NOVEL NEXT Chapter 58: Unexpected summons
The crowd murmured beneath the cold night breeze, their voices blending into a sea of uncertainty. Their eyes darted from one to another, searching for clarity amidst the confusion left by Nyxander's enigmatic words. He stood at the center of the circle, arms folded and face impassive, a silent sentinel as he watched them grapple with the weight of his proposition.
Behind him, Beorn approached cautiously, leaning closer to whisper, "I don't know about all this. Do you really think creating this kind of operation is wise?" His voice carried a thread of doubt, but Nyxander only nodded, his expression unchanging.
"As I said earlier, this isn't a big deal. Just watch," Nyxander replied softly, his tone laced with quiet confidence.
The crowd's murmuring ebbed and flowed, a tide of uncertainty seeking an anchor. No one dared to step forward, their collective hesitation hanging in the air until an old, familiar figure broke through the throng. The crone who had once directed him to the Violent House shuffled forward, her weathered face illuminated by the streetlamp's glow.
"Hey, boy," she called out, her voice gruff yet tinged with curiosity. "Who would've believed you'd come back without losing a piece of yourself? But tell me, this SSA or whatever you called it, what exactly is it?"
The crowd's whispers grew louder, spilling out like air from a punctured hose. Nyxander smiled faintly, his eyes glinting as he addressed the question.
"It's simple, just as its name suggests: Station Supporting Agencies. We provide assistance in every field you can imagine, transporting goods, arranging storage, repairing structures, and offering any support needed," he explained, his words measured and deliberate.
The crowd fell into a momentary silence, digesting his explanation, before an old man raised his hand. "Excuse me," he called, stepping forward. His voice carried the weight of skepticism, his gaze steady. "We understand what you're saying, but who would dare call on them? We know all too well what these thugs are capable of."
The crowd roared in agreement, their accusations piercing the night as fingers pointed accusingly at the thugs. Kal, the gang leader, clenched his fists, his jaw tightening under the weight of their disdain.
Nyxander's voice rose above the cacophony, firm yet composed. "That won't be an issue as long as you trust me. Any disrespect or harm directed from an employee toward an employer will result in punishment, 100 sit-ups and 50 laps around the market while carrying a carriage filled with water pots. If an employee inflicts injury on their employer, they'll pay with a finger."
The crowd froze, stunned by the weight of his decree. Even the thugs shuddered, beads of sweat forming on their brows as Nyxander's gaze swept over them like a storm.
"And," Nyxander continued, his voice unwavering, "should the employer act unjustly toward the employee, additional charges will apply. That's how we operate."
The onlookers exchanged uneasy glances, their disbelief palpable. Even the thugs quailed under Nyxander's piercing gaze, their earlier bravado reduced to trembling silence.
Miss Bertha, her face etched with intrigue, stepped forward. "But how can we trust that this organization will gain a foothold?" she asked, her voice a blend of hope and doubt.
Nyxander met her gaze, his tone resolute. "There's no guarantee beyond my words and your willingness to trust. But this is better than being exploited or drained of your money. I assure you, your feedback will shape this initiative." His gaze shifted toward the thugs, sharp and menacing. "I will hold them accountable if anything goes wrong."
A beat of silence passed, heavy and expectant. Then, an old man raised his voice. "How much does a service cost?"
Nyxander hesitated, retreating toward Beorn. "How much does a meal cost?" he whispered urgently.
Beorn frowned, his voice low. "You were at a restaurant earlier. How can you not know that?"
Nyxander deflected quickly. "Sometimes you get free meals," he muttered, brushing off the question.
Beorn sighed, gesturing with six fingers. "A single Fate Coin can buy six meals. It's scarce and sacred, even among gods."
Nyxander's eyes narrowed in thought. "And what about change?"
"Most businesses use tickets marked with six squares, representing meals. Instead of change, you receive a ticket, which gets marked each time you eat," Beorn explained, his tone patient.
Nyxander nodded, his mind racing. He turned back to the crowd, his voice steady. "We'll charge one Fate Coin for every service lasting two hours. For shorter tasks, we ask for a meal provision. What do you think?"
