NOVPUB
Chapter 53: Come to Collect
The slums of Esgard was still as disgusting as the first time Ian was there.
Cracked cobblestones sloshed underfoot with stagnant water, and the buildings that stood on either side were crooked things—bent and patched like corpses dressed in borrowed skin.
Smoke leaked from chimneys that hadn’t seen maintenance in years, and the low psst of whispered deals buzzed behind every boarded-up window and curtain-drawn shack.
Underneath their thick cloaks, Ian and Eli walked side by side, hoods pulled low, faces shadowed. Despite the time of night, figures lingered in alleyways like phantoms—ragged beggars, toothless whores, and watchful eyes paid to notice everything and say nothing.
Their destination was ahead, a decrepit tavern that looked like it had survived a fire, a riot, and a siege—The Rat’s Nest. 𝚗ov𝚙𝚞𝚋.c𝚘m
Ian pushed the door open, its hinges groaning like a dying animal.
Eli stepped in behind him.
The stale scent of blood still clung to the air, despite the efforts to clean the place. Tables had been righted.
The bodies—once strewn in pools of their own entrails—were gone. But the stains remained. Brown-red streaks on the floor, the dark blotches on the ceiling, the cracks where blood had dried and flaked.
Memories of the last time Ian stood here, soaked in gore and viscera, flickered through his mind.
Near the center of the tavern sat Blackrat, leaning back in a chair, a half-drunk glass of gin in front of him. His ever-weary, rodent-like eyes lit up as they entered.
"Gentlemen," he said, lifting his glass lazily. "I’ve been expecting you."
Eli scanned the room once, then turned toward the left side of the tavern—where four large bags sat stacked like small treasure mounds, tied with thick rope.
"I’m guessing everything went successfully," Eli said.
"It did, in fact," Rat replied with a wide grin, gold tooth flashing. "Better than we ever hoped."
Ian approached the bags, brow raised. "What were the odds?"
"Forty-eight." Rat chuckled, almost in disbelief. "We did our job inflating the odds, but regardless nobody believed you’d survive—not even me. But you... somehow, someway... did."
Eli smirked. "So the reward?"
Rat gestured with flourish toward the bags.
"Four point eight million gold. Minus my ten percent commission, of course."
Eli whistled under his breath. "Impressive."
Ian didn’t speak.
Instead, he stepped toward the first bag, gripped it with one hand, and with a faint shimmer—it vanished. He moved on to the next, repeating the motion, storing each in his inventory until the entire pile was gone, leaving nothing but rope impressions on the floor.
Rat blinked, then laughed nervously. "Every time you do that, I feel like I’m witnessing a magician rob the gods."
"Don’t worry," Ian muttered. "I’m only robbing the city."
Rat’s smile faltered.
"Also," Rat said, setting his glass down, "word of warning—the Church’s interest in Ian is growing. Rapidly. Obsessively. I have ears in a few sanctified corners. I’d advise keeping your head low."
Eli’s face didn’t change. "We’ll keep that in mind."
"I assume," he continued, "you’re already working on inflating odds for the next match?"
Rat sighed and leaned back. "That’s where the problem starts."
"What do you mean?" Eli asked.
Rat shook his head. "Right now, I’m certain it’s impossible to get Ian’s odds above five, no matter who they pit him against."
Ian, having finished storing the loot, turned back toward the conversation, eyes narrowing. "Why? Torkas nearly killed me. It wasn’t a clean win."
"That’s exactly why," Rat said, tapping a finger on the table. "If you’d killed Torkas easily, they’d think you were just a better fighter. Some people in the League of Champions are. But what everyone saw... what they can’t stop talking about..."
He leaned forward.
"Is that you wouldn’t die. You took attacks that should’ve ended you. You bled enough to drown. And now you stand before me, not even a scratch."
"They’re calling you the monster that won’t die in the streets. The unkillable demon. Some think you’re cursed. Others think you’re a revenant."
Ian said nothing, only folded his arms, watching Rat carefully.
"So," Eli said, "they don’t think he’s the strongest..."
Rat nodded. "Ofcourse a majority still think him weaker than the leauges higher ranked fighters. However a few think he’s something worse. Unkillable."
Eli scowled. "So if they believe he can’t be killed, the odds can’t go too high, because no matter how strong the opponent, it’s assumed he’ll just keep getting back up."
"Exactly."
"What’s your solution?" Eli asked.
Rat smiled faintly. "Simple. If the odds drop..."
He raised his glass.
"...we just bet bigger. That’s the rule."
He didn’t get to finish the sip.
The door slammed open with a bang.
A squat, rotund man stumbled inside, huffing and wiping sweat from his bald forehead. His eyes found Rat immediately and widened.
"Rat! There’s news—you need to hear it. It’s life and de—"
Then he saw Eli. And Ian.
He froze.
"You... You’re the Demonblade," the man breathed, pointing at Ian. "And you—you’re Eli. The Plague of the Western Front."
A long silence followed.
Ian turned slowly to Rat. Eli didn’t move.
Rat exhaled. "This is Borhag. A known criminal in these parts. Good reputation. Sealed lips. I trust him."
Ian stepped forward. In a blink, his hand was around Borhag’s neck.
The man let out a short gasp—then crack.
His body dropped to the floor like meat.
"We don’t," Ian said. "We know you have something to lose if you talk. He didn’t. That was reason enough."
Rat flinched, but didn’t argue.
"What about the message?" Eli asked. "He had something urgent."
Ian closed his eyes.
[Death Whisperer – Active]
The air stilled. A cold ripple passed through the room. Ian’s head tilted slightly. Then he opened his eyes.
"He was going to tell you that the Redwater Gang got word of your winnings. They’re planning an attack. Soon."
Rat shot to his feet. " Is that true? How the hell do you know that?!"
"I just do," Ian said flatly. "Trust me."
Rat’s face darkened. "This is... problematic."
