Lich for Hire-Chapter 22: Youre Trying to Scam a Lich?

Ambrose didn't buy drinks for the crowd, but he did toss a few gold coins to the dwarf bard.

That was a massive tip by any tavern's standard, instantly making Ambrose the bard's top patron in years.

The little fellow's face lit up with joy. Bowing low, he called out, "Generous lord of undeath, allow me to sing a mournful elegy in your honor!"

Ambrose replied, perfectly deadpan, "No need. That tip was to make you stop singing."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, the tavern burst into laughter and cheers.

The dwarf glared at him furiously. It was a blatant insult, the kind that deserved a coin-flinging, ale-splashing, curse-screaming response. But... the tip had been too generous.

Ambrose leaned back, thoroughly pleased. Money meant nothing if he didn't spend it, and spending someone else's money was true luxury.

Of course, he hadn't forgotten what he was here for. He fished out another coin and flicked it toward the orcish barkeep.

"I need a top-tier guide for the sewers, and make itfast."

The barkeep's ears twitched. In Alkhemia, all the waste from magical experiments was conveniently dumped straight into the sewers. The longer it sat there, the more mutant monsters would breed within. As their numbers grew, stronger individuals began to emerge.

If left unchecked, at least one of them would surely evolve into a legendary-class threat in time. That would be a catastrophe.

Besides, those paladins from the Lyon Empire hadn't shown up here by coincidence. They claimed it was just "training," but Ambrose wasn't buying it. Something was stirring beneath the city—and if he didn't move fast, it might disrupt his own experiments.

And gold, as always, got results. By dawn, three guides stood before him, each completely different in appearance and temperament.

There were two men and one woman. Just from their gear, Ambrose could tell what professions they were.

"Let me see... one rogue, one ranger, and... Miss, are you a druid?" he asked, puzzled.

Rogues and rangers made fine guides, but a druid? That was odd.

Sure, Alkhemia accepted all kinds of people, but druids were practically an exception.

Druids believed in the balance of nature, in the harmony of all living things. They despised interference, especially the kind of rampant magical tinkering Alkhemia was infamous for. Anyone who'd seen a mercury slime could tell that the place was the antithesis of druidic ideals.

The two sides might as well have been at war. Druids avoided alchemists like the plague. But the druids were too scattered across the continent, and there were never enough of them for a direct confrontation.

Even so, druids would keep their distance even from the vassal towns of Alkhemia, and they staunchly refused to interact with anyone affiliated with alchemy.

It was exceedingly rare for one to appear in Alkhemia.

"Yes, I'm a druid," said the young woman confidently. "You need a guide, right? I've been in the sewers before. I know where the slimes gather."

She looked about twenty, fit and sharp-eyed, exuding that wild, natural aura druids carried.

"Hold that thought," Ambrose said. "Let's hear from the others first."

The rogue was first. "Three hundred gold," he said flatly. "Flat rate. I'll take you to two slime nests. Can't promise they're still there, though."

He went on shamelessly: "The sewers change every day. I can confirm those nests once existed, but won't make any guarantees as to their state now. No refunds, either. Oh, and I don't fight. If we encounter any danger, I'm gone."

A professional scam, polished to perfection.

He wasn't even pretending to be honest. The fact that he wouldn't make any guarantees was damning enough. What would stop him from pointing at any random spot before walking off? Ambrose didn't bother haggling. He might as well be a con artist.

Next came the half-elf ranger, who at least looked trustworthy.

"Five hundred gold," he said. "I guarantee I'll lead you to at least a hundred slimes. You'll have to catch them yourself. If there's danger, I'll call my beast companion to cover our retreat, but my safety comes first."

Reasonable enough. Fair terms—but outrageously expensive for a guide. Ambrose's budget was two hundred gold, tops.

He tried bargaining, but the half-elf was as stubborn as a dwarf and wouldn't drop so much as a single coin.

Before he could continue, the druid cut in impatiently. "Sir, maybe it's time to hear my offer?"

Ambrose raised a brow. "You're still here? You heard me earlier. I'm an undead. You, a druid, want to work with the undead?"

The druid crossed her arms and said matter-of-factly, "Why not? Alkhemia is open and inclusive, isn't it? When in a city, follow its rules. Druids and undead can cooperate just fine."

Ambrose didn't believe a word of what she was saying.

Undead were an abomination to nature, a reversal of life's natural flow. Druidic doctrine condemned them absolutely. When he spoke to the others earlier, he'd even warned them about his identity just to avoid accusations of "deception."

He had fully expected the druid to walk out the moment she heard the word "undead." Instead, she'd stuck around and volunteered. She had to have some ulterior motive.

Ambrose wanted nothing to do with her. Secrets led to trouble, and trouble delayed experiments.

Logic screamed at him to refuse outright, but the druid's next words pulverized his logic.

"I can work for free."

The words struck like a divine revelation. Every syllable rang out with beauty and truth.

"...What did you just say?" Ambrose asked, stunned.

The druid shoved past the other two guides, leaned forward on the table, and declared, "I said I'll work for free. I'll guarantee we find plenty of slimes. And if danger comes, I'll cover your retreat myself. I promise your safety."

Ambrose stared at her, his expression unreadable. In his head, only one thought echoed: "I've never met such a bald-faced scammer."

Work for free? Cover an undead's retreat? Not even a slime would buy that story.

"Trying to scam a lich," he thought dryly. "Now that's new."