Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant-Chapter 308: Dark District [3]

We moved through the dark district without speaking, our footsteps echoing faintly against damp stone and broken cobble.

The air smelled of cheap alcohol, mold, and something rotten that had long since lost its source.

It didn’t take long before the silence became unbearable.

"...Hey," Amelia muttered, tugging her cloak tighter around herself. "Are we there yet?"

She glanced around as she spoke, eyes darting to the shadows between buildings, clearly eager to be done with this place—even if she understood why we had to come.

Emma, on the other hand, looked far less impatient and far more irritated.

"...Tch. To think I came here not to arrest criminals, but to collude with them," she clicked her tongue.

No—correction.

Judging by the way her hand hovered near her weapon and the sharp gleam in her eyes, it wasn’t reluctance.

It was anticipation.

She looked like someone itching to scrub the district clean with force.

"We’re almost there," I said, slowing my pace.

A wooden sign creaked above us, swaying dangerously as if it might fall at any moment. The paint had long since peeled away, leaving behind only a faded symbol that might once have meant something.

Emma stopped.

Her brows knitted together as she studied the tavern.

"...Suspicious."

Amelia blinked. "Huh? It just looks run-down to me."

"That’s the problem," Emma replied flatly. "There isn’t a single guard."

I followed her gaze.

She was right.

For a tavern sitting in the middle of a lowlife-infested street—a place where drunks, vagrants, and pickpockets swarmed like flies—there should have been at least some sort of protection. A bouncer. A lookout. Someone.

But there was nothing.

No loiterers. No beggars. No drunkards spilling onto the street.

Too clean.

"Truly befitting of a promising noble from the west," I muttered, nodding in approval.

Emma shot me a sideways glance. "You say that like you’re impressed."

"I am," I replied honestly. "Most people wouldn’t notice that detail at a glance."

She sniffed. "It’s basic pattern recognition."

Still, her ability to catch it instantly was impressive—even for someone known for her analytical skills.

She reached up, rolling her shoulders.

"Everyone," Emma said quietly, "be ready for a quick fight."

Amelia cracked her knuckles, a grin spreading across her face. "Finally. I was starting to get bored."

"...Hmph," Emma scoffed. "Criminals really do have limited imagination. This is textbook."

Leaving Emma—who looked more motivated than she had all day—behind, we pushed open the tavern door.

—Creak.

The sound was long and strained, the kind that set your teeth on edge. The floorboards groaned beneath our weight, protesting every step, as though no one had bothered maintaining this place in years.

The interior was dim, lit by a handful of weak lanterns. The walls were stained with smoke and age, the air thick with stale alcohol.

At the far end of the room stood a single bartender.

He was polishing a glass, movements slow and deliberate, as if completely unconcerned by our entrance.

No other patrons.

Not a single one.

Amelia whispered, "Yeah... this is definitely not normal."

Emma’s eyes narrowed. "He’s too calm."

The bartender didn’t look up right away. He finished wiping the glass, set it down carefully, and only then raised his head.

His eyes met mine.

Sharp. Alert. Far too aware.

"Welcome," he said evenly. "We don’t get many customers this late."

I stepped forward, resting a hand casually on the counter.

"That so?" I said, letting my gaze wander lazily over the dim room. "Could’ve fooled me. This place looks... quiet."

The bartender’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.

"Well," he replied, wiping the counter with a rag that looked dirtier than the surface itself, "as you can see, this place isn’t exactly famous."

There was a brief pause. His eyes flicked from my face to my clothes, then lingered just a moment too long on my wrist.

Then he leaned forward slightly.

"You seem like important guests," he said, voice lowering. "So what can I do for you?"

I took a seat on one of the stools, its legs scraping faintly against the floor, and placed my order without hesitation.

"Vodka martini," I said evenly. "Shaken, not stirred."

The words hung in the air.

To anyone else, it would’ve sounded like an awkward attempt at sophistication.

Here, though—it was a signal. Old. Overused. Lazy, even.

Honestly, I’d always thought the game director took the easy way out with this code.

The bartender froze.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then he scoffed, clicking his tongue as he straightened.

"Tch. Another bunch of nobles who’ve heard rumors," he muttered. "You look barely old enough to shave. Just leave. There’s no trivial information for brats like you—"

He didn’t get to finish.

—Bang!

The sound was sharp and sudden.

I grabbed him by the collar and slammed his face straight into the shelf behind the counter. Bottles rattled violently, some shattering as liquor splashed down like rain.

The bartender crumpled without so much as a groan, sliding down out of sight.

The tavern exploded into noise.

"What the hell?!"

"Oi! What just happened?!"

"Was that magic?!"

Chairs scraped back. Hands vanished beneath cloaks and tables. In an instant, the lazy, half-drunk patrons revealed themselves for what they really were.

Thieves. Enforcers. Lookouts.

Guild members.

I calmly dusted off my hands, as if I’d merely brushed against something dirty, and frowned at the unconscious man behind the counter.

"I really don’t understand this attitude," I said mildly. "Haven’t you people been trained at all? Picking fights with guests before confirming who they are... sloppy."

-Clang!

Steel flashed.

Daggers, short swords, even a few crossbows snapped into view, all aimed at my head and chest. The air grew tight with killing intent.

My companions stiffened behind me, mana stirring, but I raised a hand slightly to stop them.

One man stepped forward from the crowd, tall and lean, a scar running from his cheek to his jaw.

"Bold," he said, voice cold. "Knocking out one of ours in our own den."

I tilted my head. "He insulted me."

"That enough reason to die?" another voice snapped from the side.

I shrugged. "Depends. Is he dead?"

A tense silence followed.

The scarred man gestured with two fingers. Someone checked the bartender, then looked up and shook their head.

"Breathing."

"Lucky him," I said. "See? No harm done."

Several weapons twitched closer.

I see, so it’s going to be fight.

As expected