The Rise Of The Clydon Family-Chapter 29 Goldspark Town’s Nightlife

"Whoo-hoo..."

Rus looked at his reflection in the bronze mirror and spread his hands with a grin. "Still got it."

He'd changed into his old gear from back when he prowled the streets of Moen City.

A snug brown linen shirt with rolled sleeves and an open collar showed off his frame. Loose white linen trousers hung comfortably at his hips, tucked into gleaming black leather shoes. He looked effortlessly dashing, even a little rakish.

His bangs were slicked back with hair cream, and his long hair was tied into a short ponytail. The finishing touch? A dab of charcoal beneath the bridge of his nose, softening the sharpness of his features.

At first glance, no one would connect him to a noble—much less a baron.

"Little Bee's off to gather some nectar~"

With a playful kick, Rus swung open the back door of the government hall and slipped out with a spring in his step.

The sun had long set. While "Central Street," where the hall was located, had quieted down, Tavern Street was just hitting its stride.

Also known as Mercenary Row, the street's original name was Quarry District, as it sat near the Eagle's Beak quarry and once served as the workers' base.

But once the Mercenaries' Guild opened a branch here, the area saw a huge influx of adventurers and mercenaries.

And whether miner or mercenary, folks with calloused hands often had cash to burn—and when the day's work was done, they wanted to burn it fast.

Thus, taverns bloomed like wildflowers.

Two hundred meters of cramped street somehow managed to squeeze in over forty taverns!

Now was prime drinking hour.

Everywhere Rus looked, there were big spenders.

Leather-clad mercenaries, soot-streaked miners in roughspun shirts, shop assistants in tidy linen—all mingled and jostled, buzzing with energy.

"What a scene..." Rus murmured as he strolled among the throngs. He couldn't help but marvel. Where there's a crowd, there's coin.

To win over patrons, each tavern had their own tricks.

Some went all in on signage—either massive enough to tower over the shops themselves, or embedded with wine bottles and jugs, advertising their stock with flair. A few even used magic, making their signs glow and shimmer in the dark like miniature rainbows.

Others set up their kitchens by the door, where greasy-cheeked chefs sizzled cured meats over open fires, with fresh bread toasting in stone ovens nearby. The mix of meaty richness and warm yeast filled the air, making stomachs rumble.

A few taverns went straight for the jugular—scantily clad barmaids loitered at the entrance, idly shuffling cards or tossing dice. These places didn't just offer drinks—they offered "entertainment."

In the alleys between taverns, women in barely-there scraps of cloth leaned against walls. Together, the fabric on their bodies wouldn't make a single vest. Still, they used what little they had to maximum effect—posturing, arching their backs, throwing sultry glances at every man who passed.

"Oh sir~ For just twenty coppers, you can have all this softness to play with~"

"Sweetheart, don't walk away now~ Ten coppers, and I'll take you to heaven~"

"Hey, handsome mercs! Come have a look—my sisters and I are all waiting. Real sisters, promise~"

Rus had heard it all before.

And these "real sisters"? Half the time, their age gaps were wide enough to be mother and daughter.

Back in his wilder days, he might've tossed some coin around for a good time.

But now?

Cheap perfume and cheap tricks no longer tempted him.

He came to drink.

He picked a tavern with the odd name "The Mare's Banner" and pushed open the door.

The moment he stepped in, he was hit with a blast of familiar chaos: alcohol, roasted meat, sweat, unwashed feet, and cheap cosmetics—all blending into a pungent cocktail that could knock a man flat.

Then came the noise:

Cheers, boasts, drunken bickering, barmaids shrieking from unwanted gropes, followed by the satisfying crack of slaps.

It was like a fish diving back into water—Rus slid right into the scene.

He walked to the bar and slapped down two copper coins. "One beer!"

Thud!

A heavy oak mug slammed onto the greasy counter. Rus picked it up and downed it in one go.

Yes. That unmistakable taste of cheap beer—that horse-piss tang.

"Aaahh... that hits the spot!"

On a sweltering summer night, what was better than a foamy mug of cheap beer?

"Two more!" he called, tossing four more coppers onto the bar.

The bartender was a young woman in her twenties with strong, defined features.

