Alaric entered the bar.
Inside, there was a lively atmosphere; a crowd of people had gathered in a circle, holding mugs and shouting loudly over each other.
Alaric tried to peer over their shoulders, but he couldn't see well what was happening, so he simply climbed onto a table.
It turned out that a fight had broken out in the center of the circle.
Two burly, muscular men were grappling with each other, roaring at one another, and then swung punches.
Boom!
One of them took a heavy punch straight to the face.
Blood spurted, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
"Ooooh!!"
"Boone got taken down by the other guy this time!"
"Come on, let's get a better look!"
A long-haired guy with glasses, whom everyone in the bar called Weasel, pulled out a small mirror, approached the unconscious fighter, and held the mirror up to his nose.
"He's still breathing!"
The crowd whistled and shouted loudly, and Weasel waved his hand.
"No winner again today!"
With the next wave of laughter and jeers from the crowd, Weasel returned behind the bar.
"Hey, you little guy over there! You sold me out!" he shouted as soon as he saw Alaric, pointing a finger at him.
"This place really isn't for me," Alaric replied calmly, watching the chaos around him with mild disappointment.
"How the hell did you even get in here?!" Weasel asked in disbelief.
"Dane? Was that fat guard at the door drunk again? What an idiot!"
"No," Alaric shook his head. "He looked at my ID and let me in."
"Oh? So you're old enough to drink?"
Weasel gave him a quick once-over. The kid looked way too young, but if he had the paperwork, then it was fine.
"I told you," Alaric continued with a slight smirk, "you're all illegal here, yet you still follow the rules."
"Even though we're not exactly saints, we stick to our own principles," Weasel shot back, raising an eyebrow. "What'll you have?"
"Get me a glass of whiskey…" Alaric paused, suddenly remembering something and immediately straightened up.
He didn't have a single cent in his pockets.
"Whiskey, huh?" Weasel took a glass, poured the drink, and set it down in front of him.
"Actually… just give me a glass of water," Alaric added.
"???"
Weasel froze, holding the glass, staring at him as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard.
"You come to a bar… and order water?"
"I didn't force you to pour the whiskey. You did that on your own," Alaric replied nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair.
"I've already poured it. Now you're going to drink it," Weasel muttered.
"Oh? You're treating me?" Alaric's eyes lit up with joy.
"You're treating me! You deserve nothing but a glass of water!" Weasel growled through his teeth and pulled the whiskey back.
Then he poured a glass of hot water and set it in front of Alaric.
"Water's free, I assume?" Alaric asked.
"You don't even have money, and you come to a bar?" Weasel gaped in shock. "Aren't you afraid someone's going to beat you up?"
"Why shouldn't I come without money?" Alaric shrugged.
"It's enough that I can enjoy the aroma of the drinks."
Weasel was momentarily speechless.
"Are you going to kick me out?" Alaric slapped his palm on the table angrily.
"No, no… take your time drinking," Weasel muttered, baffled by his confident tone.
"That's more like it," Alaric said, raising the glass and taking a sip of the hot water.
"I heard you can pick up mercenary jobs here?"
Weasel looked at him curiously.
"So that's why you're here… Are you a mercenary?"
He couldn't picture Alaric in that role.
Mercenaries were usually rough types, like that drunken gang sitting at the tables in the corner.
But this kid looked like a student just back from school.
"Can't anyone take them?" Alaric asked.
"In theory, yes… but if you get yourself killed, that's not our problem," Weasel warned him.
"Doesn't matter. Got any good jobs? I don't have money, I can barely pay for this water."
Weasel shrugged.
"Take a look yourself."
He could see that Alaric was one of those driven to this by poverty.
No normal person willingly threw themselves into a life where every day was a dance on the edge of a blade.
He pulled out a stack of job cards from a drawer, spread them out on the bar, and started explaining each task.
After a few minutes, Alaric interrupted him.
"Stop with these petty jobs for a few thousand dollars. I want something with a higher reward."
"How high a reward are you looking for? You know the higher the reward, the higher the risk. Are you sure you can handle it?"
"That's none of your concern."
Weasel shrugged.
"All right, suit yourself."
He took a few other cards and slid them over to Alaric.
Alaric picked one of the jobs and gave a short nod.
"I'll take this one."
At that moment, the bar's door slammed open, and a familiar hoarse voice rang out from the direction of the bar counter.
"Damn it! A glass of whiskey… on the rocks, now!"
Alaric turned his head and saw a man in a red costume staggering toward the bar.
It was Deadpool, Wade Wilson.
Hunched over, he nearly slid onto the counter and leaned on his elbows.
Noticing someone watching him, Wade turned his head and, seeing the young man, immediately commented.
"Hey, kid, this isn't a place for children. You should go back to mommy's arms!"
Then he slumped back onto the counter, babbling away at lightning speed.