Everyone carried few burdens of their own.
Some were visible which was worn openly like the scars across the face while the others remained buried which was concealed beneath their forced smiles and indifference.
Baston understood this well. As long as people lived, the problems would follow. Sometimes, it was small. Sometimes, it was suffocating.
Yet, inside this brothel, the pattern was disturbingly consistent.
Every woman shared the same origin of misfortune which was the debt.
It was not just their own but it was often inherited from their husbands who borrowed recklessly, the families who were driven to the desperation, or the circumstances that left them with no other choice.
The contracts were simple and almost brutally so. If the debt could not be repaid, the body would become collateral.
What unsettled him was not merely the existence of such contracts but the reason behind them.
The system was too refined.
The thugs who issued the loans rarely did so without the assurance. A borrower without a daughter, a wife, or a sister was often rejected outright. There had to be someone, the one who could be claimed if things went wrong.
It was calculated, deliberate, and disturbingly efficient.
He could not determine whether this was born from cruelty or practicality. Perhaps, it could be said it was both. In an area where the conventional lenders refused to take risks, this shadow system filled the void.
It thrived precisely because it preyed on desperation. Or perhaps, because it offered something that the others would not.
Across the room, the old woman sat in silence. Her earlier sobs reduced to faint tremors in her breath. Her grief lingered, raw and unrefined unlike the others.
The younger woman beside her spoke gently though her words carried a strange weight of familiarity.
"Don't cry anymore," she said softly, "It's not as bad as you think."
"Not as bad…?"
Baston found the phrase unsettling.
"At least here, no one forces you," the young woman continued, "Even if the thugs take interest on you, they still have to pay. The rules are strict and no one dares to break them."
"How strict…" Baston murmured with his eyes that were narrowing slightly, "Are they really just thugs?"
The middle-aged woman gave a small and humorless smile, "They are… but if they didn't act like one, we would suffer more."
Her answer lingered longer than expected, "If they were soft, the others would exploit us. At least under Zimus, many things are controlled."
The words didn't sit well since the thugs should be full on chaos. Instead, everything was arranged neatly.
"We should be thankful," she added after a pause, "He gives us a way to pay. Without this, many of us would already be gone."
Baston did not respond immediately since the logic was difficult to refute.
The banks rejected these people because they were liabilities. There was no collateral, no stability, and no guarantee of return. From a business perspective, it was understandable. It was cold but understandable.
Because of that, many people depended on Zimus.
This was something else entirely since a parallel economy was built on the desperation.
It was cruel yet it functioned. And that contradiction unsettled him more than anything.
The old woman had stopped crying. Her face was pale and her expression was hollow as though something inside her had already given up. The acceptance had come too quickly and completely.
He felt a faint pressure in his chest.
The quest he carried demanded an action. It urged him to free these women and to dismantle the system that bound them.
However, how he could do all of that?
The violence was indeed the simplest answer. Kill Zimus, destroy the enforcers, and burn the structure to the ground.
The debt would vanish instantly yet the problem would remain.
People would still need money and their desperation would still exist. Something worse might rise in its place.
The old teachings echoed faintly in his mind that the violence was a tool but it was not a solution. For the first time, he felt the weight of that distinction.
He exhaled slowly, pushing the thoughts aside for now. This was only the beginning.
When he left the room, he made sure to wear a satisfied expression since the performance was necessary.
The woman glanced at him with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. A boy of his appearance had successfully managed three women at once which was very unusual.
Even the most indulgent patrons rarely attempted such excess.
Baston ignored their stares toward their misunderstanding.
By the time he returned to the inn, the evening had settled into a quiet rhythm. The lobby was calm, lit by the soft lantern light that cast long shadows along the wooden floor.
He lowered himself into a chair, allowing his posture to relax.
"Young master, you look exhausted..." the innkeeper approached with a knowing smile.
"I just came from the brothel," Baston replied casually.
The woman raised a brow before she chuckled, "Oh? I didn't expect that from you. How many women you take?"
"Three..."
She blinked then laughed louder, "My, my… Are you still conscious?"
Baston smiled faintly but he said nothing since there was no point of explaining. Instead, he observed her reaction carefully.
There was no judgment and disgust. There was only a mild amusement.
"Don't people here find it unpleasant?" he asked.
The woman shook her head, "Why would we?"
Her answer came without hesitation, "They're working and surviving in this cruel world. That's more than what many can say."
He leaned back slightly, "What about Zimus? Do you trust him?"
The woman paused briefly, "As far as I've seen… he treats them better than most men would."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice slightly, "There was a man long ago… He tried to buy a few of them outright…"
Baston's eyes sharpened, "What happened next?"
"Zimus refused him... He said they weren't for sale. After all, the women here were not slaves."
That alone was enough to create conflict in Baston's thoughts.
A man who ran a brothel yet refused to sell the women within it. It didn't align toward the owner of the brothel.
"He called them his assets…" the woman continued, "But, not in the way you think. More like, they were his responsibility."
"Responsibility…?"
The word felt out of place and Baston frowned slightly, "What if he chose to misuse that authority?"
The woman met his gaze calmly, "Then, no one here could stop him…"
There was a pause before the explanation continued.
