As dusk descended, the withheld Moon Coins were promptly delivered into Kino's hands, offering him a fresh perspective on Hack's hidden wealth.
To ensure the accuracy of the amount, Kino had measured the coins with great care, finding no discrepancy, and deduced that Hack dared not attempt any tricks.
The total weight of the mixed Moon Coins exceeded fifteen tons, packed into numerous massive sacks—far more than could fit into his personal carriage.
Thus, Kino was forced to hire a caravan specializing in heavy cargo transport within Twilight City. These men moved the sacks onto the carts, blending them with the 1,800 Silver Moons he had brought along, and Kino instructed his attendants to guard them vigilantly.
Later, he filled small bags with one hundred heavy Silver Moons each, locked the carriage doors securely, and made his way to the slums.
Unlike the clean, orderly main districts, the slums were defined by filth, disorder, and decay. The ground was strewn with mud and excrement left by passing carts and animals, creating a stench that permeated the air.
Flies were omnipresent, and occasionally, a plump rat scurried across the street, only to be swiftly captured by a ragged merchant. The creature was crushed with practiced hands, tossed into a bamboo basket, and sent to the kitchen, where it would later be made into pies and sold as beef.
For someone with Kino's penchant for cleanliness, the slums felt like a hellish nightmare. He carefully avoided the foul streets, taking a long detour before finally locating a clandestine tavern.
The so-called "underground tavern" lacked any official licensing but thrived thanks to powerful backing from the city's shadowy factions. Local officials turned a blind eye to its existence.
In contrast to regulated establishments, the atmosphere in such taverns was chaotic. There was an unspoken rule: brawls were permitted, even to the point of death, but any incidents must be resolved privately—no complaints to the city guards.
As such, common folk steered clear of these places. The patrons were either bloodthirsty gladiators, forbidden goods traffickers, or criminals—murderers, assassins, mercenaries—seeking refuge from the law.
Dusk at the tavern was always bustling, filled with coarse shouts, clinking glasses, and the sounds of raucous revelry. After each toast, the air was alive with flying droplets of wine. Slavers could also be seen peddling their newly captured laborers.
Though these slaves wore shackles and appeared pitiful, many of them were formidable warriors, some perhaps destined to become future champions of the arena.
In addition to food and drink, matters of intimacy were not lacking. One could always observe men flirting with the tavern's serving girls.
Some were beguiled by sweet words, only to find their purses lighter after a few too many drinks, having received little more than a caress of a small hand.
Others were seasoned in the art of love, progressing swiftly from flirtation to negotiation, settling on a price before retreating to a quiet corner to engage in acts that stirred primal desires.
Bloodshed was a frequent occurrence in the underground tavern, often sparked by a quarrel over a woman, a careless bump, or the simple exchange of a glare accompanied by the words, "What are you looking at?"
At this very moment, in the center of the tavern, two drunken men were locked in a brutal fight.
One was a towering figure, his body an explosion of muscle, covered in countless battle scars.
The other was two heads shorter, slender, with thighs thinner than most arms.
It was clear that the taller man was a gladiator—his body marked not only by scars but by the unmistakable iron brand of a local family. This symbol, earned through trials, granted him the privilege of entering the arena.
"Go on! If you're a man, finish him off!" The onlookers jeered as the gladiator lunged forward, delivering a savage sweep with his leg. His calloused foot scraped the floor, kicking up dust as it shattered the lean man's stance.
Before the slender man could recover, the gladiator, wielding overwhelming strength, pinned him down and began his relentless assault.
The blows came fast and brutal, each punch landing with such force that it seemed to tear through flesh. The gladiator's fists were precise, targeting weak spots—eyes, ribs, areas where the body was most vulnerable.
With each strike, the gladiator's fists tore open skin and spilled blood, his fists quickly stained with the crimson remnants of his opponent's flesh.
He continued to rain down punches until the thin man was unconscious, finally kicking him aside and raising his arms in victory, displaying his brawny muscles to the cheering crowd. "Roar!"
The audience, caught in the fervor of the moment, raised their glasses in jubilant cheer.
As a reward for his victory, the gladiator was gifted fine wine by the tavern owner.
Kino's lips curled into a satisfied smile as he glanced toward the site of the altercation, snapping his fingers: "Hey, friend, would you be interested in lending me a hand?"
"Ha~spit! Go to hell!" The gladiator, who held little regard for Kino's slight frame, spat disdainfully onto the ground.
Kino shrugged nonchalantly, his smile widening: "My apologies, I wasn't speaking to you."
No sooner had the words left his lips than the gladiator, sensing an unexpected presence behind him, instinctively turned. To his shock, he was met by a face twisted in a cruel, bloodied grin.
With a sickening crack—like bones breaking and flesh tearing—the lean man, seizing the opportunity when the gladiator faltered, violently twisted his neck, offering him, for the first time in his life, the stark view of his own back.
The gladiator stood frozen for a moment, before collapsing to the floor, his face turning an unnatural shade of purple. His tongue, now blackened, protruded from his mouth, while the capillaries in his eyeballs ruptured under the pressure, staining his eyes with blood before his body lay still.
After a brief silence, the tavern erupted in raucous laughter, with the crowd jeering at the lifeless form on the floor.
"Here's a little tip for you: next time, no need to exert yourself so much. Just snap the first cervical vertebra, and it's more efficient, less effort," Kino casually jingled the coins in his pouch, smiling as he asked, "So, would you be interested in helping me out?"
Wiping the blood from his face, the lean man approached Kino, his eyes cold: "What kind of work?"
Kino placed four Silver Moons neatly on the table. "Be my dog, for half a month. If you need more time, we can extend it. I'll pay you a total of ten Silver Moons. These four are your advance."
The lean man glanced at the bulging coin pouch, his eyes alight with insatiable greed. "Make it twenty."
Kino placed a single Silver Moon on the table with a soft clink, his tone calm but firm: "Eleven. Bargain further, and you'll share the same fate as that gladiator."
The lean man, who had spent his life in bloodshed, surviving by weaponry and dealing in death, sensed the dangerous shift in Kino's demeanor. Despite Kino's harmless appearance, those amber eyes exuded an unsettling aura. A primal warning surged through his veins, a shiver creeping across his skin, as though the very air around him had changed.
At first, he couldn't pinpoint the source, but soon, it became clear—Kino's smile.
It was a hollow, emotionless smile, not born of happiness nor any clear sentiment, but rather as if permanently etched on his face, like the mask of a clown in a performance, hiding the perilous, grim truth behind it.
After a moment's silent deliberation, the lean man accepted the offer, his voice grave: "Fine, eleven it is."
"Pleasure doing business," Kino replied smoothly.
The lean man extended his hand, but Kino eyed the bloodstains on it and shook his head. "No need for a handshake. I am Kino Van Helsing. And you are?"
"Lugo. I've never known my father, nor do I have a surname." Lugo gave Kino a once-over, his brow furrowed. "Kino Van Helsing... Are you the civil officer from Shirin Town?"
"Oh? My name is that recognizable?" Kino responded with mild amusement.
"Heh, they say the civil officer from Shirin Town is a useless fool—spends his days idling and waiting to die, with no talent to speak of. Now that I see you, I'm beginning to think either those people are fools, or you're an imposter."
Kino's smile deepened, a touch of mystery flickering in his amber gaze. "Which do you think it is?"
A chill of danger rippled through Lugo. He rubbed his skin nervously, his eyes darting away. "A dog doesn't need to know so much. You feed me meat, I'll bite for you. Simple as that."
"Good dog," Kino said, procuring a fine jug of peach wine and half a pound of exquisite beef.