VIII
Jeff chugged his glass of water and slammed it on the table with a thud. His eyes darted around the room, scanning the other patrons, clearly gauging his chances of slipping away unnoticed. Perhaps he thought that in this public setting, I wouldn't risk making a scene. Foolish. He stood abruptly, muttering a quick, "Thanks for the drink."
I wasn't having it.
Time froze at my command. The hum of the inn fell silent, the clinking of dishes paused midair, and Robin's retreating figure was locked in place. I walked around the table leisurely, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him back to his seat. His limbs resisted, stiff like a mannequin's, but unlike the vampire from yesterday, Robin was malleable enough to move with effort.
After bending his joints into a seated position, I made a quick detour to the kitchen. Finding a pitcher of water, I refilled his glass, setting it carefully before him. Satisfied, I returned to my seat, picked up my spoon, and let time flow once more.
Robin's face contorted in confusion. "W-what?" he stammered, looking between the glass of water and me.
"Did I allow you to leave?" I asked, scooping up a spoonful of stew and savoring it.
Robin glanced at the water nervously, then pushed it aside as if it were cursed.
"We've had a bad start," I said, my tone calm but pointed. "How about we try this again? Names, for instance. Yes, let's start with that. My name is Nicholas Lorekleim. To people I like, I let them call me Nick. But for you, call me boss."
Robin gulped. "Y-yes, lord—n-no… Boss. Yes, boss."
I tilted my head, setting my spoon down lightly. "Did I hear you wrong?"
Robin blinked rapidly, panic flickering in his eyes. "W-what?"
"I introduced myself so kindly, and you don't? What kind of manners is that?"
"Jeff," he blurted out, his voice shaky. "My name is Jeff."
I paused, leaning forward slightly, my gaze narrowing. "Is that right?"
Robin squirmed, unable to meet my eyes.
"I must have heard wrongly," I said, my voice dipping low. "Let's try that again, shall we? What's your name?"
He cracked. His posture collapsed inward, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "M-my name is Robin."
I didn't move, didn't blink. My silence demanded more.
Robin exhaled sharply, as though surrendering a long-held secret. "Robin. Arkwright."
Finally. Honesty.
"Good," I said, leaning back in my chair and returning to my stew. I took my time with each bite, savoring the flavors and the small victory.
Robin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his hands fidgeting under the table. His dark eyes darted around, searching for an escape that didn't exist. "How did you find me? What do you want with me?"
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. "I didn't find you. It just so happens I recognized you."
His expression darkened, suspicion plain on his face. Of course, he wouldn't believe me—not fully. But how could I explain that he was the spitting image of the NPC Robin Blood from Questworks, the folklore hero who had miraculously risen from poverty to uplift the downtrodden? It wasn't something I could just say.
I took another bite of stew, speaking as I chewed. "Dark brown hair, dark eyes... Pretty common traits. You could've passed for a commoner easily enough. But being able to read and write at your financial level, and still choosing a life of crime? Now that's suspicious."
Robin's eyes narrowed, his fingers curling into fists. "That doesn't really explain anything."
It was time to bluff hard and fast. I set my spoon down and leaned forward, lowering my voice just enough to make him strain to hear. "Why? Is it so unbelievable that I deduced your identity just by knowing you could read and write? Is it so hard to accept that I saw through your deception the moment I sat here?"
"Yes," he said flatly, though his voice carried an edge of doubt.
I chuckled softly, the sound laced with menace. "Compare that disbelief to reality, Robin. I took down seven grown men in front of you in the literal blink of an eye. You watched it happen."
He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the table now.
"And now," I continued, "think about why you're still sitting here, alive, with nothing more than a glass of water in front of you. A glassful of water in front of you. Ask yourself what kind of man Nicholas Lorekleim must be to do the things he did."
The color drained from his face.
Robin sat across from me, his posture stiff, his dark eyes locked on mine. I could see the wheels turning in his head, the desperation for an escape mingled with the growing understanding that he wasn't leaving until I let him.
He was the second named character I'd met in this world, after Timothy Wilkins and before Stella Amsten. Unlike Wilkins, who had faded into obscurity in my mind, Robin was unforgettable. Robin Blood—a name etched into the annals of Questworks lore.
According to the game devs, he was based on the legendary Robin Hood but with a sinister twist. Instead of a bandit who merely robbed the rich to aid the poor, Robin Blood killed the rich and uplifted the poor. He didn't just hand out coins; he built infrastructure, created jobs, and fed the starving masses. His methods were brutal, his reasoning sound, and his results undeniable.
But why was I pressuring Robin so much now? Why corner him and twist the knife in his psyche? It was simple: I wanted to stop the tragedy that would twist him into Robin Blood.
