The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] Chapter 54: Chapter 54: The Price-Taker's Currency

Read chapter 54 of The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] by Adamus_Auguste on NovelPedia.

Chapter 54: The Price-Taker's Currency Ashcoil Row's twisting alleys didn't slow Els. She emerged onto a broad street and vanished at the next fork. If these streets held secrets she and Kael hadn't heard of, they had to be buried deep underground, or they were nothing but bedtime stories. Tonio's gaze occasionally trailed behind, and Kael's followed. It wasn't the beggar who haunted Kael, but his words. An unknown god actively collecting debts through cursed tokens that might have been a currency of the slums long before his birth. Only to the powerful, or Tonio would have recognised them. He'd prefer to believe the beggar invented it all. But there was still a chance, however small, that he didn't. Perhaps Garrick truly collected these cursed tokens to write off his debt. And it made him shudder beneath his bloody shirt, then sigh. Eight bastards became nine... great. The sting of a flick on the back of his hand snapped him out. He turned toward Els, who rolled her eyes. "You've been sighing the entire way. No tokens, no trouble, even if that madman likely believes he's a bishop of an imaginary god. Or is Lana you're afraid of?" "Of her gossip? Terrified, as you should." Els rounded a corner, and they stepped into the street they had lived in. The cold burial pit choked Els' shack with a stench of decomposition. Beyond the thick bridge on the opposite side, factories exhaled clouds of toxic steam. Kael lifted his shirt to his nose, his lips twisting behind the fabric. Marc's house, a crooked monster of soot-covered plated stones, rose before the bridge to the industrial district. On the stoop, the man leaned on his cane, his hat tilting as he locked the door. "Move before he leaves." Before Kael finished, Els pressed toward Marc. Miners on their way raised their pickaxes at them before freezing, as if they recognised them but couldn't be sure since Els sped past them. "Marc!" She waved at him just as he stepped onto the bridge. Marc turned, threads fraying from his burgundy suit. His face wasn't anything special. Pale and thin as any slum-born with dry yellow hair jutting like weed from beneath his dark hat. He scowled, slender fingers clenching the round end of his crude cane. "Your hands and feet look fine enough for you to work for your own bread. I've nothing to share, especially not your troubles." "Humph. Already forgot us?" Els planted her fist on her hip. Marc's green eyes studied Els, but Kael cut to the chase. He'd rather hear the beggar had lied than let that stuck-up man waste time he could spend sleeping. "Tharos sent us." Marc stepped back, his eyes shooting wide open, and his cane trembling. His mouth, too. For a heartbeat. Then, he slammed it shut and strode to them, his face like charcoal about to ignite. He halted midway, his hands trembling on his cane. "Kael and Els?" "Shh. Don't answer. Don't even speak. To my house." His gaze drifted to Tonio's hairy face. "With your... friend." While he ran to the door, a drop of cold sweat dripped down Kael and Els' temples. They didn't need words; a glance was enough. Was the beggar right, at least partly? Then all the rest might be true... Tonio broke their stupor with a nudge toward the door. "Hungry. Tired." His warm palms patted their shoulders, and he nudged them up the stoop's stairs. For a moment, they paused before the doorway. Darkness shrouded the interior, dripping from the corners of the frame like ink spilt by Kael's paranoia. Who was Marc, truly? Not just the factory worker, stuck-up man who thought his farts didn't stink; someone who knew more than he let on. Someone dangerous. "Protect family." Tonio knocked on his chest, then walked in first. "Wait—" The darkness swallowed Tonio and Kael's calls. Biting his lip, Kael nodded at Els, and she hurried behind Tonio. The moment they entered, the door rattled shut behind them. A familiar red carpet laced with violet-edged spherical patterns stretched beneath his shoes. The oil lamps were cold on peeling bei