Munitions Empire

A somewhat uncomfortable smell lingered in the air, and the light from the gas lamps cast an unhealthy glow over the entire tavern.

"I've been a bit busy lately, after all, you know, I've always been teaching people lessons." Wes pulled out a chair and sat at the bar, scattering some copper coins on the table: "A mug of ale!"

He didn't hide what he had been doing recently because he knew that the bartender opposite knew a lot of things.

The bartender poured the ale into a mug and pushed it towards Wes, still smiling and not bothering to greet anyone else, he said with a boastful air, "Of course, we've always been quite well-informed over here."

As he spoke, he stacked a not so shiny, wiped glass on top of another that had already been cleaned and picked up yet another glass to continue wiping: "Recently, Tang Mo's weapon workshop has been making quite a bit of noise. I've heard he bought a large tract of land, and now it stretches all the way to the Vicious Forest..."

The tavern wasn't large, nor was it noisy. The thugs with ferocious demeanors sitting around seemed afraid of disturbing other formidable characters, so they kept their voices low.

Most of those who came here were looking for information, some bandits hoping for merchant caravan news, some pirates wanting fleet news, and some cuckolds working hard hoping for news about their wives.

"Recruiting people, building houses, and even starting a school..." The bartender's smile did not fade as he watched Wes take a sip of his ale: "I hear there are nearly 300 kids attending for free now?"

"He's really splurged, enough to keep the mayor, the sheriff, and the tax collector all tight-lipped. Must've cost him a pretty penny, right?" The bartender leaned in closer, his body resting on the bar, fixing his gaze on Wes as if waiting for an answer.

"Maybe." Wes set down his mug with an indifferent shrug: "Who knows."

"Your lips have never been that tight before. Last time, you blabbed all about Baron Stela's private life without a second thought." The bartender stood straight again and kept his eyes down on the glass in his hand: "What's the matter? This time, are you truly giving your loyalty to that young man Tang Mo?"

"Sort of." Wes grabbed his mug and swirled it in front of his eyes, staring through the not-so-clear glass at the pale yellow liquid, looking somewhat preoccupied.

"Then congratulations to you, finding a master worth serving isn't easy these days." The bartender stopped wiping the glass he'd been handling, propped his elbow on the bar, and rested his chin on his hand as he looked at Wes: "What did he give you?"

"Who?" Wes sipped his ale with apparent interest, feigning ignorance.

Without pausing, the bartender blurted out that name: "Tang Mo."

"My boss? What he gives isn't cheap." Wes's eyes caught a glimpse of the two "Ranger Killers" revolvers hanging from his waist as he played with his mug.

But at this moment, a mocking smile appeared on the bartender's face. He watched Wes with amusement, casually bringing up a few terms that made Wes frown: "Hm... I can imagine. I've heard... there's something called a steam engine? And some guns...

different guns..."

"You do like to pry..." Wes's expression darkened as he set down his glass, lowered his face, and stared at the bartender through the rim of his lashes, speaking in a hushed tone: "Let's get to the point, I've come here for two things."

"I really don't like it when you talk to me in that tone," the bartender said, no longer wiping the glass, placing his hands where Wes couldn't see them, with a palpable warning in his tone.

Unfortunately for him, Wes took no notice of his threat, but continued on his own trajectory: "First, get your stupid men out of my boss's workshop, and then, including yourself, forget these things... all things related to my boss."

He spoke while resting his hand underneath the bar, on his waist, atop the handle of one of the revolvers.

This was where his confidence came from, touching the smooth handle that fit his hand perfectly filled him with a bold sense of control.

"Well, I'm starting to doubt you want to walk out of my shabby place today," the bartender said with a hostile tone, raising his voice. Behind Wes, several sturdy men standing by the door straightened up and looked in his direction.

Wes had no intention of backing down. He now had two revolvers at his waist, each loaded with six bullets, enough to lay everyone in here flat on the ground.

So, without turning his head, he continued to speak to the bartender: "Second, tell me about the Shireck Consortium's Northern Ridge Iron Factory..."

"Ha, it seems you don't care about your life anymore." A myriad of expressions danced across the bartender's face as he looked at Wes, as if seeing the Ranger for the first time.

