Bear School Astartes

Chapter 1013 - 995: Gang

The Mud Gang’s stronghold is a large courtyard forcefully enclosed within a cluster of crooked buildings.

After the guard at the gate cautiously confirmed their identities, Marsh was able to lead the two inside.

The ground inside the courtyard was just as terrible compared to outside. The courtyard was not empty; instead, many makeshift small buildings were erected inside.

It seems that collecting rent is one of the Mud Gang’s sources of income.

Drug addicts, eyes glazed and endlessly sniffing and sneezing after finishing a hit of narcotics.

Cheap prostitutes haphazardly covering their chests with a piece of cloth, wearing tattered dresses.

Even if they lived in the city outside this courtyard, though they would still be in their current professions, their living standards would be higher than here.

Because here, not only can they only remain drug addicts and prostitutes, but a large part of their income must also be handed over to the Mud Gang.

The gang’s exploitation of people is akin to a juicer pressing the fruit inside.

Until they grind them down into pulp unable to sustain even their own lives, the gang will never stop.

The more a gang struggles to survive in a harsh environment, the more ruthless they become in this regard.

They can’t beat the higher-up gangs, so to maintain their existence they need to be ruthless towards ordinary people who can’t resist.

Lann, following behind Marsh, looked around at the trembling prostitutes and the cleaners tidying up the uncontrollable bodies of the addicts.

His lips became a bit stiff.

At the same time, Marsh, leading the way in front, didn’t feel anything, but inexplicably, his teeth started to chatter, and an intense anxiety appeared out of nowhere.

It was as if a mouth, stretched to its limits and full of sharp teeth with hot breath, was already resting on the back of his neck.

That face, with its layer of black wrinkles and tattoos, seemed almost ready to twist into a cry.

Triss seemed to sense Lann’s emotional fluctuations, silently standing by his side, wrapping her arm around his beneath the cloak.

They tremulously walked to the deepest part of the courtyard.

This once was a two-story tavern, but now it has become a gang base.

Marsh, not daring to look at Lann, led them inside.

The house was already filled with quite a few people.

Where the Minstrel originally performed in the tavern, there was now a chair, occupied by a lean man with protruding, lackluster eyes.

This seemed to be Sketch, the leader of the Mud Gang.

In front of him, Francis Bealan, whom they met earlier on the road, was leading his people, answering the boss’s questions.

On the road just now, their people appeared numerous, forming a noticeable group.

But now the situation in the room did not look optimistic; more people vaguely surrounded them, enclosing them in a small area in front of Sketch.

The atmosphere was very tense, with the surrounded and the surrounding people staring coldly at each other, their hands reaching inside their clothes.

There likely were daggers, short swords, wrapped iron batons, and the like inside.

Lann and Triss, just entering, observed the scene.

Even though they belonged to the same gang, it appeared the gang leader was ready to kill Francis’s group at any time.

Thinking about it, it’s understandable. A subordinate leader quietly devising such a new and potentially significant organizational model, yet not discussing it with the boss but instead being discovered by the boss...

If it weren’t for Francis Bealan having sufficient manpower and status in the gang, he would have been killed by now.

"How many more beggars have you brought in, Francis?"

In the tense atmosphere, the boss, who had been staring blankly at Francis from the performer’s chair, suddenly spoke.

His eyes initially resembled those of a dead fish, but if they rested on a person for long, they would send a chilling sensation to one’s core.

These weren’t ’dead fish eyes’; these were the eyes of someone who, accustomed to killing, no longer experienced emotional fluctuations.

"Last time you brought in nineteen beggars into your net, which made things a lot easier for everyone. When we went out to fight, we always encountered opponents fewer in number than us. We could always find a place to stash our loot."

"This is good, Francis. You see, apart from rewarding you, the brains behind this plan, I have also outfitted Old Monk with a new set of clothes, a prosthetic leg, and three or four errand boys. As a reward for him relaying your plan to me."

Sketch pointed to a timid figure below the stage.

The figure was glaring at Francis, his face lined with wrinkles and stray, unruly facial hair, wearing a cloth garment, but his exposed skin was covered with old scars and unhealed sores.

His mouth, gnashing its teeth, revealed a set of yellow decaying teeth.

"Don’t be so harsh on him, Old Monk. Without Francis, you wouldn’t have gotten into the Mud Gang. You should be thanking him."

"I only want to thank you now! Not this disloyal Francis!"

Sketch laughed softly, but throughout, those dead fish-like eyes never moved off Francis’s face.

The bald-headed Francis did not exhibit an overly passionate expression, acting as if Old Monk didn’t exist.

