Chapter 20: Salem City

In a deserted and dilapidated mud hut in the wilderness near the town, an unexpected visitor arrived. Expensive sharkskin boots stepped over the rotten threshold and into the dim, dusty interior. The owner of the boots stopped. A single beam of sunlight, falling from a gaping hole in the roof, landed on his shoulders but did not illuminate the face hidden deep within his hood.

At his feet lay a straw mat, overgrown with weeds, showing no sign of having been recently moved.

He carefully moved the mat aside, revealing a wooden hatch leading to a hidden basement. He bent down and pulled it open. A cloud of musty, stagnant air rushed out to meet him. Cautiously, he peered down and saw a simple, but powerful, teleportation circle etched into the basement floor. Its price could have easily paid for a thousand basements to be dug and a thousand mud huts to be built on top of them.

The unexpected visitor jumped down into the basement, squatted to one side, and carefully examined the teleportation circle.

“It’s been neglected for years, and its accuracy is poor, but it can still be used,” he said in a hoarse, grating voice, muttering to himself as he wrote in a small notebook. “Compared to my last inspection, there’s no residual magic. This was used just a short while ago… Someone from the Holy Sanctuary has come.”

He climbed out of the basement, replaced the wooden hatch, and stepped over the threshold. His dark attire was particularly conspicuous in the bright wilderness. He stepped into the shadows of the doorway, his figure blurring like a gray rat, and slipped into the jungle, becoming nearly impossible to detect.

Just as he was about to melt into the forest, the shadows of a tree less than half a meter away from him suddenly twisted and contorted. A thin, withered figure appeared as if from nowhere, holding two light, curved scimitars, and lunged at him from both sides with blinding speed.

Startled, the man's body tensed. He rolled violently to the left, his hand instinctively reaching for the short sword at his waist.

But it was too late. At such a close, impossible distance, it was impossible to dodge the blades. He felt a cold sensation at his waist and throat. A sharp scimitar had plunged deep into his kidney. His body seized up, and his hand lost its strength, slipping from the hilt of his sword.

The attacker pulled out the cold blade and kicked him hard in the rear. He fell to the ground. The intense, searing pain made him subconsciously open his mouth to scream, but only a low, wet gurgle came out as his severed windpipe bubbled with blood.

He struggled to turn over, wanting to know who had killed him, to see the face of his assassin. He had been a part of the Salem City underworld for twenty long years, and his greatest pride was his unparalleled skill in stealth. It was always he who ambushed others.

Who on earth could have hidden less than half a meter away from him without him noticing a single thing?

The attacker stabbed him again, turning him over and mercilessly granting his dying wish.

His gray eyes met the gray, withered figure of his killer. His eyes widened, almost popping out of their sockets. For a moment, he forgot the pain, forgot everything. His lips moved, desperately trying to form a sound:

“Gray… King?”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the Gray King said, his voice a dry whisper, before sending him to his death with another swift slash of his scimitar. The man's neck snapped to the side, and he died.

The Gray King searched the body for a moment, found the notebook, and whistled a low, appreciative tune.

“I just love people who take such meticulous notes.” His long, slender fingers flipped through the pages. “Someone from the Holy Sanctuary has come, have they?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the Gray King’s figure gradually faded in the sunlight. A gust of wind blew a fallen leaf onto the dead man’s wide, terrified, staring eyes.

A wary bird was still chirping on a branch high above. The wind swayed the branch, and the bird suddenly took flight, soaring out of the forest.

As it passed over a small, babbling stream, the bird’s tail feathers twitched, and a single, white dropping fell, landing with a soft splat squarely on the top of the bucket-helm George was holding.

“Well, at least it didn’t land on my actual head,” said George, who was taking a break by the water.

“If you hadn’t taken off your ridiculous helmet, the bird dropping wouldn’t have landed on your helmet in the first place, and it certainly wouldn’t have had the chance to land on your head,” Gima said, wringing out a cloth she had just washed in the stream. “Come on, Master George, hand over your helmet. I’ll wipe it off for you.”

They had set out from the tavern at dawn. It would take them more than a day of hard riding to reach Salem City. Along the way, Gima had been diligently, and with much internal grumbling, learning how to be a proper squire: helping George put on his armor, polishing it, feeding his horse, and so on.

George handed her the sullied helmet. “Are you angry with me?”

