The Velvet Paw Tavern

03

The debt-collecting ruffians outside, a relentless pack, hammered at the tavern door. Each blow, a dull, heavy mallet, struck the heart, stirring a rust into one’s very bones. At last, with a violent shudder, the already precarious door, like an old man too long burdened, gave way with a crash.

Dust billowed, churning the sunlight into a murky haze, and even the day itself was veiled by an imperceptible, faded grey of old times. A gang of grim-faced brigands burst in, each clutching a wooden club or a pitchfork. Their bearing wasn’t that of creditors come to collect, but rather of those bent on tearing down a home, possessed by a savage, unreasonable, naked lust for ruin. The air grew heavy, perilous, thick with an indefinable, unspeakable stench—a rankness of fermented grain and sweat that, on the first whiff, quite extinguished one’s appetite.

The man leading them was a giant, his face a landscape of coarse flesh, his bloodshot, menacing eyes as unsettling as the gleam of cheap, unwashed metal. A prominent knife-scar slashed his visage, from the corner of his right eye to the bridge of his nose; the grotesque gash further disfigured that already ugly countenance, adding an undisguised, murderous air, like a snarling dog kept on a short leash. That ferocity was the hardened, helpless grit steeped in the lower district’s perpetual grime. He swept his gaze around, his eyes finally, like a sticky insect, locking onto Ayn in the tavern’s center. A lewd gleam flickered within them—a light bearing an imperceptible, sickening greed, like the base glances of alley cats eyeing a fresh catch.

“Last night, in the dim light, our brothers were too busy smashing things, didn’t get a proper look. But today, well, heh!” Scarface offered a sinister smile, a smile like a desolate, dry well in winter, chilling to the bone, reeking of the revolting cunning only old hands possess, bearing a greasy, overly precise calculation of human affairs. “Young Master Martin was right, you truly are a pretty little thing!”

Ayn’s brows drew together, a wave of revulsion washing over him, a disgust like damp, cold cotton stuffing his chest. Yet, his face maintained an almost excessive, ill-suited composure, like a finely carved porcelain piece stubbornly refusing to c***k before a crude bricklayer. Though his transmigration to this strange world hadn’t panicked him, these brazen ruffians were alien and alarming. He was like a young master, too well-protected by his family, naive to the world’s harshness, now for the first time confronted with such naked, undisguised vulgarity—a crudity imbued with a raw, unadulterated, chilling malevolence. As a former freelancer, he’d scarcely brushed against such sordid matters. Now, facing this predicament, his mind felt momentarily lost, as if a fish raised in a glass bowl had suddenly been flung into a mud pond—the water in that pond mixed with sand, with weeds, and a certain indefinable filth belonging only to bygone days.

“What do you want?” He took a deep breath, striving for calm, his voice carrying a coolness unsuited for the occasion, like a sudden, ill-timed chill wind on a summer’s day.

Scarface let out a low chuckle, a laugh like a fishbone caught in his throat, hoarse and grating. “What do we want? Why, to have you, of course!” He then shifted tack, as if realizing his words were too blunt, quickly correcting himself with a touch of old fox cunning—a cunning forged by long years of surviving the gutter. “However, our brothers wouldn’t dare claim you for ourselves. Young Master Martin wouldn’t be pleased.” He continued with a mocking expression, “He’s ordered you to pay back your debt immediately, or else, he’ll come to seize you as collateral!”

Ayn’s heart sank, his brow furrowing deeper, his distress, like the dampness of a rainy day, gradually seeping into his mind, carrying a long-lingering, humid, depressing scent. “I am penniless now, and the tavern has been smashed to bits by you. What would you gain by taking me?”

“That’s not for you to decide!” Scarface sneered, a flicker of impatience in his eyes—an impatience like a long-starved beast, its gaze ferocious, a ferocity born of survival’s most primitive, unvarnished law. “To tell you the truth, Young Master Martin doesn’t even care about those few gold coins, but a beauty like you, heh heh, you’re his favorite! Young, tender, and innocent—truly irresistible.” Scarface and his gang erupted in coarse chuckles, their hands making lewd gestures towards Ayn.

Ayn felt a wave of nausea, a sickness like swallowing a fly, churning stickily and inescapably in his gullet. But he showed no outward sign, only calmly retorted, “Then tell me, who exactly is Young Master Martin?”

