"Wait for here for a mont."
The rain pattered down, and his already unkempt hair, neglected for a long ti, was drenched, plastering against his scalp.
"Blood-nosed Rat" Jerry called to the two followers behind him, then turned around and headed into the dark, narrow alley ahead without looking back.
He needed to return to his den to fetch so money.
The two adventurers he encountered earlier must have held back a bit; after all, under normal circumstances, a small-ti thug like him wouldn’t survive past the next morning if he accidentally offended such a Big Shot.
No one would care if a rat from the gutter died in so sunless corner, and they were no exception.
Yet he could still breathe the filthy yet surprisingly sweet air of the alley.
"Praise the great Goddess of fortune!"
Jerry couldn’t help but think to himself and decided to take the "safety gold" he had squeezed from several households today and find a gambling den to show his devotion that night.
But before that, he must spend so money on healing his two brothers who had their arms broken.
Of course, healing mostly ant going to an unlicensed clinic in the alleys to wrap so bandages, leaving lifelong side effects after recovery.
Jerry was well aware of this.
His completely crooked nose was treated in that clinic in the first place.
Jerry certainly wanted to go to the clean, bright large clinics in the Cormorant District or White Cliff District, or even get treatnt at the Church.
But he had no money, nor the qualification to enter.
Right now, as long as he could receive sowhat reliable treatnt within an acceptable cost range, even with so aftereffects, it was better than being crippled for life.
Jerry’s rat nest was located deep in a street nad Eel Alley in the Saltwater District, where residents lived like slippery, shadowy eels, breathing and barely surviving along the filthiest corners.
Underfoot were years-old piles of garbage resembling rotten mud and decayed planks, and the air was eternally filled with a moist sll of urine, which was fernting in the rain, making it more pungent.
Jerry had long gotten used to it, his short, skinny figure scurrying through the trash like a rat, rembering every branch and turn in the narrow alleyways.
In no ti, he arrived at the front of his little shack.
The so-called "little shack" was essentially a dead angle ford between a disintegrating, moldy wooden wall and the wall of the neighboring stone house, with a "front door" made of an old hatch board found who knows where, secured tight with a rusty chain.
Jerry fumbled in his crotch and took out an equally inconspicuous small key, fiddling with the door, unlocking, and removing the chain.
He then pressed his body against the door, pushing with his knee against the lower left corner of the wooden door, inserting his right hand into the gap, exerting force with both hands and feet, and using his body to push the door inward.
With a creaky sound, the wooden door finally opened just wide enough for a person to pass through.
The room inside had no light, dark and cramped, with rainwater seeping down from the cracks in the ceiling, dripping into a jar Jerry had set up before leaving, now already filled with a small layer of rainwater.
Inside, naturally, there were no luxurious arrangents: a simple wooden bed hardly larger than a coffin, a cloak with frayed and patched edges, a bucket overturned to serve as a table, and a jar with cracks serving simultaneously as a chamber pot and a rain shield—his entire possessions.
Far from dignified, and even further from comfortable and safe.
Yet it was the only haven for this little rat who grew up in the alleys of the Saltwater District, the only place truly his own in this world.
Out of caution, as he walked into the room, Jerry did not imdiately act but stood still, patiently waiting for a few seconds. Then he carefully turned his head, poking it out of the door, looking left and right to make sure there were no followers.
He quickly proceeded to his broken bed, crouched down, reaching his hands into the rotting straw and slly woolen rags that made up the bedding.
After a brief search, he pulled out a money pouch that looked sowhat deflated.
Uncertain, he glanced back towards the door again, blocking his body, and poured out a few Coins shimring with gold from the pouch.
Stuffing the few Gold Coins deep inside his inner clothing, Jerry returned the money pouch to its place and carefully rearranged the straw and cloths on top, restoring the bed to its original state.
Then got up again, heading towards the door.
Jerry’s savings were little, or rather, given his lifestyle, even if he wished to save, it was virtually impossible to secure any significant amount.
The few Gold Coins he had were painstakingly saved over the years, occasionally relying on luck to bump into a fat lamb.
In the past, he probably would not have considered spending them at all.
But the current situation was different.
On one hand, he was about to make it big, having two followers, naturally, he must shoulder the responsibilities of a "Boss."
Watching himself spend money on their healing, based on the stories he heard from Minstrels about the rise of Big Shots, these two followers should understand how much he had sacrificed for them and beco his most loyal subordinates.
On the other hand, to so extent, he was already an unofficial mber of the Corner Shark Gang.
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