Her light brown hair was braided and pinned back, giving her an air of effortless beauty—somewhere between sultry and serene, like a young Sophie Marceau.

Her skin was sun-kissed and glowing with sweat. A coarse gray dress clung to her athletic frame, cinched tightly at the waist to emphasize generous curves that seemed ready to burst free.

As she leaned down to slide the drinks over, Rus caught a full glimpse of her cleavage, deep and shadowed in the flickering lanternlight, a silver button glinting at the edge.

Suddenly, it was clear why this oddly named, unimpressive-looking tavern was thriving.

In a street full of cheap perfume and worn-out bodies, this woman stood out like a flame in the dark.

"Hey, beautiful—how about we get to know each other?" Rus said with a smile.

With a soft jingle, a silver coin traced a graceful arc through the air and landed squarely in her ample cleavage. The sudden cold made her shiver, and her aloof expression instantly warmed with interest.

"You can call me Petty," she said, voice husky. "And you?"

"Hmm... You can call me Wen Rui," Rus replied, leaning in close. He took in her scent—thick with sweat and pheromones. "But how about I call you... Petty-nie?"

In the Caynes Empire, adding a "-nie" to a woman's name was a pet-name, usually used for young girls by doting elders.

Petty covered her nose and giggled. "You look younger than me."

"I'm probably bigger than anyone you've met," Rus whispered. "Might have you calling me 'daddy' before the night's out."

"Oh, I've heard braggarts before," she said with a smirk. "But none of them delivered it quite so smoothly."

Still, she didn't move any closer.

A silver coin might've bought a smile—but it didn't buy everything.

"Why don't you come see for yourself?" Rus grinned, slipping another coin into her hand and guiding it toward his chest.

"Hey! You black-haired brat—what the hell do you think you're doing!?"

The bark snapped like a whip.

Petty yanked her hand back instantly.

Rus turned to see a burly, middle-aged man glaring at him from just a few tables away.

"Ha! Old Jones is at it again—blocking another would-be suitor from getting too close to his daughter!"

"Third one this week," someone laughed. "Out-of-town suckers always fall for it."

"Though I gotta say—this one got closer than most. First time I've seen Petty let anyone hold her hand."

The muttered commentary made everything clear.

Rus didn't need the explanation, but it was nice confirmation.

Using his daughter as bait, Old Jones would lure lusty newcomers into thinking they had a chance, teasing out tips and drinks before cutting things off just short of scandal.

Human nature's a funny thing. The harder something is to get, the more people want it. And they sure as hell don't want anyone else getting it first.

Worked right, a girl like Petty could keep a tavern packed for a decade.

Back in Moen, Rus had been just another fool watching from the sidelines.

But not anymore.

"You the owner here?" he asked casually.

"Damn right." Jones flexed his thick shoulders. "Old soldier from Moen! Took off three heads in my day. So you'd better behave."

Rus's Truth-Eye flickered open.

A quick scan told him none of the patrons had enchanted gear, much less supernatural power.

His lips curled into a smirk. "I paid you two silvers and six copper. This beer ain't worth that."

"Moen's prices don't apply here, kid," Jones barked. "This is Goldspark. You want to drink? Pay up—or get out."

Having run a tavern for years, Jones could spot an outsider a mile away. And nothing got him grinning like the chance to fleece a rich, pretty boy.

Petty, however, didn't want to see the man suffer.

She lowered her voice. "My father's got a nasty temper... it's best if you just leave."

Rus smiled and held out his hand. "Then give me back the two silver coins."

His eyes dipped toward her chest. "Or, better yet... let me take the first one back myself."

Bang!

Jones slammed his fist into the table, sending mugs flying.

"One more word outta you, punk, and I'll strip you naked and toss you out!"

Rus yawned. "Go ahead. Try me."

Tension crackled in the air. The tavern's patrons could smell the drama and started egging it on.

"Jones, you getting soft in your old age? Knock his teeth in already!"

"Come on, kid—don't just talk. Grope her!"

"Ten coppers says that pretty boy won't last ten seconds!"

Jones didn't take the bait.

He'd seen too many drunken brawls wreck his furniture. Everything here was hard-earned—he wasn't about to let some punk ruin it.