At Ayn’s question, Scarface’s smile instantly vanished, his gaze turning grave—a solemnity bearing the lower classes’ innate awe of the powerful, like an old servant’s deeply ingrained, unconscious subservience before wealth.

“You were born in the lower district, you’ll likely never see such a grand figure in your life. Young Master Martin is the youngest son of a powerful Earl, the darling of the Earl’s manor, his influence reaching to the heavens. All of us in the lower district combined aren’t worth one of his fingers. He particularly fancies beauties your age. Anyone who dares cross him ends up with no corpse left whole! You’d best be obedient, or when Young Master Martin gets angry, you’ll regret it.”

Ayn’s heart sank. This so-called “Young Master Martin” was not to be underestimated, and this man before him seemed to be a scoundrel with some favor in his master’s eyes, like a fattened, vicious hound waiting for its owner’s command to lunge and bite, its fangs carrying a bloodthirsty, indulged, ill-timed arrogance.

Yet, as Scarface uttered his name, a notion suddenly sparked in Ayn’s mind—a thought like a faintly flickering firefly in the night, though weak, carrying an undeniable glow, a subtle light imbued with an inscrutable, primal desire to survive.

He took a deep breath and said, “Even so, turning me over wouldn’t benefit you at all, would it?” He watched Scarface’s expression shift, calmly continuing, “For you, if I repay the debt, you naturally get your share of the commission. But if you turn me over, what do you get? A verbal commendation from Young Master Martin? Or a meager meal and drink? Your Glam Gang, such a large gang, with so many brothers, every mouth needs to feed. I needn’t waste my breath telling you which choice is better, need I?”

Scarface’s expression abruptly changed, a transformation like a magic trick, too swift to follow, like a suddenly changing face of a clown on an old stage, with a touch of the absurd. Ayn knew he had struck a vital chord. He silently let out a sigh of relief, a release accompanied by the chill of a narrow escape, like a cold draft from a window c***k, making him shiver. Then, he seized the moment to strike.

“Grant me three months’ grace. In three months, I will return the thirty gold coins in full, not a coin less. How does that sound?” Ayn’s gaze was firm, his tone calm, as if he held all the cards—a self-assurance hinting at an inscrutable, desperate acumen, an acumen born of a clever mind’s sharp scent for vulnerabilities, a knack for calculation that seemed almost out of place in such a raw world.

Scarface’s lips curled into a cold sneer. “Three months? Dream on! We’ll give you one more month. You must come up with fifty gold coins! Refuse, and we’ll take you for collateral right now! For us, getting nothing is better than getting into trouble, and you should know how to choose.”

Ayn gritted his teeth, the sound of them grinding like fine grit, carrying a trace of unwillingness—that reluctance, a hint of despair, when faced with fate yet powerless to resist. “Agreed!”

Scarface’s eyes darted, his gaze revealing greed and calculation. “Words mean nothing!” He scrutinized Ayn, then roughly snatched the teardrop-shaped gemstone necklace from his neck, his action bearing a crude, almost savage possessiveness, like those unreasonable bandits of old who would grab whatever they saw. It was, after all, the sole thing of value Ayn possessed. “Take this as collateral for now!”

Just then, Little Jack, who had been trembling into silence, suddenly became agitated. He quickly tugged at Ayn’s sleeve, his tugging imbued with a childlike, naive urgency, like a yelping puppy whose tail has been stepped on. “Not that necklace!” he whispered urgently. “That’s the only thing your mother left you, you wear it every day, it’s very important to you!”

Ayn was silent for a moment, then spoke firmly, that firmness bearing a mature, helpless resolve—a resolve like a painful choice forced upon an adult. “Don’t worry, I will get it back.” He clapped Little Jack’s shoulder hard, the pat both comforting and a firm promise—a promise as fragile as a thin piece of paper in this world.

At Ayn’s insistence, Scarface reluctantly agreed to rewrite the debt note. Both parties agreed that the fifty gold coin debt would be repaid in one month. “One month from now, we’ll be back for our money. If you don’t have it, don’t blame us for being impolite.” That threat, like a malicious, oft-repeated curse, carried a weary repetition, within which lay the world’s unending exploitation of the weak.

After Ayn reluctantly agreed, Scarface and his men swaggered out of the tavern. Their backs disappeared down the sunlit street, carrying the brazen, self-important air peculiar to street ruffians—that arrogance, the most naked display of a small man’s triumph in this world. The tavern, now a shell of its former self, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Ayn to decide its fate.