A criminal empire founded by a beholder tyrant of the same name. For decades, it had festered in Liberl Port—one of the city’s most notorious underworld powers.
Their enforcers bore one unmistakable mark: a massive eye tattoo.
Seeing these familiar foes from the game, Charles’ pulse quickened. He knew their reputation—brutal, arrogant, quick to violence. They fought dirty and killed without blinking.
The City Guard patrolled the government district’s twin streets but never ventured into the slums. Bloodshed here was daily fare; deaths, commonplace.
Even if victims’ families reported murders, the Guard rarely investigated—not without ironclad proof or generous bribes.
Thus, gang wars grew ever more lawless.
Groups like Xanathar’s Guild prized ruthlessness above all. Prospective members had to prove their willingness to kill. Those with clean hands were scorned.
Which made the tattooed man before him exceptionally dangerous.
If he’s an enforcer, the others must be his crew.
Damn. Of all the gangs to run into...
But this was slum life. One gang or another—trouble was inevitable.
Steering clear of all gang tables left only the central longtable. To avoid the drunks, Charles reluctantly settled opposite the half-orc woman.
Up close, she defied expectations.
Half-orcs—orc-human hybrids—weren’t inherently ugly. Lacking their pureblood kin’s grotesque tusks and protruding jaws, they often retained human-like features.
This woman exemplified that. Her face bore more human than orcish traits, with short tusks that didn’t distort her bone structure. Her skin—a healthy, glossy brown rather than the typical orcish ebony—made her almost... striking.
She’d inherited the best of orcish femininity. Even wrapped in loose hide armor, the sheer volume of her chest was... astounding.
Far surpassing Hattie’s.
A faint scar marked her brow. The mace at her hip, her knuckled hands, and the corded muscles beneath her hide armor all warned: This one’s dangerous.
At least she lacked the typical half-orc stench—small mercies.
Charles took the seat opposite her. The half-orc woman glanced up, eyes briefly widening at his appearance before narrowing in suspicion.
Then, dismissing him as no threat, she returned to her jerked meat.
Yet that look put Charles on edge.
Something feels off...
The Foggy Fisherman was "safe" only by slum standards. Violence here was inevitable.
Better prepared than sorry.
Silently, he cast Blade Ward.
Mage Armor had been applied at dawn—a spell slot well spent for eight hours of protection. With two slots remaining, he could still cast two more 1st-level spells if needed.
Still uneasy, he pulled out the Prismari Primer and layered on Armor of Agathys.
Perfect for gang fights: damage absorption plus frostbite retaliation. Useless against high-level foes, but ideal for thugs.
Its one flaw? A one-hour duration—unlike Mage Armor’s all-day coverage.
Now triple-shielded, Charles finally relaxed slightly.
Just hold out till Hattie arrives.
But trouble favors the wary.
Especially when seated across from that half-orc.
The Xanathar enforcer—bald, eye-tattooed—cracked open an eyelid, studying Charles.
His gang followed suit, glances darting between Charles and the half-orc woman.
A wiry underling whispered: "Boss—that guy’s with Yagra?"
The bald Small Boss’s voice was flat. "Who is he?"
"Dresses cheap, but... that bearing?" The lackey hesitated. "Like those university elites. Noble blood?"
"Aye, the air’s there." The bald Small Boss nodded. "But that shirt? Local tailor. I’d know that stitchwork anywhere."
True enough. Despite Hattie’s devotion, Charles had insisted on frugality—their limited funds were for essentials.
His current outfit? Simple cotton—comfortable, breathable, but undeniably common.
And in South Harbor, only a handful of shops could’ve made it. To a gangster’s eye, its origins were plain.