5. Wild Heart's Bar

Upon waking up, Angel found that the sun had already set outside the window, and the slanting sunset enveloped the entire bedroom in gold.

After the "Tarot Gathering" ended, thinking it was not yet dinner time, Angel decided to catch up on some sleep. She tidied up the room belonging to Lily Granger a bit, removed the dust cover, and to her surprise, found the bed underneath unexpectedly clean. Thus, she made it her own bedroom and went straight to sleep.

She looked up at the wall clock, and the short hand had already passed five in the afternoon.

Ignoring the tempting suggestion in her mind that she wanted to sleep more, Angel went to the kitchen. Using marinated lamb, cut and washed potatoes, and onions, she made her first official meal in this world.

"This is even more simplistic than breakfast, isn't it?" Looking at the lamb stew with potatoes in front of her, along with sliced white bread, she couldn't help but recall the savory pasta and the creamy mushroom soup from the Silver Crown Restaurant, lamenting how easy it is to transition from frugality to luxury, but how difficult the reverse is.

She still needed to save money for a fake identity and other potential needs. Currently without an income, she had to be frugal where possible.

Realizing this, Angel took a bite of the white bread, then picked up a soup spoon, and without waiting for the soup to cool down, scooped up a spoonful of lamb soup, blew on it symbolically, and then drank it.

The salt was too much... It could also be that the lamb was marinated for too long, giving the lamb soup a briny taste, mixed with the gamey smell of the lamb. But having not eaten lunch, Angel still drank the hot soup greedily, making even the under-fermented bread taste delicious.

Indeed, when one is hungry, anything tastes good.

Quickly finishing the lamb soup and bread, a strong sense of satiety made Angel squint her eyes in satisfaction. If it weren't for having to go out at night, she would have liked to return to her comfortable bedroom to continue resting.

"Sigh, even after changing worlds and identities, it's still a life of toil..." Angel sighed to herself, starting to prepare for the night's activities.

She first went to the bedroom belonging to Cole Granger on the second floor, found a set of clothes suitable for moving around in, which were a bit large but still much better than a dress.

Then she went back to the study, took out the revolver, removed all the bullets, disassembled the gun into parts, and began to maintain it before use.

The tools came from Cole Granger's collection, bought based on the recommendation of the shopkeeper when purchasing the handgun, comprehensive but never used by him.

"The rifling is worn indeed..." After carefully inspecting the condition of the revolver, Angel pursed her lips. The barrel material was poor, and the bullets were too hard. Combined with the lack of maintenance, this outcome was inevitable. This damage greatly affects the shooting accuracy, and with the tools at hand unable to fix it, she could only clean the gun barrel, cylinder, and hammer of any remaining gunpowder, apply lubricating oil to the action, and polish the wooden grip to restore the weapon to the best condition possible.

The bullets, wrapped in oil paper and neatly placed in a box, were .45 caliber. The significant recoil would drastically decrease the accuracy of rapid fire, but for a handgun, which is essentially a "close combat weapon," its greater lethality and stopping power are unique advantages.

After selecting twenty bullets and checking each one, Angel loaded the revolver, with the rest packed into speed loaders, five rounds each.

Next came the real close combat weapon, a dagger, which Cole Granger, as an "assassin," preferred to use.

It was a short steel dagger with blood grooves on both sides and a coating to reduce reflection, accompanied by a leather sheath. As a former Templar, Angel was not adept with daggers. She merely tried swinging it a few times, remembered its weight and length, then sheathed it and strapped it to her left thigh.

After putting on a cloak to hide her face and all the weapons on her body, Angel counted out fifty pounds from the desk drawer where she kept her money, thought for a moment, and then added another twenty pounds for emergencies.

Fully armed, Angel stood quietly in the living room until the clock pointed towards nine o'clock. Only then did she open the back door, step into the brightly lit streets of Tingen City under the red moon.

