Chapter 118: I Nurture My Lofty Spirit with Care

The day after the excursion to the "Perfume Path," on a clear afternoon, a few miles east of the "Far Corners" district in Novigrad, at the Seven Cats Inn.

"Bang!" A man, blood spraying from his nose as he stumbled backward, was held up by his arms by a pair of thugs. His once-ferocious face was now filled with terror. "I—I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t know he was your friend."

Ignoring his plea, another blow—"Thud!"—made intimate contact with his abdomen, forcing him to his knees to retch.

Boisselier cracked his neck with a crisp sound. To him, this level of "education" was merely the beginning; the truly memorable part was yet to come. However, noticing Victor’s gesture to stop, he had the thugs hoist the mud-like "lucky winner" to his feet to deliver a final admonition—or perhaps, a threat.

The Seven Cats Inn, a dark and dilapidated establishment, was a frequent haunt for notorious characters. Had it not been for the news that the dwarven blacksmith, Fergus, had been detained, Victor would never have set foot here.

He stared at the blacksmith. The youth’s expression was flat and silent, holding the gaze until the dwarf guiltily lowered his head. In truth, Victor wasn't particularly angry. Fergus was a bit greedy and shallow, but he lacked the cruelty to refuse someone in need; otherwise, he wouldn't have been partners with Una for so long.

The real culprit was the short-bearded dwarf standing beside him—the same fellow who had been weeping by the roadside while wrapped in a black headscarf when they entered the city two days ago. His face now held a mixture of joy, embarrassment, and fear. Joy—the problem was undoubtedly solved. Fear—the method of resolution involved the criminal underworld. As for the embarrassment, it was the organic synthesis of the two.

In short, the short-bearded dwarf had been gambling there two days prior, lost his master’s important documents, and while sobbing helplessly on the side of the road, was spotted by the Phantom Troupe. Fergus, out of a sense of kinship, couldn't let it go; he went to help, got swindled into negotiating with the other party, and ended up getting detained himself. This forced Victor and Boisselier to make a trip to "pay the ransom."

Turning his head away, Victor couldn't be bothered to lecture the short-bearded dwarf. On one side, a gambler trying to welch on his debts; on the other, habitual card sharps. While he had won the contest of who could be more wretched, the lead was marginal. It could only be said that the dwarf, who had betrayed his own kind, was lucky this time to have dragged Fergus—Victor’s employee—into the mess, thereby summoning powerful reinforcements.

Patting Fergus on the shoulder as a gesture of comfort, the youth left immediately. The work of reprimanding or educating the dwarf could be left to Angoulême and Una; a boss’s role was to solve problems and play the good guy. Moreover, he had no time to waste; he had to return to the city to change clothes. The highlight of the day was performing poetry for Alphonse and his friends.

...

Subsequent developments proved that what one wore was actually of no consequence. As everyone knows, the vast majority of people are naked when bathing, so in a "bathhouse," worrying about one's attire is meaningless.

Siggi Reuven’s "Passiflora Bathhouse" was the most luxurious in Novigrad, retaining the extravagant splendor and refined taste of the elves to the greatest extent. It was an open space that could accommodate hundreds of people for mixed bathing and various social activities.

Today, the bathhouse was closed for a private event.

In the changing room, after locking his steel sword in a nanmu wood locker, Victor removed his shirt. "Sorry for the trouble at the Seven Cats, Boisselier."

"Think nothing of it. It’s my duty; you are Mr. Alphonse’s guest now," the white-haired elf replied, removing his trousers.

As he bared his body, Boisselier’s muscles were firm and covered in scars, evidence of many life-or-death struggles. While Victor’s muscles were similarly well-defined, his torso was clean, save for the four faint scars on his face.

"You finally look like a bard now. It was hard to imagine when you were dressed; when we first met, I almost took you for a battlefield mercenary." As he spoke, the elf looked into a full-length bronze mirror, pulling away his hair tie to let his ponytail fall loose.

Victor smiled without a word.

