Reincarnated in a novel: I am the villain!-Chapter 267: Bar Fight

Time continued to flow, and in this place where every drop of mana spent was vital, Alfred continued to move based on his physical strength alone.

When he was tired, he would rest and eat, and when he encountered danger, he would easily deal with it in a matter of seconds

It wasn’t about two days later that Alfred finally saw something that caught his eyes, in front of him was a place that seemed to be a town.

Rising from the grey ash dunes was the skeleton of a Behemoth, a colossal beast from the Age of Myths that had died here thousands of years ago.

Its curved white ribs arched hundreds of feet into the air, forming a natural cage against the howling wind.

Inside this ribcage, clustered like barnacles, were hundreds of shacks made of scrap metal, rusted iron, and tanned monster hide.

Beast-Belly.

It was a place where the unwanted went to disappear. Criminals fleeing the Empire, deserters, and madmen who sought the silence of the void.

Into this pit of misery walked Alfred.

He stood out like a diamond in a pile of coal. His black tailcoat was brushed clean.

His new white gloves were spotless. His posture was upright, contrasting the hunched, shuffling gait of the locals.

As he walked down the main mud track, silence followed him.

Scavengers paused in their digging. Beggars stared with wide, hungry eyes. A man sharpening a rusted machete stopped and licked his lips.

Alfred ignored them all. He checked his pocket watch.

"Dinner time," Alfred murmured. "I require information. And perhaps a beverage."

He walked toward the largest structure in the settlement, a saloon built inside the Behemoth’s hollowed-out skull.

....

The tavern smelled of unwashed bodies, cheap alcohol, and despair.

When Alfred pushed the swinging doors open, the noise inside died instantly.

Thirty pairs of eyes locked onto him. Looking at the fine cloth of his suit. They saw the silver of his glasses. In their eyes he was but a victim.

Alfred walked to the bar. The bartender, a scarred dwarf with a metal plate in his head stared at him dumbly.

"A table for one, please," Alfred said pleasantly.

"And a pot of your finest tea. Earl Grey, if you have it. Though I suspect I am asking for miracles."

The bartender blinked. "Tea?"

"Hot water will suffice," Alfred sighed, taking a seat at a wobbly wooden table in the center of the room.

He reached into his pocket space, straining slightly against the vacuum and pulled out a pristine white tablecloth, a porcelain teacup, and a silver fork.

He spread the cloth over the filthy wood, setting his place with military precision.

The room watched in baffled silence.

Then, a chair scraped.

A man stood up. He was huge, wearing armor made of tires and scrap metal. He had a club spiked with rusty nails resting on his shoulder.

"Nice clothes," the thug grunted, walking over to Alfred’s table. He loomed over the butler, his shadow blocking the dim light.

"Take ’em off."

Alfred didn’t look up. He was adjusting the position of his fork.

"I am afraid they are tailored," Alfred said softly.

"They would not fit you. And the fabric breathes quite poorly on someone with your... excessive perspiration."

The thug’s face turned red. "You think you’re funny, old man?"

He raised the spiked club. "I said, take ’em off, or I’ll peel ’em off your corpse!"

The club swung down.

It was a brutal, heavy strike meant to crush a skull.

Alfred didn’t use magic after all he couldn’t.

He picked up the silver fork.

CLINK.

He moved his teacup three inches to the left.

The club smashed into the table, missing the fine china by a hair’s breadth. Splinters flew.

Before the thug could lift the weapon for a second swing, Alfred moved.

He stood up, grabbing the thug’s wrist with his left hand. He twisted.

CRACK.

The thug screamed as his wrist broke at a ninety-degree angle.

Alfred didn’t stop. He stepped in close, driving his shoulder into the man’s armpit.

POP.

The shoulder dislocated with a wet, sickening sound. The thug dropped the club, howling in agony.

Alfred grabbed the man’s head and slammed it face-first onto the table, right onto the silver fork he had positioned earlier.

THUD.

The fork didn’t pierce the skull, but the prongs pinned the man’s ear to the wood.

The thug froze, whimpering, realizing that moving meant ripping his own ear off.

Alfred sat back down. He picked up the teapot the bartender had just brought over and poured a stream of hot, dirty water into his cup.

He didn’t spill a drop.

"Now," Alfred said, taking a sip and grimacing at the taste of rust.

"Let us try this again."

He looked around the room. The other patrons, who had been reaching for their knives, slowly sat back down.

Alfred looked down at the whimpering thug pinned to his tablecloth.

"I am looking for a group of people," Alfred said politely.

"They wear black armor. They move like ghosts and do not speak much."

The thug trembled. "I... I don’t know..."

Alfred tapped the fork with his finger. The thug shrieked.

"Think harder," Alfred advised. "My tea is getting cold."

"The Canyon!" the thug blubbered. "The Canyon of Lost Gods! East! Three days walk!"

"Go on."

"They... they’re the Shadow Ghosts!" the thug cried.

"Nobody goes there! They kill anyone who crosses the perimeter! They’re probable guarding something!"

"Shadow Ghosts," Alfred mused. "How dramatic."

He stood up. He pulled the fork out of the table and the ear. The thug scrambled back, clutching his head, sobbing.

Alfred wiped the fork with a napkin and placed it back in his pocket.

He left a single gold coin on the table, worthless here, but a gesture of manners.

"Thank you for the hospitality," Alfred nodded to the terrified room.

"The tea was dreadful."

He straightened his tie and walked out of the swinging doors, leaving the stunned silence of Beast-Belly behind him.