Six-Armed Serpent Demon

Page 31

Golden sunlight shone on the sea and reflected into the window, illuminating the empty room and the dock ledger in front of the imposter young lady.

The ledger was very large, and the cover was wrapped in some kind of fish skin. The paper inside had become yellowed and brittle because it had been stored for too long.

The temporary dock clerk, who had just arrived at his post, casually flipped through a few pages and was dazzled by the dense records on the paper.

Bored, she closed the ledger and tossed it onto her desk. A loud thud echoed as the desk wobbled precariously.

The imposter Ivy Beatrice touches her forehead with her hand.

To everyone's surprise, the so-called dock clerk was actually assigned to be the new accountant, and after reporting to the dock, the first task assigned to him by the port authority was to check the ledgers.

Checking the ledgers often indicates a lack of trust in past ledgers and the person who kept the accounts.

So at this moment, the way the fifty-something-year-old accountant, Tevordo, looked at her was very strange. In the demon's vision, the old clerk's sinful aura shone like a lighthouse, enveloped in anger, worry, unease, and a hint of wishful thinking.

— Embezzlement and falsifying accounts.

This familiar scenario made her so bored she wanted to yawn.

The old accountant snorted: "Is there something wrong, Ms. Beate?"

His hum was perfectly timed, the nasal tone conveying both his dissatisfaction with her and his indignation at being questioned. I never expected this old man to be such a good actor.

She rubbed her temples.

"No, it's just a little low blood sugar."

Her answer was met with a sneer.

The six-armed snake demon looked around.

The dock office was almost deserted. Everyone was either standing on the dock, busy counting the ships coming and going, registering the catches and traded goods. In the office, besides the disdainful old accountant, only she herself was present. People came and went outside, all rushing about their own business, and no one peeked into the office.

She sighed.

“There’s nothing to investigate in these accounts,” the demon said. “You’re not very good at falsifying accounts. Medical students are all science whizzes; they have a good grasp of numbers. Besides, I used to manage the accounts myself in my own studio.”

The old man was completely confused, but that didn't stop him from staring wide-eyed in a panic.

"What nonsense are you talking about? What science? What studio—"

She wasn't going to listen to his long-winded explanation. She stretched her long leg out from under the desk and kicked the old man in the stomach.

With a crash, Tevordo's chair flew backward, and he landed face-first on the ground. He was in so much pain he almost fainted, his forehead covered in cold sweat, clutching his stomach and writhing in agony on the ground.

He felt like his intestines were about to be ripped apart by that kick.

Old accountant Tvordo wanted to yell at the woman, threatening to report her to the port authority, but—

“You won’t report it,” her voice was clear and melodious, yet it seemed to see right through him like a devil, “because then the port master would know what tricks you’ve played in the books.”

He was so out of breath that he couldn't even speak.

In the end, all that came out of his throat was a series of distorted groans.

He heard the imposter Ivy Beatrice say, "I believe you know who I am and what I've done."

The old man was in excruciating pain, clutching his stomach and curled up on the ground, nodding.

More than three months ago, the gossip about the former Miss Beate eloping with her servant after breaking off their engagement spread throughout the city in no time. Tvordo had only heard that this young lady was stubborn, willful, and audacious before, but now he experienced it for himself. This woman's personality was actually ten times more direct and brutal than the rumors suggested.

“It is said,” she said, almost to herself, “that a person’s growth is always accompanied by a certain event. This point in time is often something very stimulating, causing a sudden awakening of one’s personality. I died once, and after waking up, I killed a lot of people before I got here. So now I am completely awakened—you need to awaken too, have I awakened you, sir?”

The old man nodded, sobbing.

He couldn't understand what she was saying, but he was terrified.

He rubbed his face against the floor, crying and pleading, "I tampered with it, I'm sorry, so sorry, Lord Beatrice, esteemed paladin... I can give you all the money I embezzled..."

“What would I do with your money?” she said, puzzled. “I have plenty of gold; I don’t need your money.”

"Oh no, I mean, hand them all over—"

"That's not necessary."

The demon said, "I have no interest in how you make money or the money you make; I want to see your respect for me. Do you understand?"

The old accountant paused for a few seconds before stammering, "...I understand."

He quickly lifted his face, contorted in pain, and looked through teary eyes at the smiling red-haired girl behind the desk. His eyes held not only tears, but also fear and the relief of surviving a close call.

