Chapter 293: Wanna Drink Then?

The last cards were cleared from the table, chips pushed forward with practiced motions as the dealer announced the result. Trafalgar rose from his seat without ceremony, calm and unhurried, as if winning had been the most natural outcome in the world."Well," he said, adjusting his coat slightly, eyes flicking toward Borin, "a promise is a promise."

Borin looked up at him, thick brows lifting before he broke into a wide grin, beard shifting with the motion. "Ha! I was wondering if you’d remember that."

Trafalgar smiled faintly. "Wanna drink, then?"

The dwarf’s laughter was immediate, deep and pleased. "Now you’re speaking my language."

As they stepped away from the poker table, Trafalgar’s expression remained relaxed, almost casual. Inside, however, his thoughts were already moving several steps ahead.

’Information,’ he reminded himself. ’That’s the real prize here.’

Alcohol wasn’t just indulgence—it was leverage. People talked more when their guard slipped, when pride softened and caution dulled. The problem was obvious enough.

’He’s a dwarf,’ Trafalgar thought, glancing briefly at Borin’s broad back as they walked. ’He has a stronger core, tougher body. Much higher tolerance to alcohol, pretty sure.’

He exhaled slowly.

’Difficult... but not impossible.’

They crossed deeper into the casino, away from the central tables. The atmosphere shifted subtly. The noise softened, laughter becoming more distant, replaced by the hum of conversation and the rhythmic clink of glasses. Warm mana-lights glowed along the walls, casting amber reflections over polished stone and dark wood.

To one side, betting tables drew smaller crowds. To the other, large mana-crystals projected moving images—monster races in progress. Massive beasts thundered across illusory tracks, crowds cheering as odds shifted in real time. Coins exchanged hands rapidly, excitement thick in the air.

Borin glanced toward the projections with mild interest. "Still running these, eh? Same as always."

"People like watching things run and crash," Trafalgar replied lightly. "Not much changes."

They reached a more secluded area—private seating half-shielded by decorative partitions and low mana barriers that dampened sound.

Borin took a seat first, clearly at ease. "I’ll say this," he said, leaning back, "you’re a man of your word. I respect that."

Trafalgar sat across from him, posture loose, unthreatening. "I don’t make offers I don’t intend to keep."

From the outside, this looked like two heirs enjoying a drink after a game. Inside, Trafalgar was already laying the groundwork.

The private table was tucked just far enough from the main floor to feel removed without being isolated. The low mana barrier dulled the roar of the casino into a distant hum—laughter, cheers, the rhythmic clatter of coins—leaving only the soft glow of enchanted lanterns and the faint shimmer of projected monster races bleeding through the partitions.

Trafalgar raised a hand.

A waitress approached almost immediately, her movements smooth, practiced. Demonkin, if he had to guess—human features, horns polished and discreetly adorned with gold rings.

"The strongest bottle you have," Trafalgar said calmly. "And the most expensive."

No hesitation. No glance at the price.

Borin’s grin spread wide, beard shifting as he let out a pleased rumble. "Now that’s the right attitude. I was worried you’d play it safe."

"I didn’t invite you to drink water," Trafalgar replied lightly.

The bottle arrived moments later. Thick glass. Heavy. The kind of thing meant to impress before it ever touched a cup.

Trafalgar reached for Borin’s glass first.

He poured.

And kept pouring.

Borin watched the level rise, his grin growing with it. "Hah—see? This is why I like you. No half-measures."

Trafalgar finally stopped and filled his own just as generously. They clinked glasses without ceremony.

The first drink went down easy.

Conversation followed naturally—too naturally for coincidence.

The academy came up first. Borin spoke of it with the tone of someone recounting a past life. How he’d left early. How fighting over heir positions never interested him. How he’d found more satisfaction in building than competing.

"Crafting’s honest," Borin said, swirling his drink. "You put work in, you get something real out. No politics in steel."

"Yet," Trafalgar noted.

Borin laughed. "Fair point."

By the second bottle, Borin had loosened further. By the third, his words carried more weight, less guard. Somewhere during the fourth, he mentioned it casually—almost as an afterthought.

"A few shops here and there," he said. "Chains, really. Items don’t sell themselves."

Trafalgar filed that away without reacting.

’A few shops,’ he repeated internally. ’Of course.’

He kept pace. Glass for glass. Bottle for bottle.

Borin began to sway slightly, laughter coming easier, pauses stretching longer.

Trafalgar felt nothing.

His primordial body burned the alcohol away as efficiently as it did poison, toxins dissolving before they could linger. A blessing. An annoyance.

’This is bullshit,’ he thought flatly, watching Borin’s cheeks flush. ’Back then in uni, this was the fun part.’

A memory surfaced—cheap drinks, loud music, no ulterior motives.

He pushed it aside.

The monster races continued in the background, beasts crashing and sprinting across glowing tracks as coins exchanged hands.

