Unfortunately, these were words the tavern Alan owner dared not speak aloud, keeping them locked deep in his heart.
Today, seeing Charles standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a nun—after he himself had just been probing the man’s background—Alan was overcome with a cold, creeping dread.
I... I’m no better than those Xanathar thugs. I’m digging my own grave!
Only when Charles and Hattie vanished through the doorway did Alan finally snap out of it, meticulously reviewing every word he’d said, searching for any slip-ups.
Thank the gods. I only flattered him and asked harmless questions—nothing too pointed. No more prying. This is way above my pay grade!
After a long bout of self-reassurance and stern warnings, he finally steadied himself, wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and returned to the counter to bury himself in the ledger.
On the other side of the slums, inside a derelict warehouse.
The battered gangsters of the Xanathar Guild were recuperating here.
After being blasted by Charles’s twin Thunderwaves, some were unconscious, some had broken legs, others cracked ribs or shattered faces. A few were lucky—only minor scrapes and bruises.
But no matter the injury, they finally had a moment to rest. All except their bald, bald Small Boss. Even with one arm wrapped thickly from frostbite, he still had to hobble on crutches to report to his superior.
Seated before him now was a terrifying brute—easily two meters tall, twice as broad, with one eye missing and a massive tattoo of an eye in its place.
His remaining eye stared coldly at the bald underling, making his scalp prickle with sweat. Still, he forced himself to deliver an embellished account:
"Fortunately, in the end, the Zhentarim Mage did not kill us and let us return."
"I’ve failed you, boss. Punish me as you see fit!"
His tone was thick with shame and fury—seemingly a plea for punishment, but really, a blatant attempt to shift blame. The fault was his own misjudgment, his order to attack Charles that led to their defeat. Yet now, he pinned it all on another.
Sure enough, his one-eyed superior lowered his gaze and said, "Not your fault. The intel was flawed. Damn Daevyl... never thought he’d hire a mage for this."
After the curse, he looked up and growled, "Rest up. You and your men better heal before Twin Moons Night. Don’t screw up the delivery."
Days prior, One-Eye’s crew had been tasked with smuggling a highly valuable—yet unknown—item into Liberl Port, to be delivered secretly on Twin Moons Night.
Their usual method was simple: exploit their contacts inside Amazon Fisheries Company, hide the cargo in a shipment of fish, and slip it through South Harbor District.
Zhentarim agent Daevyl Starsong got wind of it and sent a letter—demanding a king’s ransom to keep quiet.
One-Eye refused to pay. Silence, he decided, would come by force.
Yet no one knew what disguise that sly sun elf wore, or where he lurked.
So One-Eye played along, plotting to ambush him. First, they’d snatch his bodyguard—the half-orc woman Yagra—then extract the next meeting’s time and location. Finally, they’d take Daevyl down.
But the bastard was prepared. Sent a mage. Turned the tables. Left them broken.
Now, the feud with Daevyl was sealed. He’d sell the intel—and come for blood.
One-Eye’s eye darkened. Teeth gritted, he spat, "Heal up. I’ll alert the commander. This is beyond us now."
Within the hierarchy of Xanathar’s Guild, ranks ascended as follows: Eye Agent, Eye Ray, Guild Commander, and finally, Eye Hand.
The bald small boss was an Eye Agent, while his superior, One-Eye, held the rank of Eye Ray.
And the "commander" One-Eye spoke of?
Naturally, that would be a figure of Guild Commander status.
As he spoke, One-Eye casually reached out and clapped the bald man on the shoulder, barking loudly:
"Worst I’ll get is a tongue-lashing—maybe a whipping. You lot just heal up. Don’t dwell on it!"
The bald small boss was instantly moved to tears—though how much of it was genuine remained unclear.
"My incompetence shames me!" he choked out. "This failure rests on my shoulders!"
Their hollow performance continued—unaware that outside the warehouse, two lean figures stood silently.
Clad in black leather trench coats and round-topped hats, they observed with cold detachment.
"Is this really the best the Cassalanter Family could hire?" one murmured, shaking his head in quiet disdain.
"Just as we predicted," the other replied. "Our... partners are not entirely reliable."
"Fortunately, come Twin Moons Night, our own strength will be bolstered."
"If need be, we’ll simply take the Illusionist’s Bracers by force."
That same night, within the monastery’s scriptorium...
Charles closed the spellbook in his hands, his state of focused study dissolving.
As the scriptorium’s magic waned, suppressed thoughts rushed back—unsettling, restless.
He pulled up his system interface, eyes scanning the attributes panel with a furrowed brow.
A decision weighed on him:
Should I advance my Warlock class to Level 2 now?