He exhaled a long breath and flexed his arms. "How about an arm-wrestle, boy? You beat me, you take the coins. Lose, and you strip and walk out!"

"Whoa there," Rus wiggled his finger. "That's not how this works."

Jones sneered. "Scared? Go home and suck your mom's tit, then."

Rus chuckled. "The coins are mine to begin with. Why would I gamble for what's already mine?"

He glanced at Petty's chest and added casually, "But if I win, she takes hers off too."

"You've crossed the damn line!"

Jones' face darkened like a storm.

Rus smirked. "What's wrong? Not confident in all that beefy muscle of yours?"

"Bullshit!" Old Jones rolled his wrist and slammed his arm down on the table. Thud! "You'll be the one crying when you walk out of here bare-assed. And don't forget—this street isn't just full of folks who like women."

Rus stood up, casually stretching his shoulders, and walked over to the table without the slightest hesitation. He sat across from Jones and planted his arm down.

He was lean and athletic—but compared to the hulking tavern owner, his wrist looked like it was half the size.

The difference was so obvious that no one in the tavern even bothered to take bets—there was simply no way Rus could win.

A makeshift referee raised his hand and started counting down.

"Three, two, one... GO!"

Crack! Bang! Thunk!

The greasy table shook under the force, dim candlelight scattering across its surface. A thick arm slammed down with a thud, rattling mugs and sending one crashing to the floor.

It was a clean, decisive victory.

The bar went dead silent.

Because the arm that had been pinned wasn't Rus's—it was Old Jones'.

His forearm was flushed red and starting to swell—like an overcooked sausage. Every merc in the room recognized the signs: severe muscle strain, maybe even torn tissue.

"Holy crap... Jones lost? Just like that!?"

The locals were stunned. They knew how strong the man was.

Even in his fifties, his barbarian blood made him built like an ox. He could still toss a full-grown hog over his shoulder and swing a thirty-kilo keg like it was a pillow.

In over twenty years of running The Mare's Banner, the only time he'd ever lost an arm-wrestling match was five years ago—to a knight from Snow Maple Territory. After that, his wife vanished from the tavern, and his daughter Petty took over the front desk.

"Don't tell me... is this guy a—Supernatural?"

Rus flexed his wrist and gave a satisfied smile.

The strength boost from the magic core had far exceeded expectations. It hadn't just powered up his muscles—it enhanced his bones, tendons, nerves, and overall coordination.

He might not be a full-fledged First-Tier Knight, but he wasn't far off.

And this was just the effect from two magic cores.

Old Jones roared, "He's not a Supernatural! I just underestimated him! Pompey! I'm hiring you guys—drive him out! Five silvers each!"

But the mercenary he called didn't move. Rus's strength had clearly rattled them.

Not the kind of opponent you casually mess with for five silver.

"Greedy bloodsucker!" Jones cursed through clenched teeth. "Fine—you win! Ten silvers each, and a week of unlimited beer!"

A group of four mercenaries finally stood up in the corner, grabbed their weapons, and stalked toward Rus with slow, predatory steps.

They wore leather armor and carried blades—some swords, some sabers. Their casual formation was a lie. They were already sealing off all possible exits.

Experienced killers.

"Hey, kid," said Pompey, the group's leader, a middle-aged man with a fleshy growth at the corner of his eye. He weighed a sharp steel blade in his hand and smiled coldly. "Like the old imperial proverb says: A wise man knows when to back off."

"You don't strike me as a fool. So you should understand: starting a fight in a cramped room, over a woman, against four armed mercs? Not smart."

Rus leaned lazily on the bar and smiled. "You ever hear the other saying? A smart man doesn't stay inside a building that's about to collapse."

Pompey's eyes narrowed. "Then why not leave now? It'd be better for everyone."

"Because the ones in danger aren't me—it's you." Rus sighed, grabbed a jug off the bar, and poured himself a drink.

Pompey sneered. "You clearly don't know who you're dealing with. I'm Pompey, leader of an E+ rated mercenary squad, registered with the Guild. I've led my team in slaying a First-Tier magical beast."