Instead, the manservant "Harbin," standing in the corner of the room, chimed in: "Mr. Victor is not only a Dragon-born bard but also a strong mercenary, a witcher apprentice, and the renowned 'Drowner Killer' of Vizima."

The impeccably dressed Harbin was Siggi Reuven’s servant. He was bald, clean-shaven, with a double chin and a plump, simple-looking face, yet his voice was high-pitched and sharp, sounding nothing like a man.

Glancing at the eunuch-like Harbin, Victor raised an eyebrow. As expected of a spymaster’s subordinate; his resume had clearly been thoroughly vetted.

Siggi Reuven—formerly the head of Redanian Intelligence, formerly an advisor to the Redanian state. In the past, he and Philippa Eilhart had conspired to sideline Radovid V until a power struggle turned them against each other, forcing him to flee to Novigrad and live under an alias after an assassination attempt.

The memories of his past life had not discarded the bathhouse owner’s dramatic role. The youth, who had initially forgotten the man’s real name, easily confirmed after a quick mental review of the relevant information that Siggi Reuven’s true identity was Sigismund Dijkstra.

Taking the bath towel handed to him by Harbin and wrapping it around his waist to conceal himself, the youth followed Boisselier and Harbin into the grand bathhouse.

...

With a vaulted ceiling and ornate decorations, the vast space featured a central pool roughly the size of a basketball court, surrounded by eight medium-sized pools with wooden privacy screens, each capable of holding about six people.

Though a "Closed" sign hung outside, the place was effectively booked. The environment was filled with the sounds of men and women intermingling in a scene of spring-like indulgence.

To reiterate, as everyone knows, people are rarely clothed in a bathhouse. Some men wore towels, but many others did not mind displaying themselves, and most women were completely unclad.

Led inside by the formally dressed Harbin, Victor naturally felt countless gazes focus on him. As Nietzsche said, when you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you. Likewise, when the elders gaze at you, you gaze at the elders—a wide variety of elders, tall and short, fat and thin.

Faced with the attention of so many, the youth stood his ground, upheld by the noble spirit within him, and stood tall.

Entering the VIP suite at the back of the bathhouse, the Dragon-born bard saw two men waiting at the entrance. Both were powerful, and both wore nothing but towels.

The five stood in a standoff amidst the rising steam of the pools, the scene falling into a brief silence.

Then, the eunuch Harbin gave a cryptic smile and pointed first at the dwarf. "A subordinate of 'The Butcher,' the fierce mad dog Umutai. He loves the sound of saws cutting through human flesh."

He then pointed to the bronze-skinned man with blue striped tattoos from his eye corners to his ear tips and dense patterns across his body, exuding an exotic air. "A bodyguard to the 'King of Beggars,' the brave warrior Babu Tabad from Zerrikania. When facing him, you must keep a close eye on his scimitars, or in a moment of carelessness, the floor will be covered in entrails without warning. Of course, please do not be afraid; we are all unarmed for now."

Against the backdrop of laughter and splashing from the bathhouse, Victor maintained a polite, composed smile.

Finally, Harbin gestured to introduce the youth. "Victor from Bell Town, east of Zerrikania, a Dragon-born bard and our guest performer for today."

The dwarf, Umutai, crossed his arms and scanned the youth from head to toe. "You have the body of a warrior; it’s a waste to be a bard." With that, he stepped aside and said no more.

The scimitar-wielding warrior, Babu, looked sharp-eyed and said insidiously, "Strange, I have never heard of any Bell Town."

Before Victor could explain, Boisselier spoke up: "Babu Tabad, are you questioning Mr. Alphonse?"

The white-haired elf’s voice was filled with murderous intent. If they had been armed, they likely would have already drawn their blades.

After staring at each other for a few seconds, "No, I just meant I personally hadn't heard of it," the warrior replied, bowing and stepping back.

Harbin shrugged. "Since none of you have any more questions, please, go ahead!"

With that, the eunuch pushed open the exquisite, thick wooden door to the VIP suite.