Chapter 149: The Blind Eye
No one answered. The tavern remained eerily silent.
The cold wind howled through the open door, making the flickering flames in the hearth tremble. Shadows danced along the wooden walls, stretching like specters, and the temperature plummeted further. The dancing girls shivered, but none dared to halt their movements or ask the towering, black-robed figure to close the door. Their once-graceful steps grew heavy, the rhythm faltering under the oppressive atmosphere.
The tavern owner forced a broad smile, though his fingers trembled as he wiped a glass with a stained rag. His eyes darted between the dwindling fire and the hooded man, trying to assess the situation.
"At least close the door first!" he thought bitterly. "And why would someone of his caliber be here of all places? Shouldn't he be dealing with the higher-ups of this world? Damn it, Lake, what kind of mess have you dragged into my tavern?"
Despite his inner complaints, his expression remained welcoming as he stepped forward to greet the newcomer.
Before he could speak, Big Belly Lake exhaled heavily, taking a deep gulp of oat wine before addressing the stranger in a boisterous voice.
"Sir, close the door first! The oat wine in my hand is getting cold!"
His tone was deliberately cheerful, though those who knew him well could sense the tension beneath his words. He turned to the tavern owner, Old Bob, and waved his hand.
"Bring out the best wine in your shop! Tonight, I'm treating this gentleman to a proper drink!" He then glanced at the dancers, smirking. "And ladies, don't let this handsome fellow distract you too much—keep those feet moving!"
Even beneath the hood, the black-robed man's exposed features radiated an almost unnatural charm. Strength, raw and unrestrained, had an allure that transcended fear. It was an instinct buried deep within the lesser beings—to admire, to yield.
Lake gestured toward an empty seat, his posture relaxed despite the heavy presence across from him. He was no fool; he knew strength when he saw it.
Even the city lord, a proud ninth-rank warrior, bore the marks of snow and wind upon his cloak when he braved the elements. Yet this man, a stranger, entered Winter City without so much as a single snowflake clinging to him.
To warriors like Lake, a former mercenary leader of the Blood Raven Corps and a seventh-rank fighter himself, this was a sign of immense power—one that defied nature itself.
But so what?
Death came for everyone, sooner or later.
The black-robed figure—Ragna—curved his lips slightly, reaching out with a gloved hand to shut the tavern door. As it closed with a heavy thud, the wind and snow ceased their intrusion.
Almost immediately, the temperature in the room began to rise again, yet the tension remained thick.
No one wanted to sit beside a lion, even if it seemed uninterested in hunting.
The mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances, their tankards suddenly feeling heavier in their hands.
Ragna moved with measured steps, his presence suffocating yet refined, and took a seat across from Lake. Slowly, he lifted his hood, revealing striking features and piercing eyes that held an otherworldly depth. His voice was deep, steady.
"Hello, I'm Ragna. I'm interested in your Dark Tide."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
The Seeker of Faith
Ragna had come to Orland Continent alone, suppressing his psionic energy to avoid unnecessary attention. While he was not afraid of the local powers, he was also not reckless. He sought information, faith, and above all—answers.
The gods, those who reigned as one of the most dominant forces in the cosmos, were not to be trifled with. Even with the might of a fifteenth-level psionic core burning within him, Ragna knew better than to challenge a pantheon blindly.
A single god might not be a concern. But an entire pantheon?
That was a different matter entirely.
A head-on battle would serve no purpose but destruction. Collateral damage alone would turn nearby planets to dust, and for what? A meaningless display of power?
No. This mission required strategy, not brute force.
And now, seated in this inconspicuous tavern, he sensed something peculiar in Lake—an energy signature far too refined for a world of this level.
Orland was a mere fifth-level civilization, a vassal planet of the Kass Pantheon. Its strongest warrior barely reached the twelfth rank. And yet, here, in this very room, was a presence that defied that scale.
An anomaly.
A potential threat.
And it came from that eye.
The Blind Eye
Lake remained silent, his grip tightening around his tankard. His gaze flickered toward Old Bob, who had just brought a fresh jug of wine. Without hesitation, he poured Ragna a full glass, then refilled his own.
"Drink first!" he declared, grinning wide. "It's been a while since I've had Old Bob's finest!"
He drank deeply, gulp after gulp, but the atmosphere did not return to normal.
The other mercenaries, once loud and rowdy, quietly set down their glasses. Slowly, they began leaving in groups, slipping out the door without a word.
None of them wished to be involved.
Whatever Ragna wanted from Big Belly Lake, it had nothing to do with them.
Ragna sipped his wine, analyzing the taste. It was crude, far from the refined spirits he had sampled on higher-tier worlds. But he drank nonetheless, all while continuously scanning Lake's energy signature.
The room was nearly empty now. The dancers, the owner, the patrons—all had vanished. Only the sound of crackling firewood and the occasional swallow of liquor remained.
Lake let out a deep breath, surveying the near-abandoned tavern. His one remaining eye, cloudy but sharp, reflected the dim light.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Lord Ragna," he said, his voice calm but firm. "What do you want to know?"
Ragna tapped his finger on the wooden table. "The Dark Tide. And…"
His gaze settled on the black eye patch covering Lake's right eye.
"That."
Lake's face froze.
A shadow of pain flickered across his features, but more than that—there was fear.
Deep, visceral fear.
His fingers twitched. His breath hitched.
Then, as if forcing himself back to reality, he let out a bitter laugh.
"That eye…" he murmured, almost to himself.
Memories surfaced—memories of something beyond comprehension, something he was never meant to see.
"…That eye…"
He exhaled sharply, his face hardening. His large, calloused hands curled into fists.
Then, in a voice devoid of emotion, he uttered the words that sent a chill through the room.
"I dug that eye out myself."
End of Chapter 149
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