The crowd erupted into murmurs again, doubt seeping through their words. "Too cheap," someone muttered. "It sounds suspicious," added another.
Sweat dotted Nyxander's brow as Beorn leaned in. "It's not going well," he said quietly.
Before Nyxander could respond, a voice cut through the crowd. "Can I book them for tomorrow?"
Nyxander and Beorn turned, astonished. Miss Bertha smiled warmly. "I've got 50 boxes of vegetables arriving tomorrow. I'll need help retrieving them."
Another voice joined hers, the old woman who had guided Nyxander earlier. "I'll need their help at my fabric shop, arranging some supplies."
Nyxander bowed slightly, his expression softening. "We'll be at your service," he promised.
The thugs trudged at the front, their shoulders hunched and steps hesitant, while Nyxander and Beorn followed at a measured pace, the night's shadows stretching long behind them. The narrow walkway seemed to echo with the tension between them, every footfall a muted drumbeat against the cobblestones.
"You can leave," Nyxander began, his voice calm yet laced with an undercurrent of steel that sent an invisible shiver down their spines. "But mind you, I'm freeing you because I'm confident in catching you should you stray."
The thugs stiffened, their steps faltering momentarily as his words sank in.
"And those who booked tonight," Nyxander continued, his tone sharpening like a blade unsheathed, "will come to our office, which is no longer the Violent House. Its name is now the Station Supporting Agencies Office."
The declaration hung in the air like a gavel striking down, final and absolute. The thugs dared not look back, yet the weight of his words pressed down on them.
"Make sure you treat them accordingly," he added, his voice softening just enough to sound like a coiled serpent. "If anyone lodges a complaint, or if I find anything… amusing, I'll ensure you understand what it truly means to be the living dead."
As he cracked his knuckles, the sound echoed like distant thunder, and a faint shimmer surrounded him, a manifestation of his primordial image, a being of pure essentia energy. Though invisible and loomed over the thugs, an indomitable presence that seemed to drain the air around them.
Their knees buckled slightly, and beads of sweat formed and slid down their pallid faces. They gasped, their breath hitching under the oppressive, choking atmosphere that felt as though the night itself had turned against them.
"Y-Ye... Ye-yeah," they finally stammered, their voices barely above a whisper, trembling as if the words themselves carried a weight too heavy to bear.
Without another glance, they broke into a desperate run, darting away into the darkness, their figures swallowed by the night's shroud, leaving only the echo of their hurried steps behind.
Nyxander turned his gaze to Beorn, his sharp features softening slightly. "It's better you take a few days off to tend to those bruises on your skin and keep an eye on your health," he said, his tone carrying a rare undercurrent of concern. He rested a firm yet gentle hand on Beorn's left shoulder, the warmth of his touch contrasting with the cool night air.
Beorn gave a dismissive chuckle, though his gaze wavered for a moment. "It's nothing, just a few scratches," he replied, brushing off the comment. But as his eyes met Nyxander's, the stern intensity in the latter's expression made him falter.
"Alright," Beorn conceded, his voice quieter now. "I'll do that after seeking the Astro Leader's permission."
Nyxander gave a faint nod, and with an unspoken understanding, they exchanged a brief wave, a gesture that carried both farewell and respect, before parting ways under the canopy of the star-strewn sky.
The next morning, as dawn stretched its golden fingers across the horizon, Nyxander lay in bed, awake yet indulging in the rare luxury of stillness. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of dew, a soothing reminder of the new day's promise. He let out a long breath, savoring the quiet, when an abrupt knock at the door broke the tranquility, its sound sharp and unexpected.
Startled, Nyxander sprang from his bed, his feet hitting the cool wooden floor with a soft thud. Striding swiftly to the door, he opened it, his curiosity quickly giving way to surprise.
Standing there was Beorn.
"Hey, what's going on? I thought you'd be resting at your residence," Nyxander began, stepping aside to let him in. His words were tinged with confusion, his brow furrowed slightly.
Beorn stepped inside, his movements brisk, and cut him off mid-sentence. "The Astro Leader asked me to bring you over," he said, his tone hurried yet steady.
Nyxander's surprise deepened as his mind trying to piecing together the significance of this unexpected summons.