Instead of Arya, I prefer her mom (Chapter 29) (Patreon)

A scrawny man, sitting at the nearest table, suddenly chuckled. His appearance was unsettling, possessing a head covered entirely in greasy hair. His skin seemed artificially taut, drawn starkly over his bones. One eye was milky white – clearly blind – but without a scar.

“Poor little lamb, lured to a place like this. Didn’t your parents teach you to be distrusting of strangers? Well, not like we mind. ‘Aint a single person here who don’t prefer fresh meat, nice and tender.”

Malicious sneers broke out across the gathered hooligans’ faces, their greedy eyes travelling up and down Cedric’s body. Yet, the disgust he felt toward them didn’t sour his enthusiasm.

“Malthinae.”

He absentmindedly spoke a word, a heavy weight settling over the mooks like they’d been cast in cement.

Cedric was itching to get started, though unsure of where to begin. However, the more he thought about it, he realized these criminals’ usefulness extended beyond bodies to experiment on. At least, having a few people to run errands for him wasn’t a bad idea.

“Uuugh…?!”

Sounds of confusion and panic spontaneously broke out in the room, the goons’ eyes widening, rolling around frantically in their skulls. The effect on their bodies was immediate and impossible to miss.

Even if it were a subtle spell, the spoken ancient language was extraordinary. It held a kind of power that carved itself into the listeners’ minds like chisels on stone.

Cedric felt his strength leaving him. Restraining eleven full-grown adults was still taxing, despite having bolstered his energy. He’d not be able to keep the binding longer than perhaps thirty minutes—if relying solely on himself.

His face was a mask of concentration, extending sharp tendrils of thought toward their minds. He was quite competent at it, having trained against lesser creatures many times before.

First staring his practice years ago, he quickly reached a point were draining a single mind became effortless. With the dearth of challenge, sans humans, there was only one way to increase his mental powers—multitasking. He learned how to divide his mind, spiking and draining multiple prey at once. It was extremely difficult, and at the start, even two or three divisions made him feel like a pinched nerve; experiencing a kind of numb, buzzing pain.

However, that was a long time ago, and his abilities were far greater now.

The moment he penetrated their minds, burrowing into their consciousness, their expressions morphed to pure horror. They had no idea what was happening, but the sense of invasiveness was terrifying, like a parasite wriggling around the base of their skulls.

Their struggles doubled, as did the drain on Cedric’s strength, but he remained calm. A handful of seconds later, he found what he’d been looking for. Like a blood-sucking bat, latched onto the neck of helpless cattle, he started ‘drinking’. The influx of mana was exhilarating, like pure, distilled power.

“Aaargh…!”

Strange, animal cries and haunting wails sounded from the criminals, their faces growing pale and clammy.

In the rear, the barwoman suddenly stiffened, muscles spasming under her skin. Her eyes rolled up in her skull, blood starting to dribble from one nostril. She seemed to be experiencing something like a heart attack or aneurism.

Cedric was briefly pulled from his euphoria, feeling her lifeforce flickering and draining away rapidly. It seemed that, under his ‘ministrations’, some hidden condition or illness had surfaced.

Unwilling to be wasteful, Cedric stopped moderating himself, drawing out the entirety of her mana. It rushed into him like a gust of icy wind. He closed his eyes, basking in the sensation. It was intoxicating.

The woman’s seizures grew stronger until she dropped to the floor. Nobody could see her, but Cedric knew she was shriveling up like a grape in the sun. Moments later, she was dead, a grey, lifeless husk.

Having made his point, and filled to the brim in any case, Cedric slowly relaxed his draw, along with the spell. Weakened as they were, the scoundrels weren’t going anywhere—not without his permission.

As one man, they sagged in their chairs, their faces pale and bloodless, and seeming thinner than before. Some fell over, or collapsed where they stood.

Cedric took in the sight of them, analyzing his feelings. He realized that their suffering didn’t bother him one bit—a convenient fact, given he’d probably be doing worse in the future.

“Interesting… I didn’t expect to stumble across a pirate hideout.”

Having dug through their memories, he’d realized the truth of the situation. They were part of a large pirate gang called ‘the Red Bones’, this being one of their coastal hideouts. Some were stationed here permanently, managing operations, while others rotated in and out as ships arrived and departed.

“…w-witch boy…!”

A big, lumbering man with a bald head was the first to react, his trembling fingers reaching for a club at his side. In a different situation, he might’ve proved intimidating, but as it was, his anemic, shivering appearance could only be described as pitiful.

“Shut your mouth, you dumb oaf…”

It was a grey-haired man from who spoke up, half-slumped over his table. With white-knuckled concentration, he gripped the frame of his chair, trying to sit upright.

“…another word and I slice you from gut to gullet!”

Cedric was somewhat surprised when the entire room settled down. He didn’t dig too deeply into their memories, but knew this man wasn’t their leader. That role belonged to the woman behind the bar, now dead.

The man took a deep breath, reaching slowly into his vest before withdrawing a wicked knife. Suddenly, he raised it into the air before bringing it down on his own hand, severing his little finger. Aside from a tightening in his neck and veins wriggling under his skin, he showed no sign of pain.