The imposter Miss Beate stood up from behind her desk and stretched gracefully.

Under the old accountant's horrified and bewildered gaze, she opened the ledger and casually tore out a few pages.

The old accountant's forehead was covered in even more cold sweat, not from the pain, but because he recognized those pages as the very pages where he had falsified the accounts.

"You, what are you doing...?"

The demon didn't care at all. "Oh, I need to go to the restroom. We're out of toilet paper."

When Port Master Burktura returned to his mother's office after a busy day and was drinking, he was stunned to find the white-haired old accountant attending to Miss Beate's every need, not only serving her tea and water and buying her lunch, but even checking the ledgers for her. Meanwhile, the new clerk accountant was reviewing the latest shipping manifests and dock entry and exit registers.

Berktura still trusts Tvordo quite a bit.

He had Ivy Beate audit the accounts for two reasons: firstly, it was a secret order from Paladin Squad Leader El, and secondly, it was a tradition in the dock office to give newcomers a tough start with a heavy workload.

But looking at the old accountant Tvordo's obsequious manner now, he looks just like a groveling old lapdog.

For a moment, Berktura had no idea how to report to Squad Leader El.

—Is that old geezer Tevodo experiencing a second spring in his life?

Wake up, your wife of thirty years is still waiting for you at home.

The imposter Ivy Beatrice was completely unaware of the Port Master's inner monologue.

She quickly flipped through the port register and finally found what she was looking for in the records from three days ago.

One cargo ship arrived at the port nine days later.

The Golden Horned Siren came from across the sea.

The ship was transporting "silk fabrics," and the designated warehouse was six rooms.

The six-armed snake demon licked his lips, closed the register with satisfaction, and glanced sideways at the person opposite him with a half-smile.

At the desk opposite her, Tevodo was engrossed in calculations amidst endless numbers.

Tvordo lowered his eyelids, trying to conceal the greed and hatred in his eyes.

—That damn woman!

—This kick can't just be left like this.

—We must not give her the opportunity to complain to Burktura.

He gritted his teeth inwardly.

What fueled his malice even more was a statement she made: "I have plenty of gold."

The once-powerful Beate family was devoured overnight. But even a centipede with a hundred legs doesn't die easily; who knows how much untold wealth still remains?

What's more, she is the eldest daughter of the Beate family, and the former direct heir!

Author's note: My family matters are settled. I will resume daily evening updates starting tomorrow.

Chapter 38 Ambush and Fishing

The salty, damp sea breeze carried a faint metallic stench.

Her bright red hair danced in the wind, and the gray-yellow collar of her dress gently brushed against her smooth, white neck and face.

The imposter Ivy Beatrice, with her thick, long hair flowing freely and her hands in the pockets of her trench coat, walked briskly through the crowd carrying their catch. Already tall, she wore high-heeled boots, making her appear even taller than the passersby by half a head.

As she walked briskly, she listened contentedly to the whistles of newly docked fishing boats carried by the sea breeze, the fierce arguments and bidding wars between business agents and wealthy housekeepers over the top catches, the joyful laughter of numerous fishermen celebrating their harvest, and the occasional malicious whispers.

The imposter Ivy Beatrice turned a corner, leaving the stone ground of the dock and heading towards the muddy warehouse area.

The population here is gradually dwindling.

The Beate family's six warehouses were located side by side in a corner of the warehouse district. This relatively quiet location made it convenient to move things in and out without disturbing most people.

The nearest warehouse had a rusty padlock on its iron gate, but the lock was open.

The imposter Ivy Beatrice removed the lock, opened the iron gate, and entered the warehouse.

The dark warehouse was filled with all sorts of messy things.

She glanced at them quickly and saw crates upon crates of smuggled liquor—the laws of the City of Flames prohibited alcohol, but Fire Harbor was beyond the reach of the law. The six warehouses had now been rented by the Brokway couple to dock gangs connected to maritime smugglers to store their contraband.

Her snow-white nose twitched slightly, and she also smelled a sticky, sweet stench.

As a medical graduate from her previous life, she quickly realized that the sweet and foul smell actually came from poppies, also known as "opium".