…

Without taking any of the ubiquitous hired carriages, nor using the cheaper and more crowded public track carriages, Angel walked along Daffodil Street to the adjacent Iron Cross Street.

Iron Cross Street, true to its name, was not just a single street but consisted of two vertically intersecting streets, divided into Upper Street, Lower Street, Left Street, and Right Street. Daffodil Street intersected with Iron Cross Left Street, and Angel's destination, the "Wild Heart" bar, was located on Iron Cross Lower Street.

Slowly walking through the city square at the intersection of the streets, avoiding the circus clowns distributing flyers, and moving along Iron Cross Left Street, wide enough for six carriages to pass side by side, Angel arrived at Iron Cross Lower Street.

The division of Iron Cross Street into "Upper, Lower, Left, Right" indeed made sense. The Lower Street was evidently more dilapidated than the Left Street she had just passed, not only because the street was narrower due to the numerous vendors encroaching upon it but also because the paving stones were uneven due to long-term neglect. Even the pedestrians' attire and demeanor were noticeably different from those on Left Street, not to mention compared to Daffodil Street.

Nearly all the buildings along the street were three or four-story apartments without separate balconies, with laundry hanging chaotically outside the windows, sewage flowing in front of the doors, and rubbish thrown about. As a main street, it appeared dirtier than the back alleys of Daffodil Street.

Walking here, Angel even felt as if garbage might be thrown down on her at any moment.

The night on Iron Cross Street was no longer as lively as during the day, but there were still many vendors trying to attract the last bit of business, and the number of passersby was no less than elsewhere. Angel held her pockets tight, wary of pickpockets in the crowd, bypassing the din of itinerant vendors, smelling the air mixed with fragrance and stench, and making her way through puddles and trash with difficulty.

Having endured hardship to arrive in front of the "Wild Heart" with its somewhat exaggerated howling wolf head sign, she greedily inhaled the air rich with alcohol, feeling as if she had been reborn.

In the memories inherited by Angel, Cole had also visited the "Wild Heart" bar a few times, sometimes to meet with clients and sometimes to gather information. In his heart, this place was a hub for news, a paradise for drunkards, but by no means a dangerous place.

However, in Angel's eyes, the hidden dangers of the "Wild Heart" were far greater than they appeared on the surface.

Merely walking around the outside of the bar had attracted the attention of a muscular, bare-chested doorman, who closely watched the "hooded figure with unknown origins," seemingly ready to call for backup at any moment.

The window of an apartment across the street on the second floor was always open, but without any light inside. Angel could feel a vague gaze sweeping over her from the window, likely the bar's lookout.

Next to the back door of the bar was a carriage, with the coachman dozing off in the driver's seat and the horses properly harnessed, ready to leave as soon as the owner boarded.

This could be a vehicle parked at the back door for privacy by some dignitary, or a means for an important figure of the bar to escape. Angel believed it was the latter.

The street in front of the bar had more puddles than elsewhere. Upon closer inspection, it could be seen that several drains near the bar were clogged, indicating that this section of the sewer might have been repurposed if it wasn't just municipal workers being lazy and causing the blockage.

Returning to the front of the bar, Angel gained a deeper understanding of this unassuming establishment. She hesitated, wondering whether to risk her safety for a piece of identification but ultimately decided to trust the Tarot Club's "Hanged Man."

"If I get tricked, I hope Mr. Fool will punish him," she muttered to herself before stepping into the bar.

It was already late at night, but the bar still had many customers, most of whom were residents nearby, coming here for a drink after work, and there were also idle, unemployed workers numbing themselves with alcohol. In a dark corner, secretive conversers were brewing a new conspiracy. In the center of the hall, surrounded by a group of excited drinkers, there were occasional shouts and moments of regret, as two cages sunk into the ground staged a "dog-catching-rats" gambling game, with gamblers intently watching the dogs they bet on, wishing they could transform into dogs and dive into the cage to triumph.

