Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 1611: Chapter 94: Fox and Rat Game (Part 4)

"When I was eight," Marvey looked deep in thought, his tone calm, as if an experienced elder recounting a monumental past event, "Father Yivelle from Tongshan Church found my father and said to him, ’By the grace of the Lord, Marvey is a gifted child.’"

But his hand was not so honest, quietly inching towards the drink of someone he had just met—or to be precise, couldn’t really be called an acquaintance—his tablemate, "Ah, it’s just a pity..."

Reaching the key point, Marvey deliberately paused. Thinking he had piqued the interest of his tablemate, he leisurely extended his hand towards the tablemate’s bottle, acting as naturally as if they were old friends.

Meanwhile, Siegfried, sitting across from Marvey, had long since noticed the small movements of this fellow with the ridiculous mustache. He pushed the bottle towards Marvey, coldly asking, "Don’t you know who I am?"

"Uh," Marvey showed a different expression, but his hand didn’t stop as he poured himself a full glass, "Well, should I know?"

Siegfried stared at Marvey without answering.

Marvey scratched his head, as if remembering something, and curiously asked, "Then do you know who I am?"

A disdainful snort escaped from deep within Siegfried’s nose.

"That’s it, isn’t it?" Marvey clapped his hands, "Both of us are lonely people in this bustling world, [what does it matter if we’ve ever met]? The difference between you and me is you have money to buy drinks, I don’t. Isn’t there a better match than us?"

With that said, Marvey lifted his glass, filling it again for the blonde handsome man opposite, with an enthusiasm as if he were the one buying the drink, and laughed, "Come on! Let’s drink! To our health! May death come a day before old age! May our lives be enjoyed to the fullest, with no regrets!"

Before the handsome blonde man could react, Marvey had already downed a glass with a gulp, cheerfully wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and let out a long, satisfying burp, oblivious to anyone around.

Siegfried was taken aback for a moment. Shortly after, he picked up his glass and took a light sip. He rarely took an interest in strangers, yet the familiarity of the guy sitting in front of him aroused a bit of curiosity.

"What’s the pity?" Siegfried asked.

"What do you mean ’what’s the pity’?" Marvey, refilling his drink, asked with confusion.

"When you were eight years old," Siegfried stated succinctly, "you said ’it’s just a pity’..."

"Oh, so you mean that," Marvey realized, he paused for a while, and replied, "Actually, it’s nothing much, it’s just compared to those truly gifted and fortunate ones, discovering a talent at eight is too late. Geniuses stand out at a young age... Someone like me is destined not to achieve much."

Noticing that he had lowered the mood, Marvey quickly changed his tone and pretended to be cheerful, "But come to think of it, if I didn’t have some talent, I wouldn’t have gotten support, nor had the chance to read and write. Without that, living would’ve been worse than being dead. So having a sharp mind does have its uses, don’t you agree?"

Siegfried made no comment.

"Yet it was only years later that I understood," once Marvey started talking, he couldn’t stop, he sighed and murmured, "support is never without cost, whatever is given to you, always comes with strings attached. There’s no such thing as a free gift in this world. So-called ’talent’ has its price long marked in the shadows."

Saying without intent, hearing with a purpose, Marvey spoke about himself, but Siegfried beside him was also touched on a sore spot, both had their own thoughts, and for a moment, they fell into silence.

But Marvey wouldn’t allow a lull, he quickly regained his earlier enthusiasm.

"Hey! Why are we talking about this? Wasting this fine bottle of wine!" Marvey laughed, clapping his hands, then nodded respectfully to his tablemate, formally saying, "I haven’t introduced myself yet, [in olden tongue] I am Marvey."

Siegfried felt that he’d heard the name "Marvey" somewhere before, he searched his memory for a moment, suddenly furrowing his brows, "Hmm? Marvey? You’re that..."

"Playwright!" Marvey hurriedly interrupted, "Not those who write scripts in theaters, but a playwright! Play-wright!"

Siegfried let out a chuckle.

Like being scalded by a hot poker, Marvey’s face instantly flushed red.

He leaned forward abruptly, fists clenched, angrily and awkwardly explained, "A playwright is different from those third-rate actors in theaters who can’t make it on stage and have to write scripts to earn bread, I am..."

"I wasn’t laughing at you," Siegfried bluntly interrupted.

"If you weren’t laughing at me, then what were you laughing at?" Marvey’s voice cut off, he stared at the handsome blonde man in front of him, his eyes darting around, hesitantly asked, "Could it be, you’ve seen my play?"

Siegfried made no sound.

Marvey’s anger swiftly turned to delight, he beamed, slapped his thigh, and almost wanted to sit on the other side of the table, "Aha, should have said so earlier! Since you’re my dear audience, I should be the one buying you this bottle of wine!"

Siegfried remained silent.

Yet Marvey’s face wore an accustomed look of magnanimity, he affectionately poured a drink for the handsome blonde man opposite him, and comforted him in understanding tones, "I get it, I do get it. In the Imperial City, from high-ranking officials to humble peddlers, everyone has seen my plays but no one dares to admit watching them, even less to admit liking them. Oh, I get it, I do get it..."

Siegfried cleared his throat lightly, signaling he didn’t want to continue this topic.

Marvey immediately made a shushing gesture with a smile, yet couldn’t help but continue, "Actually, Your Majesty isn’t as petty as you all imagine..."