The conversation drifted naturally for a while longer, circling harmless topics—travel routes, academy instructors whose names Borin barely remembered, the absurdity of monster racing odds. Trafalgar let it breathe. Let Borin relax further.

Then, casually—almost lazily—he sighed.

"What a pain," Trafalgar muttered, lifting his glass and rolling it slightly between his fingers. "Of all people, my father sends me here. Like I don’t already have enough to deal with."

Borin snorted, the sound rough and amused. "Aye? First mission, then?"

"Something like that," Trafalgar replied. "Nine siblings. Nine. And somehow I’m the one who gets shipped off to hover around a warzone."

He took a sip, expression mildly annoyed. Just convincing enough.

Borin leaned back, chair creaking faintly beneath his weight. "You’re preaching to the choir, lad. Bad luck finds us all eventually."

"Oh?" Trafalgar glanced up, interest flickering just enough to seem genuine. "Sounds like you’re not here for leisure either."

Borin chuckled, then lowered his voice slightly. "Leisure? No. I’m here to think."

"About?"

"The outcome," Borin said plainly. "Someone’s going to come out on top. And my family intends to know who before everyone else does."

Trafalgar didn’t interrupt. He let the silence do the work.

"The Dvergar won’t march armies," Borin continued. "We won’t raise banners or throw soldiers into the mud. That’d be stupid." He tapped the table once, firmly. "We trade."

"Items," Trafalgar said quietly.

"Aye." Borin nodded. "Weapons. Armor. Tools. Reinforcements. You name it. We don’t pick sides—we sell to whoever can pay and win."

"And that doesn’t count as intervention?" Trafalgar asked, tone neutral.

Borin’s grin returned, slower this time. "Depends who you ask. The rules say no direct interference. Merchants aren’t soldiers." He shrugged. "War needs supplies. We simply meet demand."

Inside, Trafalgar’s thoughts sharpened.

’Just as I suspected,’ he noted. ’Capital wins wars as much as blades do.’

It was clever. Brutally so. Whoever emerged ahead would be flush with Dvergar-made gear—and whoever lost would bleed resources trying to catch up.

"Smart," Trafalgar admitted. "Cold. But smart."

"Don’t spread it around," Borin added, lifting a finger lazily. "I’m telling you because I trust you. Enough."

"You won’t hear it from me," Trafalgar replied.

Their eyes met briefly. An unspoken understanding settled between them.

"So," Borin said after a moment, "you’re really just here to watch? Front-row seat?"

Trafalgar nodded once. "Direct observation. Nothing more."

Borin hummed, thoughtful. "Then you’ve already seen how fast things move. That last battle..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Things won’t stay quiet long."

The last bottle was nearly empty by the time the atmosphere around their table began to shift.

Borin leaned back in his chair, laughter slower now, voice thicker. A few familiar faces had started drifting closer—people who clearly recognized him even in his current state. Subtle nods. Polite greetings. The kind reserved for someone important, even when no titles were spoken aloud.

Then the crowd parted slightly.

The owner of the hotel approached.

He was a demon, but at a glance, one could mistake him for a human noble. His skin was human-toned, well kept, unblemished. The only clear sign of his race were the two horns rising from his head—smooth, dark, and elegantly curved rather than intimidating. He wore a formal suit tailored to perfection, posture relaxed but authoritative.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly. "I didn’t expect to see you in Carac, Lord Borin au Dvergar. It’s an honor to have you visiting our establishment."

Borin lifted his glass slightly in greeting. "Didn’t plan on it either, but here we are."

The demon’s gaze shifted smoothly to Trafalgar.

"And I see we are equally honored," he continued, smiling. "Trafalgar du Morgain. A pleasure to finally meet you."

Trafalgar stood just enough to offer a polite handshake. "Likewise."

The demon nodded, satisfied. "I hope your stay in Carac is a pleasant one. Should you require anything, do not hesitate to ask."

With that, he excused himself, melting back into the flow of the casino with practiced ease.

The space he left behind felt... different.

Trafalgar sensed it before he saw it.

A presence.

He turned slightly.

Footsteps approached.

Selendra au Nocthar stopped beside their table.

She wore an elegant black dress, form-fitting without excess, its fabric catching the warm light as she moved. Her skin was human-toned, flawless. Long black hair cascaded down her back in loose waves. When she smiled, two sharp fangs glinted briefly—deliberate, not hidden.

Her crimson eyes swept over Borin first, then settled on Trafalgar.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked lightly.

Trafalgar met her gaze calmly.

’So... that’s what Borin meant,’ he thought. ’Dangerous, huh.’

The memory of the Council surfaced—measured words, controlled presence. She hadn’t seemed hostile then. Just... sharp.

Now, standing this close, that edge was clearer.

Selendra’s eyes lingered on him a fraction longer than necessary.

’So... what is it you want, Selendra au Nocthar?’