Captain Emmus noticed that Aldric had no objections and continued to elaborate on his thoughts.
"Besides being a fine ship," the old captain said with growing enthusiasm, "the remaining crew is still waiting for news. If we take over now, I'm confident I can bring those sailors over to our side as well. They've worked together for years and know each other's rhythm perfectly!"
Aldric nodded, taking a long sip of hot tea to mask the discomfort that briefly crossed his face.
"The best part," Emmus went on, eyes gleaming, "is that we can even acquire the cargo directly! In fact, a large quantity of goods has already been stuck in the warehouse for over a week. The overdue storage fees alone are enough to make that poor widow sell all her jewelry to pay them off. The local bank refuses to release her late husband's funds, claiming the city guard's investigation isn't complete yet. They won't officially declare him dead. If we can buy both the ship and the cargo together, we'll be able to negotiate a much lower price! And once the paperwork's done, I could set sail immediately—without losing even a single day!"
Thinking that he might very well have fought atop that unfortunate man's remains, his blood still staining the battlefield, Aldric decided there was no reason to squeeze every last coin from the widow.
"Handle it however you see fit, Captain," he said firmly. "But don't press her too hard on the price. Pay her the fair market rate. Since you're confident, we'll take everything—the ship, the crew, and the cargo. Let's wrap this up quickly."
Seeing that the matter was settled, Captain Emmus rose from his chair, bowing slightly. "Then I'll take my leave, my friend. I'll inform the widow of your generosity and compassion. Until next time."
After seeing the old captain out, Aldric took a deep breath and slumped into his chair. The NPCs in this world were simply too realistic—so intelligent that sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if he had unknowingly transmigrated again into another world entirely.
As night fell, Aldric—temporarily occupying one of the dwarves' guest rooms—sat cross-legged on the floor, ready to begin his meditation. During the past few days in the wilderness, he had already learned to enter the [Meditation] state smoothly without needing the teacher's guidance.
This time, however, he didn't use any Tranquil Thought potion. Although the old witcher had given him a box containing twelve vials of the stuff, Aldric still preferred relying on his own willpower.
[Tranquil Thought]:A rare potion commonly used by witchers to aid meditation. It enhances mental focus while relaxing the body. (Meditation efficiency +30%).
Its effects are so remarkable that, despite its high toxicity for those without a witcher's physique, many spellcasters still dilute and use it regularly. Long-term use may cause dependency, though witchers' bodies can endure it.
It was said that among transcendent beings, this potion sold for as much as 500 gold coins per vial. Though Aldric no longer had to worry about money, his lifelong upbringing had ingrained in him a deep aversion to anything potentially addictive.
Not long after entering [Meditation], Aldric's heightened senses picked up movement outside the window. The dwarves' workshop was built entirely of stone, a design meant to prevent fires making it far safer and quieter than any inn. That was one of the reasons Aldric chose to stay here.
The room he occupied was originally a temporary resting space for the dwarves. It was well-insulated to keep the sound of blacksmithing from leaking inside, ensuring a rare moment of quiet even within a bustling forge.
Aside from a sturdy, tightly shut door connecting it to the main forge, there was a single window opening toward the street for ventilation. Now, from that very window came a rhythmic tapping sound.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap-tap!
Because of the forge's tall ceilings, the living quarters were divided into two levels, and Aldric's room was on the second floor. The window was roughly four meters above ground level.
Hearing the tapping, Aldric quietly withdrew from [Meditation]. It seemed his night was about to get busy. At this hour, there was only one person who would approach him this way—the unlucky scapegoat himself: the Shadow Assassin.
When he opened the window, his guess proved right. There, perched casually on the window ledge, was Colin, the Shadow Assassin. Despite his relaxed pose and effortless balance, the moment Aldric swung the window inward, the man, who had been leaning against it in dramatic fashion lost his support and flopped bonelessly into the room.
He collapsed onto the floor with a heavy thud, muttering faintly, "No one followed me… help me…" before immediately losing consciousness.
Aldric didn't waste time pitying the fool who seemed barely clinging to life. Even though his [Meditation] senses had already confirmed no one else nearby, he still leaned out the window to check both sides with his own eyes, making sure the assassin hadn't been tracked. Only after verifying did he close the window carefully.
Despite the intuitive advantages of perception stats in the game, Aldric still preferred trusting his own vision when it came to safety.
He then lifted the unconscious assassin and placed him gently on the table. The man reeked faintly of blood, though strangely no fresh blood seeped through his dark clothing—likely due to some technique or item he'd used.
A brief touch told Aldric that Colin had at least seven broken ribs, and his right arm was twisted badly out of shape. Fearing that the broken bones might puncture vital organs, Aldric laid him flat on the solid wooden table.
He used his small utility knife to slice open the assassin's tunic, ignoring the superficial cuts to inspect the deeper injuries. The worst damage was concentrated on the right side—cracked ribs, a shattered arm, but surprisingly few open wounds.
Aldric could easily picture how it happened: a burly warrior, perhaps someone like that of Vittoria swinging a massive shield in a devastating bash that sent the overly confident assassin flying into a wall. The bruising and internal trauma on his left side were exactly what one would expect from that kind of impact.
The remaining cuts were shallow likely from failing to dodge after the initial hit, grazed by ordinary soldiers' blades. Only one injury truly made Aldric pause: a deep puncture wound.
It was an arrow wound—thin and precise, the shaft having pierced clean through the assassin's calf. Whether the arrow had passed completely through or been pulled out by Colin himself, the wound had been crudely wrapped with a strip of torn cloth.
Because of his all-black attire and the lack of bleeding, Aldric wouldn't even have noticed the injury if not for the makeshift bandage.
Carefully cutting away the surrounding fabric, Aldric examined the entry and exit points. The wound at the back of the leg was noticeably larger than the one at the front—an unusual sign.
That wasn't normal. Based on the angle and size, the arrow had struck from behind at roughly a fifty-degree downward angle, almost perpendicular to the ground. Normally, the front wound should've been larger.
That could only mean one thing—the assassin had been struck while running away.
(End of Chapter)