He just calmly, like an ordinary, dutiful gang leader, reported the situation to his boss.

"I’ve already talked to twenty more beggars in the dock district. They will become our eyes at the dock. However, I can’t squeeze their pay any further; they must at least be on par with the first batch..."

"Can’t squeeze it? You can’t squeeze down the wages of a bunch of filthy beggars?"

Before Francis could finish speaking, Sketch interrupted him.

"If it’s just regular work, sure, like beating people up, threatening them... But now we want them to not only work, but also voluntarily keep it secret. If it’s not voluntary, how can you call it a secret?"

"Anyway, the gang only pays so much. If you can’t negotiate, you make up the difference yourself."

Making subordinates pay out of pocket is a clear signal in the gang that you don’t want them to stick around.

But no one present thought anything was wrong, because Francis had first hidden his new way to make money, and was later found out by the boss.

Being troubled, or even getting killed, was something he couldn’t complain about.

Of course, if he had really managed to keep it hidden then, and used the money he made to grow bigger, there would be nothing to say.

The gang values results, whoever is stronger is right.

Sketch stared at Francis with fish-dead eyes, while Francis quietly watched the gang leader.

The atmosphere grew even more tense, the faint sound of blades being drawn from under clothing was myriad yet unmistakable.

The underlings Francis brought with him exchanged nervous glances and began to stand back to back, forming a circle.

Francis’s lips twitched, but in the end he gritted his teeth, his cheeks bulging, and he bowed his head.

"I’ll comply, boss."

"Very good."

Sketch immediately accepted Francis’s submission, deciding not to break things off just yet.

He had plenty of time; Francis held status and reputation in the gang, but let him be whittled down slowly. Now that Sketch had this new avenue for earning money, he was in no rush.

The tension loosened, as the two groups, who were previously glaring at each other and bent over in readiness, cautiously relaxed their bodies.

Seemingly to break the tense atmosphere, Sketch shouted towards the door.

"Marsh!"

"I see you, you damned fool. Get over here, and tell everyone where the Half-Elf ran off to! He owes us a big sum of money."

The one whose name was called from the crowd’s edge shivered all over, like a quail caught in fright.

His steps were heavy as he moved slowly towards the center of the room.

That short distance took him at least half a minute to cover before he finally ambled to Sketch’s side.

"B-boss."

Sketch had intended to use Marsh’s errand to ease up the mood, hoping it wouldn’t stay so tense. If someone inadvertently did something foolish under pressure, it wouldn’t be worth it if they started a fight with Francis.

But he hadn’t expected Marsh to act like he’d lost his nerve entirely.

He used to be quite fierce, but now he’s making a fool out of himself in front of Francis!

Sketch’s tone darkened due to Marsh’s display.

"What’s with that pathetic look? No results? You dare come back empty-handed?"

Marsh was ordered to wait outside Dudu’s house until the Half-Elf showed up and then bring him back immediately.

But now it was clear that he had come back empty-handed.

The gang leader swallowed hard, thinking about the excuses he was supposed to use on his way back. His throat felt dry, but under some inexplicable fear, he stammered out.

"I-we haven’t seen that Half-Elf, boss. We haven’t seen him at all. We’ve been waiting for several days, and if it doesn’t work out, maybe you can give me more clues. I can wait and send people to search. At least we’d have something to do."

"So you dare come back empty-handed just because you haven’t seen him?"

Finally, Sketch’s fish-dead eyes left Francis for the first time and turned to Marsh.

It was a crucial time for the gang since they had found a new way to make money and were about to open up the market. He suspected Marsh was deliberately causing trouble for him.

But looking at this underling, the gang leader couldn’t find anything but a stiff expression on his face.

"...No other clues."

Maybe still holding some trust for Marsh, Sketch decided to respond.

"All you need to do is drag that damn Half-Elf wretch in front of me, along with his money! If the money is no good, just bring the person! Got it?"

Usually at this point, Marsh would understand, even nodding obsequiously.

But today was different...

His brows knitted tightly, his pupils trembling in panic. "Say a bit more, boss. Truly, we haven’t seen him."

"If you haven’t seen him, keep waiting! Don’t touch anything in the house, don’t sell it, don’t smash it. Just wait for his return; I want the person!... Have you overdosed and stopped understanding human speech today, you stupid donkey?"

"No, he definitely understands human speech."

A calm and steady voice emerged from the shadows at the door.

The wooden floor creaked with the weight, as the soles of heavy leather boots stepped across the boards.

A tall figure draped in a wide cloak revealed half its silhouette from the shadows.