Behind the bar, wiping wooden cups, the bartender had already set his sights on Angel who entered, her cloak making her stand out from the surroundings, even the conspirators in the corner showed their faces and hands as basic etiquette.

Scanning the chaotic and noisy bar, Angel eventually turned her gaze to the bartender, making her way past the dog cages to the front of the bar.

"What'll you have? Rye beer for a penny, Southwell beer for four pence, newly arrived butter beer for seven pence, chilled!" Seeing the newcomer approach, the bartender skillfully hawked his wares.

"'Captain' referred me here, he said you can help with identification papers." Angel did not order a drink, but directly stated her purpose.

The bartender's action of wiping the cups halted, and he looked up at the clock hanging high, its outer glass shattered, showing five minutes to ten o'clock: "It's not time yet, you're early."

"I can wait."

Putting down the cup and cloth, the bartender said, "Alright, I'll call you when it's time. Want a drink in the meantime?"

"Then give me a 'half and half', extra sugar." Angel then remembered the passphrase "The Hanged Man" had given her.

Only after the passphrase did the bartender nod, turning back to prepare the drink. Soon, a "half and half" made of beer and wine was served on the bar.

"Wasn't it a passphrase? You actually served the drink?" Angel frowned at the bartender.

"Making a bit on the side, this cup for 1 Soli."

Angel counted out 12 pence, threw them on the bar, grabbed the cup, and found an empty table to sit at.

She had thought that as soon as it was ten o'clock, the bartender would call her, but unexpectedly, she sat idly until a quarter past ten with no message.

Seeing the bartender engaging in conversation with other customers, she finally couldn't bear it and was about to get up to inquire when the bartender pointed in her direction, and the "customer" turned his head back, Angel realized that this was the person she was looking for.

"New here?" The person wore a black trench coat, his physique indiscernible, his head full of messy, greasy hair, and his face looked as if it hadn't been washed for half a month. Holding a huge wooden cup, he sat down opposite Angel, and without waiting for her response, continued, "I'm Hagrid, everyone knows I'm always late, usually arriving around ten thirty, only a newbie like you would come early."

Angel ignored the implied sarcasm in his self-introduction and directly stated her request: "I need an ID with all information provided by me, and it must have a verifiable record."

Hagrid took a big gulp of beer, let out a satisfied "ah," and then replied, "Forty pounds, come and get it in a week."

"'Captain' didn't say that, thirty pounds." Angel wasn't so much pained over the extra ten pounds, but experience taught her that such concessions only embolden the other side further.

"Hmph, you tell that 'Captain' fellow to stop using prices from years ago to fool newcomers like you into getting one over on me, not even saving my life excuses for that." Hagrid, hearing Angel's counteroffer, was unusually angry, "Every time the kingdom's factions change, we have to bribe new people on Backlund's side, and the demands of these parasites are getting higher and higher. How much do you think we can make? Besides, things haven't been peaceful in Tingen recently, quite a few students at the university have gone missing, and there were even some suicides yesterday. The police are all over looking for foreigners, you wouldn't want to be caught as an illegal and thrown in jail, would you?"

"Thirty pounds."

"You won't be able to do business this way... Thirty-five pounds, that's the lowest I can go, I'll have it ready for you in three days." Hagrid made a concession.

"I can give you forty pounds, but I need it tonight." Seeing the other party had conceded, Angel timely changed her demand, handing over a piece of diary paper filled with writing, "The identity information I require is on here, you can make up the rest as you see fit, but don't make it too outrageous."

Hagrid was clearly surprised by the unexpected additional five pounds; he subconsciously took the paper handed to him, pondered for a moment, and nodded, "Alright, I'll bump you up the queue. You wait here for two hours, have some drink," he pointed at the untouched glass of beer in front of Angel, "or go watch dog-catching-rat."

Angel shook her head, "I'll just wait here."

Although she didn't dislike alcohol, in a place where combat might be necessary at any moment, consuming alcohol wasn't a wise choice.

And she had even less interest in the boring gambling of "dog-catching-rat."