"However, he doesn't misuse it…"
Her certainty was unsettling, too certain that she might be brainwashed by the man. Baston had seen this before which was the same case as Levan.
A man revered publicly who was admired for his generosity and influence. Yet, behind that carefully crafted image lay something far darker.
The deception thrived on such consistency. The more flawless the image, the deeper the rot beneath.
Zimus might be the same or he might not. And that uncertainty was precisely what made the quest became dangerous.
Baston returned to his room and his thoughts were turning sharper.
If he wanted the answers, he needed more information. He must investigate the subordinates and the enforcers.
Those who carried out the orders without question often revealed more than their leaders intended.
He recalled the people at the brothel.
They were disciplined, silent, and alert toward the surrounding. They were nothing like the thugs that he had encountered before.
They displayed no crude behavior and no unnecessary aggression. Even in the presence of such temptation, they remained focused.
Rather than the thugs, they were more like mercenary or militia.
He sat on the edge of his bed and his mind was forming a quiet plan. He would observe them more closely from the shadows through his puppets.
If there were cracks in this system, he would find them.
Just as he rose to begin the preparations, the front door of the inn was slammed open. The sound echoed through the place.
Baston stepped back into the hallway just in time to see an old man stride inside.
His movements were rough and unrefined yet he carried a strange confidence.
Without a word, the man grabbed a nearby table, dragged it closer and planted his foot on top. The wood cracked instantly. It splintered and collapsed in no time.
The innkeeper's expression darkened, "Zimus!"
Her voice cut through the room, "You've done it again!"
Baston froze because this was the first time he saw the perpetrator of his quest. The man himself didn't seem concerned. He reached into his coat and tossed a roll of money toward her.
"Then, just replace it…"
His tone was dismissive and almost casual. It was just like he was doing any good for the people.
The woman caught it but she did not calm down, "You think money solves everything?"
"It solves your problem…"
The simplicity of his answer only made her more furious.
What followed was less of an argument and more of a familiar exchange.
There were insults, retorts, and objects that were thrown in frustration. Yet beneath it all, something felt off. There was no real hostility and no tension that suggested the danger.
There was only familiarity between them. Surely, they already know each other for a long time.
Baston watched quietly.
An old thug who paid for what he broke and an innkeeper who yelled but never truly drove him away. This was a relationship that didn't fit any clear category.
His gaze shifted back to Zimus. The man was older than he expected.
His face was lined with age yet his posture remained firm. There was strength in his movements, a controlled muscle that did not match his years.
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
That moment earlier by the table showed that the used force was too precise and deliberate. It wasn't just a careless act. It was staged, preferably for a reason to hand over the money. It was a crude method but it was quite effective.
"So that's how it is…" he thought.
The innkeeper needed support and Zimus provided it indirectly without acknowledgment and without weakening her position.
It was strangely considerate and that made everything more complicated.
Baston exhaled slowly since nothing about this man aligned with what he had expected.
The man was not entirely good and not entirely bad. He was just layered with multiple conditions which meant one thing. The truth would not reveal itself easily and that only made him more certain.
He needed to dig deeper because whatever Zimus truly was, it was hidden well beneath the surface.
He exhaled slowly, but the breath failed to settle his thoughts completely. Something still lingered, faint and unresolved.
Almost unconsciously, his fingers brushed against his coat and found the coin that was hidden inside.
For a moment, he considered throwing it away. It had already served its purpose. It had led him here, and perhaps, that alone should have been enough.
Yet, the thought never lasted. The coin was the only other object that had shown any sign of communicating with him. It might prove useful or it might lead him toward something far worse.
If the coin guided him into another deplorable and vicious quest, he did not know how he would face it. Still, abandoning it would accomplish nothing. Refusing the old book only invited the punishment.
Besides, there was no guarantee that the coin would never move again.
And if one object could guide him, perhaps there were others that were capable of doing the same.
For now, keeping it offered more advantages, even if the future remained uncertain.
After everything he had seen and everything he had learned, Baston shifted his gaze back toward the inn's entrance where Zimus had stood moments ago.
Then, slowly, his eyes moved toward the direction of the brothel beyond the walls.
The connection was there but he didn't know how to operate the quest at the moment. Though the violence option was the easiest, he realized it would give a deep impact toward the women.
"The matter of the money is really hard to solve…"
His voice was barely above a whisper.
The old book somehow gave him a surprise. It was just like the book had already enough with the killing.
Now, it wanted to see him how to solve the problem for several people at once.
If he was a wealthy merchant or noble, it might be the simplest for him. Unfortunately, the reality never said so.
His fingers curled slightly. He was aware toward the present quest.
The old book had remained silent after giving him a new command. The coin had remained still after the old book initiated a new quest. Neither acted without reason and neither acted without timing.
For the first time, he did not dismiss it as coincidence yet he did not accept it either.
"In the end, I need to face whatever the old book throws at me…"
The words were directed at nothing but perhaps, it was directed to his injustice.
He turned slightly, preparing to leave his comfortable spot. Whether he could complete the quest was another matter entirely.
In the end, the answer was no longer his to choose.
The old book would throw something at him again, just like how it did it as always.
And when that time came, he must face it.
Just as he always had.