Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 211: Goodwill

Chapter 211: Goodwill

The bar known as Lowkey smelled of ale and laughter. No matter the times Dasha came and went, it was the same. The talk and laughter and chatter spread and swirled. A nexus of unconscious information in the Dark Sector, that was what Lowkey was. Open in the day and night, always filled and never without a problem, it was a busy, messy bar.

The Endless Bar had its advantages too. More formal and cleaner with magic involved. Not here. Not at this hooded bar in the Dark Sector. This was raw and old school. This was open to anyone and everyone.

Dasha’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on Charles Mackley. Seated with him were his friends: the former Holy Dynasty knight who smiled at the jokes Charles told and the wizard in the rune robes and with a bag on his waist.

"Charles, you seem unusually cheerful tonight," the wizard remarked, drinking and gulping. "Care to share the reason for your exuberance?"

"Ah, don’t worry about it, really," Charles replied, taking a sip from his tankard.

"Come on, Charles, don’t leave us hanging." The former Holy Dynasty Knight nudged his friend with his drink. "You’ve got that look in your eye. What’s got you all fired up?"

"I told ya, it’s nothing. Really! And is nobody other than me going to mention that he said exuberance?"

"That’s because I’m well-educated."

"Well-educated in stupidity," Charles shot back with a laugh.

Dasha observed from the shadows. Charles’s friends continued questioning him about his jubilant demeanor and with a nonchalant shrug, Charles dismissed their inquiries, insisting that it was nothing of importance. But Dasha knew better. There was a glint of something in Charles’s eyes, a spark of anticipation that hinted at a secret he craved to tell. He wanted to tell them that he had been dreaming wonderfully. He wanted to tell them of the heaven he saw. But he couldn’t. They would strip it away from him and he knew it.

For thirty minutes, Dasha watched from afar, biding his time until Charles was alone. Easier said than done. Charles Mackley was popular and often went around as if he knew everyone.

Like Jacob, a Master Engineer at the Thunderstrike Brother, signified by the four lightning-shaped badges on his dark blue doublet. "Well, well, if someone isn’t back to normal," Jacob quipped. "What’s got you grinning like a Cheshire cat?"

Jacob slapped his back hard. Charles, who had been drinking, spat out his drink and sputtered, "Oi!"

Jacob laughed. "I’m paying today, jimbo, so don’t complain."

"Pay day?"

"Pay day."

After that, the irritation disappeared and Charles heartily bumped drinks with him.

Slipping next to him stealthily was Sarah, a rogue in a black hood, with long black nails, and thick black eye make-up. She didn’t seem to be affiliated with a guild and spoke in a thick, Yorkshire accent. "Charles, darling, remember last week?"

Charles groaned. "I know, I know, I’ll join in."

"No moaning?"

"No bitching," Charles grumbled.

Arms crossed, Sarah reached forward and took his ale and teased, "Finally found that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?"

"Shaddup."

As the minutes ticked by, more faces joined Charles. There was Luke, a charming bard that began telling a story of the legendary Kingslayer, and Elena, a recently graduated woman of the True of True Magic with no job and struggling to pay for food. Charles offered to give her a coin which she rejected out of pride. Charles seemed to naturally form a motley crew of outcasts. He was charismatic and boisterous when he was drunk. Dasha remained in the corner, observing the interactions, detached.

But then it happened: Charles started to get agitated. His friends and allies couldn’t tell but Dasha could. He stopped responding as enthusiastically. His words were followed by a large gulp of alcohol as though he couldn’t function without it.

It appeared it wouldn’t be long then. Those subtle wave of emotions and actions got everyone to form their own bubbles of conversation. They split apart, broke apart, and then...

’Finally.’

In an hour, Charles found himself alone at last, drinking without company and with a weak smile. He didn’t understand himself or why he was so irritated on the inside. Dasha seized the opportunity to approach, striding invisibly across the room to where Charles sat.

"Mind if I join you?" Dasha’s voice was smooth and measured as he made himself known. He was still invisible, still choosing to present himself in this way to the former top twenty winner.

"Oh? Invisible man?"

"My boss wishes for an update," Dasha lied. "Will you commit? Or not?"

Charles didn’t reply instantly, pretending to busy himself with a drink of beer. He licked up the foam lingering on his lips and swallowed. "...how much?"

"We trade in materials, not points," Dasha said.

"What’s the catch?"

"Dreamweaver’s Dust," Dasha said. "As much as you can gather."

"No idea what that is."

"But you’re strong enough to get it. The highest quality comes from victims of Oneiros, Greek god of dreams, or Morpheus. However, killing a baku, nocnitsa, and mora could also yield some Dreamweaver Dust, though the quality will be much lower."

"You want me to spawn-camp at Valhalla’s Colosseum? Wait weeks upon weeks for one of those things to appear—"

Thump!

Charles went wide-eyed as a huge brown pouch appeared on the table. He could sense the Dream Meth. Taste in its lips.

"A token of goodwill," Dasha said. "I hope we can trust you, my friend."

"Ha. You...you’re a little schemer, aren’t you?"

"Be sure not to overdose. We are the type to stay loyal to our customers."

"Ha..." A flash of pink crossed his pupils as Charles pushed the heavy pouch over to his side. Inside the pouch were kilograms worth of Dream Meth. Weeks upon weeks worth of dreams. "Loyalty? That’s good. That’s great! I will definitely get you what you want."

Dasha sat there, listening to the man rush out with the pouch. ’I’m counting on it.’