Cedric stood there, incredibly surprised. He was still wondering how to react when the man did it again, this time hacking off his ring finger. Blood spurted from the stumps, painting the tabletop crimson.

When he was done, he raised two faded, blue eyes toward Cedric. After having his mana drained and now this, he seemed one moment away from passing out. However, when his ‘tormentor’ didn’t respond, he gritted his teeth, hands trembling and twitching as he raised the knife again.

“Enough.”

Despite himself, Cedric was impressed. He doubted he was capable of such self-mutilation. The man’s decisiveness was also commendable. He didn’t waste time by grovelling, providing an ‘apology’ to make up for his comrades’ trespasses.

Cedric whispered a few words, watching with interest as the man’s wounds closed up. He wouldn’t be getting his fingers back, otherwise there’d be little point to his ‘gesture’.

“What’s your name?”

Some of the tension in the man’s face drained away as the pain receded, the bleeding staunched, and flesh and skin stitched together before everyone’s eyes. A few seconds later, the stumps were like old scars, without even a hint of redness.

“…it’s Silver, master warlock.”

Cedric held ‘Silver’s’ gaze a while longer before giving a slow nod.

“Well, you’re not half stupid, it seems. That’s good—I’d not have my help be a group of knuckle-draggers. Ah, I forgot to ask, but you-…”

His eyes swept the surroundings, looking at each fearful, white-faced pirate in turn.

“…will lend me your services, won’t you? If you refuse, well, I’d be real disappointed.”

Predictably, there wasn’t a single dissenting voice.

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When the mysterious young man left – Cedric never having introduced himself – tense silence stretched inside the basement.

Suddenly, one of the men swore, smashing a clay jar on his table. Turbid liquid sprayed everywhere, soaking into the wooden top and floorboards.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK! First that bullshit job and now this…!”

Despite his attitude, his tone was more fearful than angry.

Silver’s eyebrows scrunched together, but he didn’t reprimand the man. Extending his good hand, he gathered the two severed fingers before folding them in a brown cloth.

Suddenly, the pirate looked toward him, his eyes wide and expression wild. A mop of dark hair framed his face, and he’d a long, black beard, hanging down his chest in a braid.

“I knew this was a mistake, we never should’ve agreed to take this post! I’m not dying like this, not with some witch boy’s hand up my ass like a gods’ damned puppet-…!”

However, before he could finish, a familiar knife, still stained with blood, flew out, striking him dead in the throat. He stumbled backward, his stupefied expression almost amusing as he scrabbled at the handle, feeling it sticking out.

By the time he processed what’d happened, his features assembling into a face full of bitter hatred and the desire for revenge, he was already dead.

The legs of a chair scraped across the floor as Silver stood, walking over to the corpse and retrieving his blade. The rest of the pirates watched him warily, not letting out so much as a peep.

“Whether on sea or land, I’m the captain of this here little crew. And I won’t tolerate mutiny. You sorry, lily-livered mongrels best not forget that.”

His voice was calm, though slightly hoarse, as he wiped the knife on the dead man’s shirt before stowing it away.

After his words had a chance to sink in, a different pirate spoke up, his tone unsure. This one wasn’t nearly as grizzled as the rest, seeming in his late teens, his face covered in fuzz that couldn’t even generously be called a beard.

“…what’ll we do now, mister Silver? I mean, I-I’ll stick with the crew no matter what, but with Magra dead, won’t we get in trouble…?”

Silver eyed the boy, who was indeed called ‘Boy’ by the crew, his real name being too much of a mouthful.

“As long as the money keeps coming in, they won’t care if that whore is dead.”

A dirty looking man with thinning brown hair, plastered messily over his bald-spot, spoke morosely.

“Maybe, maybe not. But that witch-boy is the real problem… I hated his guts as much as everyone else, but Rulf had the right idea.”

This time, it was a different dark-skinned pirate with a scarred face, speaking while eyeing the corpse carefully. He looked like he hailed from down south. Among the crew, he was aptly nicknamed as ‘Black’.

“Best thing we can do right now is piss off in a hurry. We’re just small timers. This ‘aint the kind of thing we want to get involved in.”

Silver listened to them talk. Taking a flask from somewhere and unscrewing it, the pungent smell of spirits drifted outward, evidencing the brew’s strength. He raised it to his mouth, swallowing a few times before sighing in satisfaction.

After restowing it and procuring a greasy-looking cigar from one pocket, his eyes wandered the interior, thoughtful.

“This might be a good opportunity to change that…”

The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but didn’t say anything. They knew what he meant – Silver was unsatisfied with their status in the underground.

“You mean… you want to take this ‘job’, mister Silver?”

Silver raised his hand to his face, taking in the sight of his now-maimed fingers. He was no less capable of thinking critically, despite what’d happened. In fact, that was perhaps his most useful trait—the ability to keep calm in situations like these.

The warlock made it clear there’d be consequences if they fled. However, even if that weren’t the case, Silver might have remained anyway. Their situation was risky, but that was nothing new for his crew.

Something he’d learned in his years freebooting is opportunity often accompanied risk, and this might just be what they’d been looking for.

“…for now, we get some rest. After that, we clean this place up. When our ‘employer’ returns, well, we’ll take things from there…”

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