Gima took the helmet and vigorously, almost violently, wiped off the fresh bird dropping. “Can’t I relax a little when we’re in private? Do I always have to be the perfect little servant?”

“You are a squire now. It is your duty.”

“But no one’s watching!” Gima handed the helmet back to George. “Alright, fine. I was just having a little tantrum. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No. You’re very cute when you’re pouty.”

Gima forced a smile, but the goosebumps that rose on the back of her neck betrayed her true feelings.

The magnificent Demon Lord, reduced to serving a Hero and doing menial, disgusting chores like wiping bird shit off a helmet, was truly a source of profound dissatisfaction for Gima. But then she thought, Love is built from those little, intimate moments of spending time together. Her dissatisfaction immediately dissipated by more than half.

Of course, Gima hadn't been shot by Cupid and turned into a love-sick hedgehog overnight. Rather, Gima had come to a brilliant, strategic realization: the best way to obtain a stable, high-quality supply of lust was to play the long game. She would manipulate George’s emotions and make him fall hopelessly in love with her.

And, as a bonus, it added a wonderful new method of revenge to her arsenal. One day, she would show him a picture of her former, magnificent male self and tell the damn virgin that the person he had fallen in love with was a man—and one who was bigger than him in every conceivable way.

At this thought, Gima smiled, a wicked, gleeful expression that revealed her small, sharp canines.

“Gima? Gima? What are you thinking about that’s so funny?”

Gima quickly wiped the smile from her face, handed the helmet to George, and said, “Oh, nothing. I just remembered something happy.”

“Right, this is your squire’s salary,” George said, handing a small, pathetic-looking pouch to Gima.

Gima opened the small, limp pouch and saw only seven silver coins lying inside. She pouted. She hadn't used silver coins in ages. She remembered when she had first transmigrated to this world, she had scrimped and saved, one copper coin at a time, for a year or two before she could even afford to use silver.

“One silver coin a day,” George said proudly, as if it were a king's ransom. “We should get going.”

“Okay.”

Gima put away the paltry sum, and she and George continued on their way.

The next morning, the yellow-gray walls of Salem City finally appeared on the horizon. The wind carried the salty, fishy smell of the sea. A stone road stretched to the city gates, already crowded with carriages and people.

They walked on the uneven stone road and arrived at the bustling city gate.

“Sir, the entrance tax is two copper coins,” a guard said, sizing them up and immediately using a respectful tone.

Gima took four copper coins from George’s money pouch and asked with an air of authority:

“My master has come from the great Kingdom of Barto and is visiting Salem City for the first time. Can you tell me where the Tinder District is?”

“The Tinder District?” The guard gave them a strange look. “Don’t go there, little miss. It’s not a good place. It's full of weirdos.”

“Are you implying my master’s sword isn’t sharp enough, or that his armor isn’t hard enough?”

“Just… don’t go looking for trouble. Salem City won’t tolerate it,” the guard warned, pointing to the southeast. “It’s near the wharf district. The most chaotic, lawless place in the city. That's where you’ll find it.”

George led the horse, and he and Gima walked on the wet, slick stone road into the city.

The first thing they saw were the many bridges. The main road from the city gate was like a great tree trunk, with narrow, elegant arch bridges branching off in every direction, crossing over a network of wide canals. The canals were full of boats. Large and small vessels were crowded together, from small, simple sampans to massive, multi-oared cargo ships loaded with goods. It was a bustling, chaotic scene. In comparison, the streets themselves were less lively.

“So many boats,” came George’s exclamation of wonder from under his helmet. “I’ve read in books that Salem City is a city built on rivers, but seeing it with my own eyes is still shocking.”

Country bumpkin.

Gima really, really wanted to say that, but for now, she had to look left and right, her mouth agape in feigned wonder, pretending it was her first time seeing the magnificent city of Salem.

After leaving the immediate area of the city gate, a foul, overpowering stench wafted over from the side.

Gima had just pinched her small nose and was about to turn her head to look when George’s large hand covered her eyes. “Don’t look. Turn your head away.”

“Sir,” Gima said, her voice muffled by his hand, “covering my eyes is useless. I’ll probably see something even more disgusting in a few days.”

She heard George let out a long, weary sigh, and the hand in front of her eyes was released.

