novelraw Chapter 195: Phantom of the Bar
Chapter 195: Phantom of the Bar
The air in the derelict bar was thick with a sweet, hazy vapor.
It wasn’t the choking kind of smoke, but a milky, dream-like cloud that carried the faint scent of fruit and herbs. The vapor swirled in the dim light, casting strange patterns of shadow.
And within it, figures moved.
Blurry human forms, woven from the smoke itself, danced through the haze. They, too, seemed to be trapped in a bygone era of twilight cocktails and antique jazz.
Some sat at the bar, clutching phantom wine glasses, toasting each other in silence.
Others stood by the windows in groups of two and three, their heads bent in secret conversation.
On the dance floor, phantom couples held each other close, their smoke-made bodies twisting to the melody.
It was a grand, ghostly ball woven from vapor and music.
But in this entire misty, illusory world, there was only one...
real person.
A woman with hair like fire sat on a high stool at the far end of the bar.
Her hair was the color of autumn maple leaves, a deep wine-red in the dim light. She had a slender, curvaceous figure, dressed in a form-fitting, dark-red velvet gown.
You might have called her a “mature lady,” but she couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five.
Still, the way she held herself—the delicate, winged eyeliner, the full, blood-red lips, the languid, worldly-wise look in her eyes—gave her a maturity that belied her age.
If Pandora were here, she would have recognized her instantly. This was the assistant instructor for her new batch of apprentices, a powerful Third-Rank known as “The Smoking Fox,” Poppy.
Poppy’s eyes were closed, her body swaying gently to the music.
She loved it here. She loved this atmosphere.
Even if she was the only living soul in the entire bar, it didn’t matter.
She was lost in the phantasm of bygone days she’d woven with her own power, this space between the real and the illusory. She enjoyed the lonely bustle, the tranquil clamor.
Whoosh—
A gust of cold wind swept through the bar from the massive glass door, which had been left slightly ajar.
The wind skittered across the empty dance floor, scattering a small swirl of vapor.
And with it, several of the phantom toasters and whisperers.
Poppy didn’t even open her eyes.
She just reached for the exquisite water pipe she kept on the bar, its surface inlaid with dark glaze and silver.
Her red lips parted. She took a slow, elegant drag.
Then she exhaled a cloud of vapor, thicker and richer than before.
The new smoke, as if alive, dispersed and coalesced, filling the gap the wind had left.
New, more detailed figures reappeared in the mist, resuming their interrupted, ghostly party.
As if the wind had never been there.
On the dance floor, a Palmfiend that had been dancing along with the crowd suddenly shuddered.
It stopped its comical, human-like dance steps.
It let out a tiny squeak, like a mouse.
Then, it scurried on its finger-like legs, racing across the phantom dance floor and over the cold marble to Poppy’s feet.
It nimbly climbed the hem of her velvet dress, finally coming to rest in her gloved hand, which lay on the bar.
Only then did Poppy slowly open her eyes.
Her languid expression sharpened as she saw the sender’s name and the message summary.
“The Snow,” she murmured.
The text on the Palmfiend was simple: “A ‘rescue’ gig. Medium difficulty, generous pay. Goal: help someone get away from Blighted Hand Wilbur. Interested?”
Poppy swiped a finger across the Palmfiend’s skin.
“Elaborate.”
A moment later, The Snow sent the details.
The job was to stay at a designated location for a set time. If the client needed help, she would intervene and hold off Wilbur, creating a window to escape. If the client didn’t need her, she wouldn’t have to show up at all.
The difficulty wasn’t high. With her skills, she was confident she could handle a Blighted Hand Wilbur.
The reward was also generous: five bottles of ‘Wormblood Brew’.
The Snow would take one as a finder’s fee, leaving four for her.
Best of all, there was a special condition: whether the client needed her help or not, whether she lifted a finger or not, she would be paid in full.
With The Snow’s reputation as a go-between, Poppy wasn’t worried about getting stiffed.
However...
“‘Super-high quality’?”
Poppy’s slender brow arched.
“What does that mean?”
The reply came back instantly, terse but confident.
“Exactly what it says.”
“Better than the best Wormblood Brew you can buy on the market.”
“Field-tested. It works.”
“The immunity boost is stronger, and the weakness afterward is shorter.”
Oh?
Poppy’s half-lidded eyes snapped open.
A look of keen interest appeared on her face.
The Wormblood Brew wasn’t a leveling potion. It couldn’t directly help a Corpse-Plague Acolyte apprentice rank up.
But its effects were crucial to how an Acolyte got stronger.
Apprentices of the Corpse-Plague Acolyte path had a unique method of self-improvement.
They had to evolve.
And evolution hurt.
They used custom-bred toxins, infecting themselves over and over, forcing their bodies to adapt or die. Each controlled infection was a targeted mutation, a refinement of their physical form and their Transcendent essence.
But even for these walking plague-bearers, the process was a game of russian roulette.
Loss of control, backlash, malignant mutations…
A single mistake meant catastrophe.
In moments like those, a bottle of Wormblood Brew, potent and pure, wasn’t just helpful.
It was a lifeline.