Charles shook his head, declining the offer. "Family rules. I'm not permitted to drink yet."
"Rules are made to be broken. That's just limiting your freedom," the Alan chuckled, well aware what rebellious youngsters liked to hear.
But he didn't press. Moving the drink aside, he leaned in companionably. "Name's Alan Alice, owner of this fine establishment. And you?"
"...Nigel Charles." Charles gave his former identity's name.
Charles?
Alan wracked his memory but came up blank—likely no major noble house.
Good. The truly powerful would be beyond my reach anyway.
"Fine name," he grinned, thumb jerking toward the wreckage. "And those spells? Magnificent!"
Charles waved it off. "A trifle. Not worth mentioning."
"Now, now, none of that!" Alan's eyebrows shot up, lavish with praise. "In seventy years at South Harbor, I've never seen a mage your age wield magic so fluidly—so masterfully!"
His expression turned wistful. "Though...you're not from South Harbor, are you?"
"...East Harbor." Half-truth. His family was there—before he fled.
He'd no intention of being fully honest. Though game lore painted this middleman as generous and reliable, Charles knew better: Alan was a bold, cunning fox who'd chew you up without spitting out the bones.
Caution is essential here.
"East Harbor! Fine place," Alan sighed theatrically. "Main port, ships from across the seas, enterprises and conglomerates galore. Opportunities abound for the capable!"
"Not like South Harbor—fishing for scraps, bullied by those Amazonian wenches, heh..."
Charles nearly reflexively countered with "The wealthy hoard it all; the poor still suffer," but caught himself.
Eyes glinting, he recognized the gambit: Alan was buttering him up.
Targeting my spellcaster status. Then let's make the fox tread carefully.
"East Harbor isn't as idyllic as you suggest," Charles smiled earnestly. "For all its 'fair competition,' loafers still clamor for unearned rewards."
He leaned in. "At least here, a fisherman's haul reflects his skill. Can't blame the sea for empty nets—unlike those dockworkers crying 'oppression' for their own laziness."
Alan barely suppressed the urge to slam the table and curse this privileged brat. Decades of practice kept his smile intact. "Ah. Quite so."
But the exchange confirmed it: this plainly-dressed boy spouting aristocratic rhetoric was nobility.
No rags-to-riches prodigy here.
"How old are you, then?" Alan lobbed another probe.
"Fifteen." Truth this time.
"See, you're still so young." Alan spread his hands. "Those men earlier were some of the toughest warriors in South Harbor District, and you handled them effortlessly."
"At your age, you should be proud. Doesn't anyone ever praise you?"
"No." Charles shook his head slightly, his expression calm. "Just a few 1st-level spells. Nothing to be proud of."
Alan studied his face closely and was surprised to find not a trace of vanity or arrogance.
Hiss—that could only mean the peers he usually interacted with were even more exceptional.
What he didn't know was that Charles' in-game character could casually cast 9th-level spells in the late stages. A handful of 1st-level spells were hardly worth boasting about.
"Then your teacher must be ruthlessly strict!" Alan sighed, shaking his head. "Where do you study? Strixhaven?"
Charles shook his head again. "No. Self-taught at home."
That was also the truth, but to Alan, it implied something else entirely.
A private tutor?
Hiring a mage to teach at home—what kind of family could afford that?
Nouveau riche? High nobility?
Unlikely. His surname didn't match any of the great houses… Had there been any upstart families named Charles in East Harbor District recently?
He wasn't sure and was about to probe further when the tavern door swung open again.
A tall, curvaceous, and stunningly beautiful young nun stepped inside, her expression slightly tense.
It was none other than Hattie.
When her gaze landed on Charles, she visibly relaxed and flashed him a warm smile.
Seeing her, Charles quickly stood and addressed Alan: "Apologies, sir. We'll talk another time. I must leave now."
Gathering his package, he turned toward the doorway.
"Of course, next time." Alan offered the usual pleasantries, watching him go.
But when his eyes landed on Hattie, the most renowned middleman of South Harbor District froze, his pupils contracting sharply.
That nun from the monastery under the Goddess of Life's name?!
She… was here for this Charles?!
This… How could it be them?!
To the common masses of South Harbor District, the nuns of this monastery were truly beautiful in appearance and kind at heart. Whenever disaster struck South Harbor District, they would freely offer porridge, caring for those poor souls who couldn't even afford a meal.
The abbess of the Monastery of Life, that imposing nun Theresa who always wore milk-white vestments, would go further by casting divine spells without compensation, driving away diseases from those poverty-stricken patients too poor to pay, restoring them to health.
Such power and compassion, in the eyes of South Harbor District residents, was nothing short of angels descending from heaven!
Thus, though this monastery wasn't particularly renowned in South Harbor District, its reputation remained impeccable. Ordinary residents might not think of them often, but whenever mentioned, nothing but praises would follow.
But Alan was different. As one of South Harbor District's most reliable middlemen, he knew much darker truths about this place: for instance, he was well aware that certain lust-driven gangs had long set their sights on the pretty nuns of that monastery, plotting unspeakable deeds against them!
Yet in the end, these reckless fools without exception all vanished into thin air, disappearing without a trace!
Yes, vanished into thin air - no living witnesses, no dead bodies to be found!
Alan was a middleman, and in their profession, information was paramount. Yet even with his intelligence network, he couldn't trace where these men had gone!
This realization chilled him to the bone, but he knew full well that curiosity killed the cat, so naturally he lacked the courage to investigate further. He could only maintain his fearful respect while repeatedly warning newcomers with ill intentions toward the nuns to stay far away from that monastery.
Outsiders all assumed this old fox who would devour a man without spitting out the bones still retained one last shred of kindness, unable to bear seeing the last remaining goodness in this filth-ridden South Harbor District suffer blasphemy.
And every time this happened, Alan could only force a bitter smile, thinking to himself: I'm clearly trying to protect your life safety here - that monastery is an existence none of us can afford to provoke!