The Kingdom of Arthurian had implemented a paper currency system more than a decade ago, replacing minted coins with banknotes.
However, in a remote town like Ark Town, the locals clearly still preferred the familiarity of coins.
Li Wen happened to find four shillings at once.
According to Arthurian currency exchange, one gold pound equaled twenty shillings, and one shilling equaled twelve pence.
In Ark Town, a penny could buy three to five slices of dark bread or about a gallon of beer.
So for an early-stage player, four shillings was no small sum—enough to gear up decently.
Though the sun had only just set, the night in Ark Town was only beginning.
The watchmen were lighting the oil lamps along the streets, refilling them with fat and setting the wicks ablaze.
Soon, the entire border town was illuminated.
Caravans that had traveled all day were eager to unwind, and the bustling taverns were more than willing to welcome these wealthy travelers with beer and food.
Li Wen was walking down one such street—this was the West District, the most densely populated area of Ark Town.
She casually stepped into a still-open blacksmith’s shop.
“Scram, kid. Nothing here’s a toy for you to play with.”
The burly blacksmith, whose massive beard nearly covered his chest, wasn’t particularly welcoming.
He gave the girl a glare and went back to work.
Li Wen wasn’t the least bit offended.
Her voice was calm, emotionless.
“I need a proper dagger—something sharp and lethal.”
She tossed a silver shilling onto the floor as she spoke.
The crisp clink of the coin rang out.
The blacksmith glanced at the silver, then back at her.
“That’ll cover a ready-made one. Custom jobs cost more.”
“Ready-made is fine,” she replied.
She didn’t have time to wait around.
The blacksmith set down his tools and returned from the back with a bundle of sheathed daggers and short swords, dumping them onto the counter.
“Best steel from the Black Dragon Territory, forged with Ark Town’s finest craftsmanship. You won’t find another shop in town that can make weapons like these.”
Li Wen didn’t bother listening to his sales pitch.
She picked up a short sword, drew it from its scabbard, and examined the blade.
It gleamed in the candlelight—a work of art, yet sharp enough to take a life.
Honestly, it didn’t feel perfectly balanced in her hand, but for self-defense, it would more than suffice.
[Refined Short Sword]
[Weapon – Dagger – Common (White)]
[Crafted by a professional blacksmith. Deadly even in the hands of a frail girl or child.]
“This one,” she said.
“One shilling and threepence. Scabbard free.”
Li Wen didn’t bother haggling and handed over another silver coin.
After leaving the blacksmith, she headed to the tailor’s to put together a basic outfit—mostly a belt for carrying the short sword and a cloak to conceal her face and movements.
They didn’t have fitted leather armor, and the cloak had to be hastily resized on the spot.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.
At the very least, she looked less like someone easy to mess with—or so she hoped.
In-game hunger debuffs didn’t set in until at least a full in-game day had passed, so she wasn’t planning to eat just yet.
Once her preparations were done, she headed straight for the Hopflower Tavern.
The Hopflower Tavern was the largest in Ark Town.
Li Wen didn’t even need to search for it—it stood out on its own.
Inside, the place was packed.
Laughter and shouting spilled out from within, crude and chaotic.
Li Wen frowned slightly but walked in anyway.
Behind the counter stood a slouching young man with heavy dark circles under his eyes and an unmistakable air of roguishness.
“Beer’s a penny a cup. Wine’s two. Bottom-shelf barley ale—one penny, all you can drink. Pay another penny, and you’ll get to taste the most heavenly mashed potatoes—Seriously, who wrote this line? Who the hell comes to a tavern for mashed potatoes?”
Li Wen tapped on the counter and casually placed a penny down.
“I’m looking for someone.”
The young man blinked in surprise when he heard her voice.
“This ain’t really a place for women…” he began, then noticed the coin and shifted his tone.
“But hey, I’m always happy to help. Folks ‘round here call me Good Guy Ivan.”
“I’m looking for the Blackfangs. Do you know them?”
They said tavern bartenders were the best sources of information—Li Wen decided to trust the saying.
The bartender’s expression changed the moment she said the name.
He pointed a finger across the room.
“There. See that table?”
Li Wen followed his gaze and saw… nothing.
Just an empty table.
Odd, considering the rest of the tavern was bursting at the seams.
No one sat there, or even walked too close.
“That’s their spot. Reserved.”
“They” must refer to the Blackfangs.
Li Wen nodded and walked over, choosing the most noticeable seat at the table.
The bartender yawned, watching her with growing interest.
“Hey, that seat’s—” someone started to speak up but was quickly silenced by a companion.
Among those who noticed what was happening, most wore looks of anticipation, as if waiting for a show.
Li Wen sat calmly, waiting in silence.
It didn’t take long.
A group of men entered the tavern—immediately distinct from the rest.
They wore partial chainmail or leather armor, wielding axes and flails.
Their bodies were covered in scars and dried blood.
Their eyes were fierce, faces savage.
The moment they stepped into the room, the scent of blood and steel filled the air.
The once-rowdy tavern fell silent.
Even the rowdiest drunkards quieted down.
The group marched straight toward Li Wen.
“Who the hell are you?” growled the man in the lead.
“Didn’t anyone tell you that seat belongs to us?”
He was massive—built like a bear, with wild hair and a cruel glint in his eyes.
A long scar split his face nearly in half.
Li Wen was now certain of their identity.
They were mercenaries—leftovers from the war.
After the Battle of Fencewood, many mercenaries had lingered at the kingdom’s borders.
Without status or discipline, they weren’t welcomed by the royal army or any lord’s service.
Many of them turned into swindlers, bandits, and assassins—a constant headache for local authorities.
“You’re the Blackfangs, aren’t you?” she asked.
“If you know the name, then what makes you think you can sit there?”
He didn’t even need to give the order.
A fat, short man stepped forward with a battle axe, ready to cleave her in half.
“AAAHHH!”
The axe never reached her.
It clattered to the ground before making contact, and the tavern filled with the man’s horrific scream. Every patron turned in shock.
The man was kneeling, his body collapsing under its own weight as if his bones had turned to jelly.
Black, rancid pus oozed from his eyes and nose.
His blubbering flesh sizzled as if laid on a hot skillet, every pore weeping foul, bloody fluid.
When a Word of Prayer targets an enemy, it becomes something far more sinister—a cursed utterance of doom.
Tftc!