Free Web NovelChapter 279: The Tifling Kingdom's Poisoned Cure
Ambrose cared little for human notions of morality. Something like voyeurism meant nothing to him, and neither did it offend him—but he absolutely could not allow his product to gain such a sordid reputation.
If word ever spread that his drones had originally been used to spy on women's bathhouses, how would he ever sell them again?
Many people believed that things catering to humanity's darker impulses sold best. In reality, aphrodisiacs would never outsell cold medicine, and a bard who sang nothing but lewd tavern tunes would never earn more than one who performed grand epics.
"I'm afraid I can't be involved in something like spying on bathhouses. That means we won't be doing business."
Ambrose refused decisively. He would not sacrifice long-term gains for short-term profit.
But his refusal displeased the orc ranger, who held onto the controller and refused to let go.
"You said a free half-hour trial. What, are you backing out now? You think you can scam me without any consequences?"
The orc's biceps bulged and twitched, stretching his sleeves to the brink of tearing, a feat only an orc could manage.
Unfortunately for him, such intimidation meant nothing to Ambrose.
"What's this? Are you going to beat me up because I refused to help you spy on the upstairs bathhouse?"
He raised his voice so loudly that the entire tavern heard him. Heads turned instantly toward their table.
The orc froze, completely blindsided. Saying such things privately was one thing, but doing so publicly was another matter entirely.
Sure enough, the bartender began lining up empty bottles on the counter. The patrons' eyes gleamed as they stared over. It had been a long time since they'd had an excuse for a good brawl.
The orc tried to explain himself, but Ambrose gave him no chance, springing to his feet with righteous indignation. "I heard you complaining about being mistreated by your party, so I kindly recommended some alchemical gear. Is this how you repay me? Forcing me to spy on women bathing? And when I refuse, you threaten to beat me up? What kind of person are you? I shouldn't have helped you at all!"
"N-No, that's not—"
"Not what? You even tried to take my property and refused to return it! Isn't the proof in your hand?!"
"I-I... here, take it back!"
The orc hurriedly tossed the controller back.
Ambrose caught it, then sneered. "Scared now, are you? What are you all waiting for? Opportunities to beat someone up legally don't come often, and he's an orc at that! He's tough enough to take it!"
The tavern patrons rose one by one, closing in on the orc with eager expressions on their faces.
Ambrose was right. These adventurers risked their lives daily. Many were broke and forced to count every coin before buying a drink. They had few outlets to vent their frustrations.
A perfectly justified chance to beat someone was, indeed, rare.
Seeing that his companion was about to be pummeled, the tifling rogue interjected quickly, "Wait! This alchemist is lying through his teeth! He's the one who wanted to spy on the bathhouse!"
Ambrose chuckled and produced a memory crystal.
The rogue's eyes widened. Had he recorded the whole thing?
Ambrose shot him a disdainful look. "I run my business fairly. To avoid disputes, I record negotiations. I never expected to come across customers like you."
By then, the first bottle had gone smashing toward the orc's head.
The ranger reacted swiftly, catching it midair, but it made no difference. Dozens more followed.
Ambrose had already retreated to the side. Listening to the barrage of shattering glass, he sighed contentedly. "Sweetdew City really does have such... folksy... traditions."
Once the tifling and orc were lying bruised and battered on the floor, the bartender approached and tossed down a long bill. Every broken bottle and piece of furniture would be charged to them. Such was the straightforward morality of adventurers.
Ambrose had long since returned to the bar, sipping the ale he'd barely touched.
When the bartender came back, polishing a glass, he said, "Every time you visit, you bring a fair bit of excitement with you."
Ambrose glanced at him curiously. This bartender was a tall male tifling, whom Ambrose didn't remember. Last time, it had been an orc.
"You recognize me?" Ambrose asked.
"We keep records of... distinctive guests," the bartender replied. "Even if you change your appearance each time, we have our ways of identifying people. The last time you came, you brought that elven queen with you. A guest of that caliber appears here perhaps once in a century."
"Impressive," Ambrose said sincerely.
