Chương 92: Back-Breaking Work II

Mortimer wrung out the towel onto the wooden floor while meeting the murder-filled gaze of the bartender with his own dead-eyed one.

"You know… the dry cleaning fees in Lengue are exorbitant." Drips of blood dotted the floor with silent intervals in between the next. Drip The silence grew. Drip Drip The silence grew louder. Drip"Ah, yes, I remember the secret phrase now. It was"The clock and the Ten-Eye struck at 12"…. Isn't that right, boyo?" Mortimer's wrinkled face turned into a grin, looking at the wide-eyed bartender slowly backing towards the cleaver, stuck in the dismembered human limb.

The bartender turned around suddenly, but just as his fingers wrapped around his cleaver's leather handle, a loud boom rang out as the man's hand was blown off by a flintlock gingerly resting in Mortimer's grip.

"I'm quite fond of this gun, you see; my old lord bought this for me at a garage sale when exploring the wonders of the mundane world. I apologize for the pain; my aim isn't what it used to be. Maybe a few more attempts, and I may finally be able to see if a bartender's liver truly leaks perfectly mixed drinks." The bartender dropped behind the counter while screaming in pain. One of the bar's occupants stood up, unholstered a gun, and pointed it at the old man, while the others unsheathed daggers and knives alike.

"Seems like I used the phrase that meant I was an imposter instead! Right boyo!?" Mortimer blew the rising smoke off the barrel of his flintlock and holstered the gun within his coat before slowly unsheathing a sword from within his cane. The lamb bleated weakly once more, and Mortimer instantly snapped his wrist to deflect an incoming bullet with his cane before kicking a round table towards the gunman, tearing out a piece of the bolted floor along with it.

He flourished his blade, then whipped it up to drag his fingers along the sharp end, leaving a thin trail of blood coating it.

"IGNITE" The air around the blade distorts and blooms into a violent, unfurling flame with tendrils of fire reaching out. Mortimer plunged the blade into the wooden floor, letting the fire spread around, before gingerly lifting it once more and making murderous eye contact with the remaining few bar occupants. The bartender weakly cried behind the counter, the lamb weakly bleated in its dying moments, and the pinned gunman weakly groaned under the weight of the shattered table.

'5.' Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Only 5 occupants were left standing, and all 7 of Mortimer's foes hesitated to approach the old man. So, Mortimer began walking to his foes instead at a measured pace, making sure not to crease his designer shoes or let the spreading flames lick his suit. His eyes intensified, and the entire room darkened and distorted, making 3 of the bar goers collapse.

Mortimer continued his steady pace, weaving around tables at a slow pace and stepping over limp bodies without care as he casually chased the remaining 2 bar goers around their tables. The fire had begun spreading to encompass the entrances, so Mortimer, with a regretful sigh, grabbed another table and chipped a stake from it with his blade before whispering something to it.

In a single bound, he chopped off the legs of one of the two remaining bar-goers and slammed them into the ground before gravity took hold of them. He jammed the fashioned stake into the man's bicep, pinning him helplessly to the ground with no hope of escaping the crawling flames.

Mortimer then tapped the hilt of his cane blade to his wrist before throwing it through the last bar goer's neck with a trail of flesh behind it, and with a flick of his forearm, the trail of flesh rapidly retreated back into his hand and brought his cane back into his grip. He killed only one of the bar goers and incapacitated the rest. He didn't plan on letting them live, but he would rather let the fires consume them instead of wasting time. They couldn't move anyway.

Mortimer casually weaved around the bar counter and grabbed the butcher's cleaver before silencing the weakly bleating goat. He then grabbed a full bottle of whisky and swished it around before shattering the top against the counter and pouring its contents into his mouth. The bartender slowly backed away as Mortimer took his time finishing his drink. The moment the old man was done being distracted by his drink, the bartender paled further.

Mortimer walked down a dark stairwell with his cane hooked on his forearm and a faceless, bleeding bartender in tow, thumping against each step down into the underground hideout.

'I don't think June's going to be too happy he couldn't kill these fools himself.' Mortimer muttered something to himself and opened his eyes with a red glow.

'Night vision magic never ceases to amaze me.' After a minute of walking downward through the U-shaped stairwell, Mortimer was greeted with warm lamplight and two guards, whom he immediately tossed the bartender's corpse at. He used the moment they staggered to ram their skulls into the stone walls and shatter them into bloody pulps. The old man sighed once more and pulled out another pristine towel and wiped the blood from his hands and suit with it.

"The dry cleaning fees are going to eat my salary up… maybe I should acquire a new suit instead?" Mortimer rummaged through the guard's bodies for a key ring or anything that may have been of importance and found an ornate ring with a sigil of a flower with a skull in it.

"This symbol again… the same people who looted my studio… and…" Mortimer calmly removed the mosaic mask magically covering his face and slowly removed his dentures with a wad of drool stringing from his mouth to his artificial teeth. His mouth began to bubble in blood as new inhuman spines ejected from his mouth in gnarly formations. The old man took a finger and pierced his cheek and dragged his hand along, tearing the skin and letting new formations of grotesque teeth take their place.

His arms began to swell, and horns of several sizes began to sprout from his skull, sputtering around incongruently. Mortimer searched far and wide using all the resources and power of the Harth kingdom, but even then, the old man couldn't find anything involving the nefarious, unnamed gang. He refused to simply believe that a Dreamer who could go toe-to-toe with him in raw power would run a small gang of 20 Aspirants when Dreamers were viewed as demigods or even gods in some places.

It felt too small-scale for a Dreamer of similar calibre to him. Even the incompetent Prince Martin would command a larger following despite his Aspirant-level strength; his Dreamer status alone made him akin to a king. In the end, Mortimer only found gangs or groups with similar symbols but no relation, but the fact that a group with the same sigil attacked Harth again meant that they were more than he gave them credit for.

When he completes his mission of purging the branch and collecting information, Mortimer is going to grasp at any straws once again to find out the true identity of Harth's attackers. And thoroughly purge every single one.