What she saw was a writhing pile of dying people. Their limbs were cruelly nailed to their own bodies, and they were tied together with ropes in a great heap, like a pile of dead leaves left to rot by the city gate. Flies crawled all over their dry, shriveled skin. Some mischievous children threw stones at the pile of people, and a thick, buzzing cloud of flies would rise up with a roar.

The ones who weren’t dead yet moved their mouths, making low, desperate sounds:

“Thirsty…”

“Some water, please…”

“Have pity on me…”

Some of the people at the bottom of the pile were already dead, their bodies bloated and rotting, but the living were forced to be squeezed together with them in the filth.

Everyone had a crude sign hanging around their neck, on which was written their crime.

I used this hand to steal my master’s bread. His hand was nailed to his collarbone.

I rioted. This was a poor fellow whose hands were nailed together.

Ugh, no wonder it stinks so much. This is the first I’ve heard of such a foul and barbaric law in Salem City. But then again, I always used the “VIP entrance” when I came to the city before. Only fresh flowers, no rotting corpses.

Gima’s face turned a pale shade of green. She squeezed behind George like a frightened kitten seeking shelter. Of course, it was all an act.

George turned his head, took Gima’s hand, his grip firm and reassuring, and strode forward, trying to put the pile of human misery behind them.

“Hey, out-of-towners! Need a boat?”

To their left, less than ten meters away, on the stone steps leading down to the canal, a dark-skinned, wiry boatman was waving at them. There were a few other boatmen next to him, calling out to other potential customers.

Gima and George walked towards the boatman. Gima asked, “How did you know we were from out of town?”

The boatman bent his waist in a mock bow and smiled, showing a mouthful of missing teeth.

“Anyone who gets scared by that sight at the gate is either a country bumpkin or an out-of-towner. And country bumpkins aren’t as rich as you two. Without a boat in Salem City, you can’t get anywhere. I’ve been rowing these canals for thirty years. I know all the waterways, every nook and cranny. There’s no one more suitable than me.”

“To the Tinder District.”

“The Tinder District is not a suitable place for riding a fine warhorse,” the boatman smiled. “It is, however, an excellent place for selling a fine warhorse and fencing stolen goods.”

“Then never mind. We’ll walk.”

“Hey, now, you’re lucky you met me today. I happen to know some… legitimate people in the business.”

“Legitimate people?”

“That is, businessmen who are not officially recognized by the authorities. For a small ‘insurance fee,’ they can save you from all kinds of unfortunate accidents,” the boatman smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Accidentally lost cargo, mysteriously disappearing wallets, and so on. These accidents are always so heartbreaking, you see.”

Aren’t those just thieves and gangsters?

“How much?”

The old boatman grinned. “For the two of you, one silver coin each. The horse, one and a half. And another half a silver coin for the… insurance fee.”

“Four silver coins?! Are you trying to rip us off?”

Just for a boat ride, four days’ worth of her pathetic salary would be gone. Gima’s heart ached with the injustice of it all.

“This is a fair and honest price,” the old boatman said with a hurt smile. “Little girl, if you don’t believe me, you can go ask someone else. Don’t go wronging a poor old man like me just because you’re ignorant of the local customs.”

The silent George suddenly spoke, his voice muffled but clear. “Lies.”

That word were as heavy and final as a judge’s gavel slamming down in a courtroom.

The old boatman’s face froze. He felt an inexplicable, sudden wave of guilt wash over him, and he couldn't speak clearly. “Ah, I, hehe…”

In the end, they paid a “friendship price” of three copper coins (the boatman sighed and lamented that he was losing money on the deal, but to show the legendary hospitality of the people of Salem, he gave them a blood-spitting friendship price). Gima even gave him an extra copper coin as a tip. The old boatman’s embarrassed face immediately broke into a wide, grateful smile. As he rowed the boat, he began to talk endlessly.

“Sir, seeing your armor reminds me of how iron-gray was all the rage ten years ago. The streets were full of gray people! Haha, it’s long out of fashion now,” the old boatman said, trying to be friendly. “Speaking of which, I believe that trend was started by the great Demon Lord Kima.”

George thought of something, patted Gima on the shoulder, and said, “Gima, that’s the same color as the breastplate you recommended.”

Gima’s tail stiffened. But she forced a smile and said, “What a remarkable coincidence.”