I wasn't doing it out of some noble altruism. Let's be real—I wasn't a saint. Yesterday, I robbed a grave. Today, I was manipulating a man's life for my own ends. This was half self-gratification and half selfishness. But Robin was here, in front of me, and I wanted to help him. That was all that mattered.
Robin's voice cut through my thoughts. "What. Do. You. Want. With me?"
I smirked. "Cute."
For the first time, he looked me in the eye. I saw it then—the flickers of the man he would become, the strength and resolve that would eventually lead him to become a folklore hero, even if it was through blood and fire.
If I could stop the tragedy that would twist him, Robin Blood wouldn't be born. I didn't care about the world's opinion or the game's lore. I wanted to help him because I could.
"How old are you, Robin?" I asked, my tone deceptively casual.
"Twenty-five," he replied, his voice wary.
"Good." I leaned back, studying him. "I want you to become my right-hand man."
His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't speak.
"If you end up owing me everything and working for me, that would be a wonderful bonus," I added with a grin, my tone gleeful. "But let's not beat around the bush. You have a woman you wish to save, don't you?"
Robin flinched, his hands tightening into fists.
Bingo. I had him.
"Follow me," I said, rising from my seat and motioning for Robin to do the same.
He hesitated but complied, trailing behind me as we exited the Silvermire Inn. Shinemere Inn wasn't far, so we walked. Robin kept his eyes on me, but his curiosity bled through as he glanced at our surroundings.
"Where are we going?" he finally asked.
"You'll see."
When we arrived at Shinemere, Robin's head swiveled like a curious cat, taking in the polished floors, ornate chandeliers, and the quiet hum of wealth that permeated the establishment.
"They call this place an 'inn,' when it's clearly a hotel," Robin remarked, his voice tinged with awe.
"Never mind them. It's a flex of sorts," I replied, heading straight for the front desk.
After retrieving the key to my room, we rode the elevator up in silence, Robin fidgeting slightly. When the doors opened, I led him to my suite, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Robin's gaze immediately fell on the painting leaning against a cabinet—a bloody warrior, frozen mid-battle, her expression both haunting and triumphant.
He pointed at it. "What's that?"
"Stella Amsten," I said simply.
He flinched. Even someone like Robin, unpolished and rough around the edges, had likely heard the name. "You painted that?"
I nodded. "Last night. After I fought her corpse."
Robin froze, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and terror. I let the weight of my words hang for a moment before moving to the wardrobe.
"Anyway, that's not why we're here," I said, pulling open the cabinet doors. From inside, I retrieved two weapons: a rapier and a dagger.
I held them out to Robin. "How good is your swordsmanship?"
"Not bad," he replied cautiously.
"Good. Then I'll loan these to you."
He took the weapons, examining them with a mixture of suspicion and reverence.
"These belonged to Stella Amsten," I added.
His grip tightened, his expression unreadable.
I reached for my wallet, pulled out several thousand worths, and handed them to him. "Buy yourself something practical—a utility belt, sheaths, potions. Whatever you need to stay alive."
Robin blinked at the money, clearly overwhelmed, but I wasn't done. From a drawer, I retrieved a small notebook, its pages filled with meticulous notes and diagrams.
"Read this," I said, handing it to him.
He frowned, flipping through the pages. "What is this?"
"In game terms," I began, "it's a walkthrough. I wrote it last night in a time-stopped world specifically for you. Follow it, and you'll have everything you need to complete your build and grind your skills efficiently."
Of course, he didn't get them coompletely…
"What game terms? Walkthrough? Build? Do you think this is a game?" Robin skimmed the contents, his brow furrowing. "You want me to go north and fight dire wolves, undead, and… wraiths? Do you want me to get killed?"
His reaction was expected, but I knew how to push the right buttons.
In fact, I was glad, he pointed out the strange words I used. In his perspective, they would have been strange. If he was a simulated data, he'd probably ignore them for the sake of immersive gameplay. Sometimes, I would entertain the idea I was trapped in some virtual sick replica of the game. Of course, I didn't know any better and his earlier response might have been pre-programmed.
"In this world, power is everything," I said, my tone firm. "And I'm offering you a way out."
Robin looked back at the notebook, his fingers tightening around it.
"This isn't a futile effort," I continued. Even if the rules of this world weren't exactly the same as the game, the principles were sound. The walkthrough was foolproof or as foolproof as it oculd get, designed to make Robin stronger, smarter, and more capable. "Do well and your efforst will surely be rewarded."
He still looked hesitant, so I delivered the final blow.
"Do you think you can save your damsel in distress by whining?" I asked, my voice sharp. "This is a quest, Robin. So, what's it going to be?"
He stared at me, his jaw tight, his knuckles white around the notebook. Finally, he exhaled, a mix of resignation and determination in his eyes.
"I'll do it," he said.
"Good."