Roan woke up with a groan. He blinked and looked around in confusion.
Where was this?
"Ah, finally awake. Took two punches," said a familiar feminine voice.
The sound triggered everything at once—right. He'd been abducted by these people.
And with that awareness came the pain. His stomach screamed in agony.
Roan let out another groan.
"W-Who are you people? What do you want from me?" he stammered.
The woman from before answered, "What we want is information. Where is the location of your secret base?"
"What secret base?" Roan asked, genuinely confused.
Another punch answered him.
"Lie again, and we'll break a finger," she said coldly.
Roan gasped through the pain. If there'd been anything in his stomach, he would've vomited.
Between ragged breaths, he forced out, "You… huff… are… huff… misunderstanding… huff… me for someone else."
"Oh? And who are we misunderstanding you for?" the woman asked cheerfully.
The sudden mood shift terrified him more than the pain.
Roan opened his mouth a few times before muttering, "I don't know."
The woman blinked, genuinely surprised.
"You don't know?" she repeated slowly, as if talking to an idiot.
"I don't. I'm just a beggar," he said, trying to steady his breath.
He took a look around. Unsurprisingly, he was in a dark room, hanging from the ceiling. And he wondered why his arms hurt...
A snort drew his attention back to her. "A beggar… with seven silver?"
That gave him pause. Did the physician figure out I was a fraud?
His face paled. "I'm sorry. The physician thought I was one of you guys, so I pretended—to get a discount. Please forgive me. I'll never make that mistake again."
Now it was her turn to look confused. "What are you on about? You're the middleman who talks with the palace, right?"
The confusion mirrored on Roan's face. "What? Middleman? Palace?"
The massive man and the woman exchanged a look.
"Did we get the wrong guy?" she asked.
The man turned toward Roan. "Who do you think we are?"
Roan replied uncertainly, "The loan sh—lander?"
"Yep. Definitely the wrong guy," the woman said, amused. "Still… Why does a beggar like you have seven silver? Not many people carry that kind of coin."
"I found a corpse in the sewer," Roan said. "Took it from him."
"You just found a corpse with seven silver on him? Really?" She rolled her eyes.
Okay yeah, that did sound absurd now that he thought about it. He quickly scrambled for something more convincing. "I took his shoes and trousers too."
"So… you murdered someone rich and took his money and clothes. The wound in your hand makes sense now," she said with a knowing look.
"No—this is from a Thieves' Guild lackey! I stole from—" Roan stopped. That only made their theory stronger.
"—someone you shouldn't have. So you're on the run," she finished for him.
That was what happened—but not in the way they were imagining. Roan gulped.
"It's a misunderstanding."
"Oh yeah? How so?"
"I stole from Samantha the baker. She had Thieves' Guild protection. They caught me. Cut my finger as a warning and told me to get out of the inner city. Probably were told to make an example out of me."
The woman let out a low whistle and clapped mockingly. "Nice tale."
They clearly weren't convinced.
"You can go there and ask," Roan insisted. "Or look for a rich man whose wife and friend went missing—or turned up dead. They were having an affair."
At the mention of the wife, the woman's eyes went cold. But he pressed on.
"And besides, why should I lie? You think I want to be here?"
The woman's voice dropped into an icy tone. "Even if what you said is true, you're a wanted man by the Thieves' Guild. We ought to kill you—show of alliance and all."
Alliance. That was the key word.
Roan's mind clicked.
They were smugglers.
The physician double-crossed the loan sharks. Thought I was their middleman, saw the silver, and reported me. And now… here I am.
Good thing he got the intel yesterday. At least now he knew who'd killed him.
Wait… no. He had something. Something that might make them reconsider.
"I can give you knowledge you've never heard of," Roan said quietly.
The woman looked at him like he was insane. "You? A beggar?"
Roan gritted his teeth. "I wasn't always a beggar."
He took a breath. "I'm a runaway."
She raised a brow. "From where?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at them. He couldn't say he was the third accidental son of a middle-income family. That wouldn't carry weight.
Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait… are you a noble?"
The large man looked at her in disbelief.
A triumphant grin nearly escaped him. He had them.