Catherine's disguise had hardly been flawless, but it certainly wasn't something ordinary people could see through.
"Next time," the tifling added, "try not to cause trouble like that. We can't always recoup our losses."
Taverns might hold a special place among adventurers, but collecting compensation depended on the owner's ability. Some adventurers were so poor that even selling them into slavery wouldn't cover any damages.
Others simply ran too fast to be caught.
Fortunately, these two unlucky fools belonged to a party. Compensation would be easier to extract.
Since his identity was already exposed, Ambrose didn't bother hiding it. "What's your name?"
"Akilov."
"Judging by your accent... you're from the Unholy Kingdom?"
"You're well-traveled. My accent is rural."
"I spent some time there myself, back when I was still an adventurer."
Ambrose began to reminisce. Over his centuries-long career as an adventurer, the place he had lingered the longest might well have been the tiflings' Unholy Kingdom.
There, he had slain a chosen of the Spider Queen, ruined an elven king, met countless allies and enemies—and found the stone tablet that first granted him the power of prophecy.
His life had begun to change from that moment on.
Akilov smiled, poured Ambrose another drink, then one for himself. "This one's on me—to the Unholy Kingdom."
They clinked glasses and drained them.
Ambrose couldn't taste the ale, but he could hear the meaning beneath the words.
"Has the tifling kingdom changed?" he asked.
"Of course it has," Akilov said. "Otherwise, why would I leave my homeland? Ever since Lyon began its expansion, we've had no choice but to rely on the power of Hell. We worked so hard to free ourselves from that bloodline curse—only to be forced back into becoming mongrel hybrids again."
Ambrose understood.
Tiflings were a peculiar race. Their ancestors had made a pact with a great entity of Hell, tainting their bloodline with infernal power.
Thus, most tiflings bore crimson skin, horns, scales, and tails. Some with stronger atavism even sprouted wings and resembled cambions.
They were not inherently evil, but their appearance invited discrimination. And if the world insisted on seeing you as a monster, you might as well become one.
Ironically, under the Dragon Tyrant, tiflings had suffered less discrimination.
After all, to the dragons, all other races were equal: they were nothing but slaves.
Only after Arthur Lyon slew the tyrant and helped them found the Unholy Kingdom did the tiflings gain a chance to redefine themselves. The name itself carried a hint of self-mockery, but they had been determined to sever ties with Hell.
They had finally stood upright, finally gained equality, and finally built a home for one and all. Who would willingly drag filth back into their own house?
For a long time, they had cast off the label of "mongrel."
Then, Lyon changed, and the tiflings had to adapt.
The royal court split into two factions. One insisted on maintaining distance from Hell; the other sought its power to resist Lyon's advancing armies.
What should have become a deadly civil conflict was instead stabilized by a certain sage.
Over a century ago, that sage persuaded the conservative faction to relinquish power. Now the Hell-aligned faction ruled, but under his restraint, their use of infernal power remained controlled. The kingdom had neither become a colony of Hell nor provoked divine intervention—no small feat.
For many gods, a large-scale invasion of Hell into the mortal world would justify immediate intervention without violating the ancient accords.
Balancing on that razor's edge, borrowing Hell's power without being struck down by the gods, spoke volumes about the sage's ability.
With infernal backing, the Unholy Kingdom had managed to hold Lyon at bay. Otherwise, like the dwarves and orcs, they might already have lost vast swaths of territory.
Now, more than a dozen Hellgates lined their borders. The tiflings claimed that, as long as Lyon did not invade, they would not unleash them. But if Lyon attacked, the consequences would be Lyon's responsibility.
Lyon, for its part, denounced the tiflings as fallen puppets of Hell, vowing eventual reckoning while venting its aggression elsewhere.
Akilov didn't look very old. When he said things had "changed," he likely meant more than just the infernal faction taking power. That had happened long ago. After all, relying on Hell's strength was much like drinking poison to quench one's thirst: short-term salvation in exchange for long-term ruin.
Could something else have gone wrong in the tifling kingdom?
