Sniff—
"Huh? Who's that?" Max frowned, his nose scrunched from the heavy stench of alcohol, his gaze settling on two slumped passersby, wobbling, gathering strength to stand with a hand on another's shoulders.
Their attire was worn out, threads dangling from the edges like the remains of a tattered banner. Their hair was dishevelled, a chaotic mess that made Max blink.
His eyes widened as he stared at them with a dumbfounded expression. "Who drinks this much since dawn? It's not even noon."
Their faces, blackened with smoke or smeared with mud, made it hard for Max to identify their features.
Their steps were unsteady, dragging; they forced themselves toward a sharp, steep corner curve leading into an alley.
Usually, Max would casually shrug off such encounters and move on. However, for some inexplicable reason, he didn't.
"I feel I'll get to see something by following them," he muttered, rubbing his chin. His steps synced with the drunkards, stealthily tailing them.
They kept wandering for a while, on more than one occasion, they even stumbled into strangers' homes and got beaten blue and black.
Gradually, their path led them into the back alleys, darker than the festival lanes and far narrower.
Some shady individuals appeared, similarly dressed; a few looked like dock workers, while others had the air of criminals, even from a distance.
Max kept a straight face even when a few of them sneaked glances his way. His clothes and posture were in stark contrast to the surroundings.
He even had the misfortune of being noticed by a woman, a prostitute from the overly flirtatious act, visibly decked out with flashy attire and a brass ring on her finger, makeup smeared across her face, batting her eyelashes at him.
Ugh!
He forced the surging disgust at their rotten teeth not to reflect in his expressions. He avoided eye contact, almost as if he would curse her.
'If only they had some beauty in them…' He shook his head at the conflicting thought.
'Even if there were any beauty here, I wouldn't indulge in a setting like this. This place screams trouble.'
He followed the drunk men, who also fumbled near the prostitutes, wasting a lot of time to his dismay. Nonetheless, somehow, they reached their destination.
Max, a few feet behind them, noticed them entering a shabby-looking place, notably a tavern. Worn-out wooden gates were rotten around the edges. A board hung loosely over the gate, the name faded and incoherent.
The stench of the place matched the filth-ridden alleys outside: sour, thick, and old as rot.
The door's polish had faded long ago, now held together more by sheer luck than craftsmanship.
'A tavern?'
He hid not far from the entrance, surveying the surroundings.
People dressed in similar rags brushed past the men and entered the tavern. Some were already drunk, while others looked determined to be.
Local slang, thick with slurred curses, filled the air.
However, not everyone there seemed lost in intoxication; some had hardened expressions, sly, cunning eyes sneaking a peek at everything around them.
Max understood what this place entailed.
'This must be the underworld of Port Royal.'
His eyes lit up. Places like this housed every trade deal, every market profit, and many items rarely available through legal means.
Moreover, illegal dealings weren't limited to goods; information, too, was traded here.
Max glanced around. No soldiers. No law enforcement in sight.
'They must be in on it too.' Without bribing the law, a setup like this couldn't exist.
Although Port Royal had law enforcement in the form of stationed British soldiers, responsible both for civilian order and defence against pirates, their absence was glaringly apparent.
However, they could raid this place anytime if they deemed it necessary.
So either the administration was part of these trades, or the officers had given their silent endorsement.
'Who cares? I need intel, and this place seems like the best spot to get it.'
New to the town, Max wanted information for the inevitable plot. Local taverns might've been good enough for catching rumours, but he'd take his chances here.
A criminal underworld wouldn't risk scaring off customers with false information.
He glanced at himself, thinking thoughtfully.
He straightened his back. A regal aura surrounded him. His already handsome face now looked like that of a wealthy merchant, one that begged to be mugged.
However, the cutlass and pistol at his waist warned any ill-intentioned eyes to think twice.
A few passersby took long looks at him, tempted to approach, but backed off when they caught the glint of madness in his threatening glare.
'I should get an Oscar for this.'
Though Max found it difficult, it wasn't impossible to maintain a noble and authoritative aura. He was a noble, fallen, yes, but a noble nonetheless.
Even in his Marvel life, his background was that of a wealthy aristocratic family.
And here, among the lowly rubble of this world, people who had hardly ever seen fine clothes, shining hair, and confident charm, their eyes lowered unconsciously at the sight of him.
Yet not everyone was easy to influence.
Those with hands dyed in blood weren't to be trifled with. They watched him silently, not fearful, just calculating, waiting for a reason.
Max had to maintain his presence. One sign of weakness, and he'd be swarmed by hyenas, salivating with greed.
This world wasn't one to forgive foolish mistakes. Once marked as prey, the hunters would tear him apart, bone by bone, without wasting a single piece.
He narrowed his eyes, hand firmly resting on his sword. Bracing himself with a deep breath, fueled by mental fortitude, he pushed open the wooden doors with deliberate force.
Boom—!
Creak—!
'First impressions matter,' he mused, his eyes glimmering with fake insanity.
His style was heavy with strength as he marched in, expression indifferent to the filth and chaos within the tavern.
….
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