In this medieval-like world, it seems no one is yet aware of the dangers of opium. Perhaps this is because the robust physiques of adventurers and professionals exempt them from its addictive properties, and perhaps because there are many things with far more serious consequences than its outward appearance. The City of Fiery Earth has no laws prohibiting opium; instead, it is treated as a panacea and highly regarded. However, the number of ordinary people addicted to opium in the lower and central cities is steadily increasing, showing a gradual spread.

The thick dust in the air made the imposter Ivy Beatrice's nose itch, and she couldn't help but sneeze.

She frowned her beautiful brows.

—From wine to opium, the business of smugglers at sea in this other world is truly extensive. But what exactly is this "Dragon Madness Lock" prototype that the two demons mentioned, that requires six entire warehouses to store it?

Just then, a young woman's terrified scream came from outside the warehouse.

The imposter Ivy Beatrice's brow unfurrowed.

Satuk stood in the shadow of the narrow path between the warehouses, picking his teeth with a blade of grass while cautiously peeking through the corner of the wall at the open iron gate of the Beat family warehouse across the road.

Satuker was a stern-faced, lean man with shaved brown hair. Nicknamed "The Sleeper," he was an assassin for the powerful Bronco Gang, the most influential dockside gang. Eighty percent of the businesses in Fireport were connected to the Bronco Gang.

He stared at the iron gate for a few more seconds, but there was no movement from inside.

"Keep hitting, keep yelling, and make it louder," he commanded.

In the middle of the road in front of him, two thugs were intermittently beating a thin woman curled up on the ground. The woman was crying pitifully, and was also holding a child of about seven or eight years old.

This frail woman wasn't one of theirs; she was just a "bug" they'd temporarily hired. This term was used to describe the drug addicts of the city's underbelly, because they were as lowly as insects, willing to do anything for a quick dose of drugs. For example, this female "bug" had been beaten up and received a single copper coin. A fair price, no cheating.

This is enough to deal with a lower-ranking paladin.

Satuq thought listlessly.

Even though a paladin is only a lower-ranking officer, it is impossible for him to remain indifferent to the beating of women and children.

At his command, the two thugs rained down punches, and the woman's cries gradually subsided. The child, in the woman's arms, was both angry and frightened, and began to cry loudly.

Satuq spat out the grass roots with a "pfft," leaned against the wall, pulled out his club, and tapped it lightly in his palm with a satisfied smile.

According to Tvordo's intelligence, the fallen heiress possesses the Beatrice family's hidden wealth—a considerable amount of gold. In the City of Flames, no one dares offend the Bronze Dragon Paladin, not even in the most chaotic Fireport. But once he gets his hands on this gold, where in the world can't he go?

Besides, given that young lady's stunning beauty, interrogating her should be a delightful experience.

In the short time he had already imagined 108 different poses for her in his mind.

The only problem right now is that, despite the commotion here, the iron gate of the Beiat warehouse in the distance remains as silent as ever, as if there is no one living inside.

A thug turned to him, hesitated, and then stopped.

—What the hell are you doing?

Satuq glared at him, shrugged, spread his hands, and then made a stern gesture, signaling him to continue.

“But, boss, if we keep hitting it,” the thug said hesitantly, “this bug is going to die.”

"so what?"

Satuq couldn't help but speak up.

He felt baffled and couldn't understand this idiot's thought process at all. "Are you thinking with your ass, you moron? Kill her, that'll make the child cry even louder and create a better atmosphere—don't fucking stare at me with your mouth open, you moron, that female paladin will be out soon."

"Excuse me."

A cool, clear female voice came from behind him, making his hair stand on end: "I think he's looking at me."

In an instant, the "Sleeping Man's" body seemed to turn into noodles. With indescribable flexibility, he rolled and turned, swinging his club and striking the source of the sound. At the same time, he flicked his wrist with his other hand and drew a gleaming dagger.

Then there is no more then.

The thug standing in the middle of the road stared in disbelief as the red-haired beauty behind Satuk swung a bottle—covered in dust and cobwebs, clearly taken from a box not long ago—and slammed it squarely on Satuk's forehead as he turned around.

The sounds of a bottle shattering and a neck fracture breaking rang out simultaneously.

The aroma of wine overflows.

Satuq, covered in alcohol, his neck and head twisted at an odd angle, collapsed limply at the red-haired beauty's feet, dagger in his left hand and a club in his right. Only his legs twitched occasionally.

A thug's crotch was wet.