started climbing up the stairs. When they reached the final step, Makun felt it once again, the frequency of the place change.

What even is this?

Why was the frequency changing every time? He had read about the Veil in the book but had no idea how it worked, or what it really was. He just knew the goal of it. He wondered if the frequency change he experienced, be it here, at the Night Market, or even the arena with Jorg, was part of it.

Upstairs was way different from downstairs. Downstairs was a bar, a chill one, mixed with normal people and mystics, while upstairs was full of practitioners. The room was larger than what it should have been.

Makun could see people gambling with money on the line. Well, money was not everything on the line. There were other things, like pills, charms… On the other side, he saw tables with people selling stuff.

It seems the Night Market is not the only place where mystics traded items. He just had no idea where to look.

What he did not know was that the organization behind the Night Markets was very regulated, while this place was more of a flea market or underground hub for rogues.

The bartender slowly walked to a brown-skinned lady in her thirties, who was dressed professionally. Dark pants, white shirt, and a black vest on it. She was monitoring a game of poker.

Five players sat around the table, chips stacked in front of them, cards facedown. Four men and one woman. One of the men, a short, bald, old Chinese man, leaned forward, tapping his knuckles on the felt.

Another, younger, in a leather jacket, smirked as he checked his cards. The woman across from him, pale and thin, tapped ash from a cigarette into a tray.

The dealer, Melissa, stood behind the table, hands resting on the edge, watching the game unfold.

The bartender approached her. “Melissa, come here.”

Melissa looked at the man, interrupting the shuffling. The short, bald, old Chinese man looked at her, furious. “Shuffle the cards. We do not have the whole night here.” It seemed he was on the losing side.

“Bruno, is it pressing?” Melissa looked at Bruno and asked.

Her eyes then landed on Jorg, who stood behind him. She felt the pressure of an Adept emanating from him and stopped shuffling.

She slowly walked up to him, without Bruno even saying anything.

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked courteously.

“Where is Zorak?” Jorg asked.

Similar to Bruno, she too was surprised, as were the people playing poker. Zorak was the strongest mystic in all of Naija City, a third-grade Adept, close to being an Elite. Who was courageous enough to mention his name like that?

However, after scanning Jorg with their sight, they felt an even stronger pressure emanating from him. He felt similar, if not more dangerous than Zorak.

What had Zorak done? Was there going to be a fight here?

Melissa calmed down, while the people at the poker table averted their gaze as if to say they were not part of this.

“Boss is not here, sir,” she said, squeezing a smile, hoping not to offend this man. “He has not been here in a while,” she continued.

Jorg looked at her, his gaze sharpening.

The spiritual residue that happened earlier was that of Adept-tier Warriors. There were not many Adept mystics here in Naija City, only a few of them. And Zorak had the monopoly over almost every mystic here in the town.

His goons were always outside, getting information for him and reporting it back to him, similar to how members of the VEB patrolled and reported.

The Adept practitioners that did not belong to Zorak laid low, scared of him taxing them.

So Jorg was sure Zorak had to be involved in this incident. It seemed he had forgotten he did not run the city.

That was why he had come here to get info out of him and warn him.

And Zorak was always here, present at the Stone Bar, third story. That was information the VEB had access to.

For her to say Zorak was not here, was she taking him for a joke?

BOOM.

Jorg exerted pressure unlike which Makun had seen before.

Thud. Thud.

Bruno, Melissa and every other mystic in the room fell down to their Knee under the pressure of a third grade Adept Graviton Sovereign Warrior.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep