System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 300: The Red Storm Finally Breaks
Alphonse Willie’s room.
Dim yellow magic lamplight showed several faces, each with a different expression.
Roy studied them from the corner of his eye, five well-equipped enforcers whose melee attributes surpassed the twenty-odd guards outside.
One sorcerer, the same man he had seen at the Vanilla Inn last time, named Chester. The silver ankh at his neck flickered with magical light. At seventy-five, he was still considered young, and judging from his skills, his magical cultivation was not especially refined.
At the very least, he was far inferior to Lytta Neyd.
The five bodyguards and the sorcerer stood respectfully not far from their boss, guarding him.
Their eyes warily examined the visitor.
Beneath their armor, their clothes were stretched high by muscle, and their stances were held in the posture most suited for striking.
Clearly, the ruler of the Willie Gang had been guarding against him from beginning to end.
“Master Roy, sit wherever you like...”
“Let us speak openly. What shameful secret does Your Excellency have that must be discussed with me face to face?”
A voice rasped like a file. The man turned his chair and faced him, revealing a thin, gloomy face.
His narrow eyes hid a deep madness. His hooked nose and thin lips gave him a particularly mean look.
His pale cheeks were marked by dark circles and red blotches born of excess.
Alphonse Willie
Gender: Male
Age: 42
Identity: Leader of the Willie Gang. He built the Willie Gang from an insignificant small-time crew into one of Novigrad’s four major crime syndicates, maintaining dominance for twelve years. Poet.
...
“If you have some strange illness, I can summon the finest physicians in the North. If you want to find someone, I can mobilize the entire gang, search all of Novigrad, and dig three feet into the ground to find them for you. But you must represent the Willie Gang and win the coming Fist of Fury.”
“Boss Alphonse, what comes next concerns personal privacy.” Roy shook his head and glanced at the bodyguards. “Could we speak elsewhere?”
“No need to worry. Apart from Master Chester, they are children I raised from youth. Absolutely loyal, tight-mouthed.” Alphonse lay in his swivel chair as if paralyzed, his index finger rhythmically tapping the desk. “Even if they die, they will not reveal your secret. I guarantee it on the honor of the Willie family.”
“If you insist on such an unreasonable demand...” The man planted both elbows on the desk, rested his chin on the backs of his overlapped hands, and stared at the Witcher as his tone grew heavier. “I can only assume you have ulterior motives.”
“Then as you say.” Roy shrugged and sat down in the chair opposite him. Across a desk, his dark-gold pupils did not blink. “Boss Alphonse, I came today to ask you a question face to face.”
“Let me hear it.”
Roy drew a deep breath and questioned him, word by word.
“If I had not returned to Novigrad, what would have become of Old Mole and his family? Would you have tortured and abused them to death, then made them the protagonists of your next unrhymed, dog-shit poem?”
“Shing.”
In an instant, blades left their sheaths. The five bodyguards surrounded Roy so tightly no water could pass, snorting through their nostrils and glaring at him.
“Witcher, I warn you only once. Never insult my life’s work. Not one word.” Alphonse drew a deep breath. Anger flashed across his face and vanished. His trembling index finger waved in front of the Witcher, almost poking his face, spittle flying. “The last one who did that, I threw into the sea and planted a nest of coral on her. Do you want to go down and keep her company?”
The Witcher’s face was expressionless.
“Hah ... Now, back to the matter at hand. Have you misunderstood something? The three sinners who bullied Old Mole have already received their due punishment. Hands, tongues, you saw them all. Are you still unsatisfied, and determined to take their lives?”
“That is not what my information says.” Roy slightly lifted his face. “Before this, Vincent and his two men told me clearly and plainly that you instructed them to torture Old Mole.”
Alphonse was silent for two seconds, then suddenly sneered.
“Why do Witchers always like digging to the root, doing needless things?”
He narrowed his eyes and shook his head in disdain.
“If you know the truth, what can you do? So young, yet already seeking death?”
“Is it worth going against the gang for an insignificant little man?” Cold light flickered in Alphonse’s narrow eyes as he questioned him again and again, then painted a beautiful picture. “As long as you cooperate with me, beauties, status, wealth, you may take as you please. Once you win the tournament and secure ownership of that ownerless land, you can also take a share and develop a personal business.”
“From then on, you will never again have to wade through filthy gutters, crawl into poor villages to keep drowners company, and take dirty, dangerous contracts for one or two hundred crowns.”
“Risking life and limb with no dignity at all.”
One had to admit, to any Witcher, the offer was quite tempting.
“It is a simple account. Even a born halfwit could calculate it clearly. Must you be a fool and quarrel with money?”
After Alphonse finished, he slumped backward in his swivel chair.
“One final piece of advice. In this world, aside from money, everything spoils.”
“A tempting proposal. But apologies, I came to see you this time for only one purpose.” Roy sat in the chair and swept his eyes around. The five bodyguards were close at hand, gripping their sword hilts, ready to launch a thunderbolt strike at any moment. The sorcerer guarded Alphonse’s side, magic surging, elemental radiance gathering at his fingertips...
He suddenly smiled. His dark-gold pupils contracted into diamond shapes, like a coiled viper locking onto prey.
“To settle your mother’s account.”
Intimidate.
The five guards watching hungrily all shuddered at once. Their irises reflected writhing, hideous tentacles. Their faces filled with terror, and they lost control of their bodies.
The Witcher abruptly reached out. His long, powerful hand drew a snow-bright blade from thin air, thin as a cicada’s wing.
He twisted and spun.
“Swish.”
A half-moon of white light appeared, and five flowers of blood bloomed.
Five large men clutched throats gushing blood and fell without a sound. The neat, lavish desk was stained scarlet.
Alphonse Willie had passed through killing fields and survived countless assassinations. Seeing this, he did not panic at all. He pushed against the edge of the desk and rolled backward in his swivel chair.
Beside him, Sorcerer Chester stepped forward. Scorching flame emerged from his palm, and a destructive fireball was about to take shape.
“Whoosh.”
In the blink of an eye, the Witcher drew a hand crossbow from thin air.
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