"You’ve met Your Majesty?" Siegfried suddenly asked.

"Of course—not," Marvey deliberately drew out his words, grinning, "How could I possibly have a chance to meet Your Majesty?"

Siegfried’s tightly furrowed brows slightly eased, he countered, "Then how can you say Your Majesty isn’t as... as ’petty’ as you all imagine?"

Siegfried couldn’t bring himself to say the final word, ’petty’.

"Because I understand Your Majesty," Marvey’s tone was so earnest it was almost comical.

Siegfried gave a dry laugh.

"I really understand!" Marvey was somewhat anxious.

Siegfried did not respond.

"Moreover, I’m still alive," Marvey pointed to himself, "I haven’t been exiled to some desolate place, nor have I died in a sewer, isn’t that proof enough?"

Siegfried remained silent.

Marvey thought for a moment, raised his glass again, "Then the second glass, to Your Majesty, to Your Majesty’s health, may..."

"Health is enough," Siegfried decisively interrupted Marvey’s toast.

"Alright," Marvey regretfully tapped his glass against those of others seated at the table, "May Your Majesty be in good health."

Siegfried nodded slightly in response.

"But I still think it’s better to die young than to grow old," Marvey couldn’t hold back after downing a glass of wine, "No matter who it is, they all turn into bastards when they’re old—Your Majesty is no exception."

Siegfried acted as if he hadn’t heard anything.

Just then, the tavern door was suddenly pushed open, and a thin little man dressed in splendid clothes barged in with three or four burly thugs.

Upon entering, the little man immediately jumped onto a stool, glancing around aggressively before locking onto his target.

Siegfried saw that the little man pointed at him, screaming, "Over there!"

The thugs rushed over immediately.

Before Siegfried could react to what was happening, Marvey had already licked the bottom of his glass clean, grabbed the lute beside his feet, and pulled Siegfried along while snatching the bottle from the table.

"Run!" Marvey shouted.

Siegfried caught off guard, almost tripped by Marvey’s pull, "Who are they?"

"Loan sharks!" Marvey spoke quickly as he dragged Siegfried towards the kitchen, "It’s a long story! Run first, talk later!"

"Wait!" Siegfried regained his senses, stopped in his tracks, holding onto his sword with a half-amused, half-annoyed expression, "Why should I run?"

As he spoke, the thugs had already crossed the tavern hall, closing in on them.

The thug leading the charge first looked at the poet, thin as a monkey, then at the poet’s bodyguard—a blonde swordsman who looked exceptionally skilled—and without much thought, swung a club towards the latter.

The swing was fast and fierce, nearly hitting Siegfried square in the face. He staggered back two steps, narrowly dodging the blow to the head, and before he could curse, a figure lunged at him, smashing a lute onto the attacking thug’s head—rendering him unconscious on the spot, like a big bag of flour collapsing heavily—it was Marvey, who had already reached the kitchen door but returned.

"Run now!" Marvey yelled as he charged at the remaining thugs.

Siegfried stood still, having an internal battle.

Ultimately, his fist connected with his brain; anger replaced thought, the desire to fight overwhelmed all concerns.

Siegfried gritted his teeth, rolled up his sleeves, and joined the brawl.

This marked the beginning of Siegfried and Marvey’s friendship.

At this moment, Siegfried, pinned down hard on cold stone floor tiles by the ambushers, unable to struggle free, suddenly recalled his first meeting with Marvey.

"Your Majesty..." Marvey teased in Siegfried’s memory.

"Your Majesty..." Marvey showed respect in Siegfried’s memory.

"Your Majesty..." Marvey was fervent in Siegfried’s memory.

Past memories crashed over Siegfried like waves, dragging him into a whirlpool, rendering him immobile.

He stared blankly at Marvey; the pain inflicted by the ambushers on his body was somehow irrelevant to him.

However, Marvey had been hooded by the ambushers, his face hidden under black fabric, leaving Siegfried unable to see anything.

Soon, the ambushers quickly moved Marvey towards the back door, not even having time to bind him with ropes.

A pair of military boots appeared in front of Siegfried, and an unfamiliar, young face looked down, giving him a cold glance, pulling out a revolver gun, pressing the flint.

The cold barrel pressed against Siegfried’s temple, and the young, unfamiliar face looked up to a second-floor window.

The moment to decide Siegfried’s fate had arrived.

Siegfried had imagined how he might die—every knight has—but he never thought it would be in such a scenario;

He had thought he would feel regret, unwillingness, and rage, but in reality, his mind was blank.

A thought suddenly sprang into his mind, "If I die, will she be sad?"

Then he realized thinking of such things at the brink of death was indeed pathetic.

A hand reached out from the second-floor window, thumb pointed down.

Siegfried closed his eyes.

Just then, a familiar voice echoed.

"If you kill him," Marvey’s voice rang clearly, "I will kill myself."

The gunshot did not go off as expected; the executioner hesitated.

In the upstairs window, Luosong looked at Moritz.

"This is better," Moritz said dispassionately, "Keep them in separate cells."

Assured by the expert’s judgment, Luosong relaxed and signaled downstairs to "let him live," then waved.

The executioner saw the thumbs-up, snorted coldly, and retracted the revolver gun.

Another ambusher took out a hood, placing it on Siegfried’s head, and tied a knot.

Darkness enveloped him.