"I'm… a bastard," Roan said, 'begrudgingly.'
"Which family?" she asked, all traces of amusement gone. Bastard or not, killing a noble could get their entire gang slaughtered.
Roan said nothing.
The man moved to punch him again, but the woman raised her hand to stop him.
Roan spoke first, fearfully—and not even pretending. "I can't say. If word got out that one of their blood, even if diluted, lived as a beggar, they'd kill my mother. Or worse."
The woman was suddenly looking at him with… sympathy?
"Alright. What kind of knowledge can you offer?" she asked.
"Can you guarantee you won't kill me?"
"As long as you're useful," she said 'casually.'
Yeah right. They were bluffing. If he gave them something useful now, they'd keep him—maybe even protect him. But if not…
Roan didn't hesitate. Naor, give me something they'd find useful in their situation.
Naor responded dryly, "Smoke bomb. Ingredients: saltpeter, sugar, charcoal, container. Mix three parts saltpeter with two parts sugar. Add finely ground charcoal. Heat gently until creamy. Pour into the container. Light one end—dense smoke."
Naor kept talking, listing variations. Roan felt pressure. The woman was getting impatient.
"I can make you a smoke bomb," Roan blurted. "Dense smoke. I can teach techniques to avoid getting caught—and if someone does get caught, the gang won't take the fall."
She raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."
Roan swallowed and relayed the formula. "Also, I can teach you a secret language—and how to use it."
"Sugar's too expensive. No way we're wasting it on a smoke bomb. And we can make a secret language ourselves," she said, unimpressed.
"I need time. The really good stuff needs planning," Roan insisted.
"Then show us something now," the man said suddenly. He hadn't said much before.
Even the woman looked at him, surprised.
Naor? Roan asked.
Naor sighed. "Tell them to bring: sewer water, two clay pots, clean sand, charcoal, cloth, and fire tools. You'll turn sewer water into clean water."
Roan grit his teeth. "I need those ingredients."
"For what?" she asked.
"To turn sewer water into water only nobles drink," Roan said, determination blazing in his eyes.
They stared at him like he'd grown horns.
But then the man said, "Alright. I'll get it."
The woman looked stunned. "You believe him?"
"I don't. But it won't hurt to try," he replied calmly.
She nodded slowly, still clearly shocked.
The man turned to Roan, his eyes sharp. "Close your eyes."
Roan obeyed. The man took a while gathering everything. At that time, Roan confirmed the steps with Naor.
"Open."
Everything was laid out in front of him.
"Now what?" the woman asked.
"Make a small hole in the bottom of one of the pots."
The man did, surprisingly skilled with the knife. A potter before? Doesn't matter.
Roan continued, "Put cloth over the hole. Add charcoal. Then clean sand. Then another cloth. Stack the pot on top of the second pot. Pour in the sewer water."
The man did it all—using a water skin that looked suspiciously like Roan's.
"Now?" the woman asked.
"Now we wait. Half a bell. Make a fire in the meantime," Roan said.
The woman grumbled, but the man remained patient.
After the longest half-bell of his life, the water had almost completely filtered through.
Before they could ask, Roan ordered, "Boil it. For 100 heartbeats."
The woman glared at him but didn't say anything.
They followed the instructions.
When the time was up, they brought him the pot.
Roan stared at it, hesitated, then took a gulp.
It was… better than anything he'd ever drunk.
He looked at them, triumphant. "It's clean."
They exchanged a look. Then the man took a sip—and his eyes widened.
"How is it?" the woman asked, voice tight.
"It's clean," he said, smiling for the first time.
The woman hesitated, then downed the rest.
She stared at Roan, face twisted with unexpected disdain. "The nobles have been hiding techniques like this…"
Roan opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"You know your stuff. You're useful. We'll keep you—for now. But if you try anything funny…" she made a slicing gesture across her throat.
Roan gulped. It was an empty threat—but fear still crept in.
The man cut the rope, and Roan collapsed in a heap.
He looked down at his hands, relief flooding through him.
But it didn't last.
Nothing was certain yet. He'd lied his way out of a grave.
Now he had to figure out how to survive this sinking boat.