"Even if you're Supernatural, you're unarmed. What can you do to us? You don't have claws or armored hide."

Rus raised the mug and drained it. "So?"

Jones, still sweating buckets and wincing in pain, barked out, "Pompey, if you don't move, I'm not paying! I want him out—just don't kill him!"

Pompey winced. He didn't like settling things with violence—especially against unpredictable opponents. But ten silvers per man? That was a lot of coin.

"Then sorry, friend. You leave us no choice."

Schink!

His blade flashed from its scabbard. The others followed suit, unsheathing their weapons in unison.

"Boys, let's—Stop."

Pompey's command twisted into something weird, like a choking hiccup halfway through a sentence.

Because Rus now had a loaded hand crossbow aimed directly at his forehead.

Nobody saw when it appeared. One second his hands were empty; the next, it was there.

Three meters away. No room to miss.

And the dark-green shimmer on the bolt made it clear—it was enchanted.

Cold sweat ran down Pompey's temple. He stared at the weapon, stunned. "That's... spatial gear!?"

The room exploded.

"What the hell is that?"

"You don't know? It's magic gear that holds way more than it should—looks like a pouch, but can carry a whole pig!"

"Damn... that's gotta be worth a few gold, right?"

"Gold? Try thousands of gold! Even the cheapest ones are worth a fortune!"

Pompey was starting to panic.

Ten silvers? He nearly picked a fight with someone who had pocket dimensions.

"Friend, this—this is a misunderstanding! Let's just walk away, no hard feelings!"

Rus tilted his head. "If I didn't have spatial gear... would you have let me walk away?"

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"But we can compromise. Here's what I want—strip him."

Pompey blinked. "Strip who?"

"You four. Strip him." Rus pointed at Old Jones.

Pompey's face twisted. "Wait, you mean... her?" He gestured toward Petty.

Clack. The crossbow touched his forehead.

"Did I stutter?" Rus's grin sharpened. "Old Jones. Not Petty. You deaf or just a pervert?"

Pompey sighed. Damn hypocrite.

Weren't you the one trying to grab her earlier?

Still—orders were orders. Better him than me.

"Wait! Wait—what are you doing!? Stop! Somebody stop them!"

Old Jones shrieked like a scandalized maiden as the mercs descended on him like wolves. But injured and outnumbered, he was helpless.

By the time they tore off the last scraps of cloth, the room fell into a strange, stunned silence.

And then—

Pfffft.

Someone snorted.

Then the laughter rolled in like a tidal wave.

"By the Light... what is that? A worm? Can't believe a big guy like him... has that!"

"That's no worm—too short. Looks more like a pacifier."

"'Pacifier' Jones! Way better than 'Iron Arm' Jones, am I right?"

Laughter thundered through the tavern.

"Pacifier! Pacifier!" voices chanted, echoing from every table.

Old Jones turned from white, to red, to purple, to pitch black.

His eyes rolled back—and he fainted.

Rus chuckled and turned to Petty. "Alright, hand it over."

"H-Huh?" She was still in shock.

"You're not seriously making me reach in there myself, are you?" Rus winked.

"N-No! Of course not!" She scrambled to fish the two silver coins from her dress and passed them back.

"Find a better gig," Rus said softly as he pocketed the coins. "If you stick with a dad like that, no one's gonna marry you."

And with that, he turned and walked out of the tavern.

He'd been flirtatious, yes, but Rus never planned to actually take advantage of Petty.

He knew too well what would happen next.

If he had gone through with it, Petty would've lost her allure as the "unattainable flower" of the tavern. She'd go from prized tease to disposable plaything.

Two months later, she'd be just another streetwalker. Not by choice—by momentum. This world didn't care what people wanted.

It crushed them regardless.

Rus wasn't the kind of bastard who'd destroy a girl's future just to have a little fun.

Besides—he had better options.

Where there's good wine, there's always good women.

And in a place like Goldspark, that meant one thing—

The Pink Parlor.

Its sign was carved from magical crystal shards: a delicate high heel crushing a lacy piece of lingerie beneath its heel.

Rus's eyes gleamed with anticipation.

He'd never treated himself to a high-end brothel before.

Wonder what kind of fun they've got in store?