KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess-Chapter 205: [] Greed is a Universal Language

"So we need to find Old Ren at the stables," Naomi said, pushing her barely-touched stew away. The smell of rancid meat lingered, making her stomach turn. "Tonight. Before our pale-faced friend decides to pay us a personal visit."

Xavier nodded, dropping coins on the table. His eyes kept darting to the tavern door where the Inquisitor had disappeared. "The sooner we get Nolan, the better."

They gathered their belongings and left The Last Drop, stepping into Dustfall’s frigid evening air. The settlement sprawled before them like a patchwork quilt of misery—ramshackle buildings leaning against each other for support, narrow streets churned to mud by too many boots, and the constant, oppressive smell of smoke and unwashed bodies.

Naomi led the way, her purple hair tucked beneath a hood. She noticed how the locals gave wide berth to anyone wearing black—Lord Karson’s people. The Empire’s blue uniforms received grudging deference, while white garments drew fearful glances and whispers.

"The stables should be near the eastern wall," Margaret said, consulting a crude map she’d purchased. "Past the marketplace."

The marketplace had emptied for the evening, leaving only a few desperate merchants hawking questionable wares. Naomi spotted the stables—a long, low building with lanterns burning outside. Two guards in black leathers stood at the entrance, hands resting on sword hilts.

"Karson’s men," Naomi murmured. "Let me handle this."

"You sure?" Xavier asked, his fingers twitching near his daggers.

"Positive." Naomi adjusted her cloak, subtly exposing a glimpse of her neckline. "Violence will only bring more attention."

As they approached, one guard stepped forward, his beard braided into twin forks decorated with small metal beads that clinked when he moved. A scar ran from his left ear to his mouth, pulling his lip into a permanent sneer.

"Stables closed," he grunted. "Lord Karson’s orders."

Naomi cocked her hip slightly, adopting the mannerisms she’d perfected as Nessa at the Golden Fox. "We’re looking for Old Ren. Heard he knows the area."

The guard’s eyes narrowed, traveling from Naomi to her companions. "Information has a price in Dustfall." He spat on the ground. "Three gold pieces. Each."

"Fifteen gold pieces to talk to a stablehand?" Xavier scoffed. "Robbery."

"It’s not robbery." The guard’s hand moved to his sword. "It’s Lord Karson’s tax."

Naomi placed a restraining hand on Xavier’s arm, feeling his muscles coil beneath her touch. Behind them, she sensed Calypso’s growing irritation—the temperature had dropped noticeably.

"Perhaps we could discuss this privately?" Naomi smiled at the guard, stepping closer. "I’m sure we can reach an arrangement beneficial to everyone."

The guard hesitated, then jerked his head toward a small alcove beside the stables. "Talk. You got one minute."

Naomi followed him, aware of Xavier’s eyes boring into her back. Once they were out of earshot, she dropped the seductive act.

"Listen carefully," she said, her voice hardening. "My name is Nessa. I worked at the Golden Fox in Vykengard. You’ve heard of it?"

The guard’s expression shifted. The Golden Fox wasn’t just any tavern—it was notorious throughout Frostfall for catering to the most dangerous and wealthy clientele.

"Maybe," he said cautiously.

"Then you know what kind of people I dealt with daily." Naomi reached into her pouch and produced five gold pieces. "This is for your lord’s tax. Consider it a good faith payment."

She held the coins just out of reach.

"But I want you to think about something. My friends and I aren’t here to cause trouble. We need information, then we’re gone. But we’re carrying something far more valuable than gold." Naomi lowered her voice. "Something that would interest a man of business like Lord Karson."

"What kind of something?" The guard’s eyes gleamed with greed.

"The kind that opens doors. Doors that have been locked for a very long time." Naomi tilted her head. "But such opportunities require trust. Help us now, and I’ll make sure Lord Karson hears about your... initiative. Hinder us..."

She let the implication hang in the air.

The guard studied her face, searching for deception. "How do I know you’re telling the truth?"

Naomi smiled thinly. "You don’t. That’s what makes it interesting. Five gold pieces now, plus the possibility of something much greater. Or nothing but trouble. Your choice."

For a moment, she thought she’d overplayed her hand. Then the guard reached out and took the coins.

"Old Ren’s in the back. Been drinking since noon, so don’t expect much sense." He pocketed the gold. "You got until midnight. Then Lord Karson’s men make their rounds."

"Appreciated." Naomi nodded. "Your name?"

"Jorven."

"I’ll remember it. Make sure Lord Karson hears good things."

Jorven grunted, then called to his partner. "Let ’em through, Dak. They paid the toll."

Naomi rejoined her companions, who had watched the exchange with varying degrees of concern and curiosity.

"What did you say to him?" Margaret whispered as they followed Jorven toward the stables.

"I spoke his language," Naomi replied. "Greed transcends politics."

"You didn’t actually promise Lord Karson anything, did you?" Xavier asked, keeping his voice low.

"I implied possibilities. People hear what they want to hear." Naomi straightened her cloak. "And sometimes a reputation is more valuable than gold."

Calypso had remained silent, but now she moved closer to Naomi. "You’re more useful than I expected," she said, her tone somewhere between compliment and surprise.

"Not everything requires divine intervention or sword fights," Naomi replied coolly. "Sometimes it just takes knowing how people work."

The stable’s interior smelled of hay, horse manure, and something stronger—cheap alcohol. Lanterns hung from posts, casting long shadows across the stalls. Most contained horses, but a few held what appeared to be some kind of shaggy mountain goats with curved horns.

Jorven led them to the back, where a small room had been partitioned off with wooden planks. He rapped his knuckles against the door.

"Ren! Visitors!"

A string of muffled curses came from within, followed by the sound of glass breaking. The door swung open to reveal a man who seemed composed entirely of wrinkles and scars. One eye socket was empty, covered by a leather patch sewn directly into his skin. The remaining eye was rheumy and bloodshot. His clothes—once fine riding leathers—were patched in dozens of places.

"The fuck you want?" he growled, a bottle dangling from his gnarled fingers.