The Wes before him was indeed different from the man he knew—a Ranger that once ran around solely for Gold Coins. Yet, now, this man was asking about the Shireck Consortium.

Any person inquiring about the Shireck Consortium was either suicidal or utterly insane.

Wes glanced back at the burly men wanting to surround him and looked towards the bartender, cracking a smile and deliberately flawed in his disguise, "Who says I have a death wish? I'm just trying to find out where I can buy more steel."

The bartender sneered, giving a signal to several of his brawny underlings approaching Wes, then helplessly spread his hands under the counter, "Nowhere to buy, because Shireck spent a lot of money half a year ago to purchase all the steel. The Earl might have some left, but definitely not much."

Wes shifted his grip on the handle of his gun and pulled out a handful of coins from his pocket, lining them up on the bar in front of the bartender.

It was a gleaming row of Gold Coins, some old, some very new. Wes arranged them one on top of the other, his fingertip lightly brushing over, "Here are ten Gold Coins. Imagine how nice it would be if you use that little head of yours to think hard about how you could earn more from me..."

"You're insane, Wes," the bartender frowned, his temper flaring up once more.

"Maybe," Wes tilted his head, eyes lowered as if in self-reflection. Then he suddenly looked up at the bartender, matter-of-factly, "Crazy people are capable of anything, right?"

"…" The bartender didn't speak; he just stared at Wes as if weighing something.

After a long moment, he finally compromised, "I'll tell my men to keep quiet, to keep your boss's secrets... However... Now! I'm very interested in the person you're so devoted to, willing to risk your life for..."

He stretched out his hand, pressing it onto the Gold Coins, fixing his gaze on Wes, "Can you arrange it? I want to meet him."

"No problem," Wes nodded, pushing the empty glass towards the bartender, "I will get you the information as soon as possible."

The bartender nodded as well, seeming to accept Wes' words, "I'll instruct my men to keep a tight lip."

"A good start, isn't it?" Wes let a smile appear on his face.

Then he heard the bartender muttering to himself as if talking to no one, "The Shireck Consortium has been purchasing a large amount of metal from the Northern Ridge in the last six months. Their intention is clear—to bleed Count Fisheo dry and make sure their next move is on solid ground."

As he spoke, he twisted open a beer bottle and poured another glass for Wes. Then he sealed the bottle and slid the glass back across to Wes.

"I heard that recently some of Shireck's steel was robbed, and even the assailants haven't been found. It wasn't you, was it?" As if Wes wasn't before him, the bartender finished arranging everything then continued to wipe the glasses, "This has made them very cautious; getting reliable information will take time... and we can't guarantee we'll even get it."

"You could just take the information straight to my boss to negotiate, I don't mind," Wes said, lifting the glass and lowering his voice.

The bartender didn't look at him but replied without the slightest hesitation, "Alright, I'll try to find the relevant information. One should always bring a gift for introductions, shouldn't they?"

"Thanks," Wes took a sip of his drink, giving the bartender a glance.

"Humph! Don't thank me! I haven't said anything!" The bartender huffed, correcting Wes.

"Perhaps, but I hope you will have a pleasant chat with my boss," Wes shrugged nonchalantly with a solemn assurance to the bartender.

"Fine then, I still insist I know nothing and said nothing," the bartender, unconcerned with anything else, pushed the ten Gold Coins back to Wes, "Take your filthy money and get out of here."

"To you!" Wes drained the remaining drink, raised his empty glass in a toast to the bartender, then slammed it down on the wooden bar with a bang, "Wait for my message!"

"No need to see you out!" The bartender took the empty glass, continuing to scrub persistently with his cloth.

Wes walked towards the door, hand resting on the gun at his waist like a Western cowboy, eyeing the burly men who'd just tried to encircle him. A single glance sent a chill down the tough guys' spines.

"What are you looking at! You only have two guns! We are seven men!" A bald man glared at Wes fiercely, unwilling to be outdone in show of force.

"Pfft... Hahaha." Wes couldn't hold back his laughter, then like looking at a fool, he eyed the bald man while swaggering out the door.