The Gene of the Ancients (Rogue Merchant Book #2): LitRPG Series by Roman Prokofiev (top books to read TXT) 📕

the open ledger. The tiefling immediately turned the page and beckoned me over, whispering in my ear.

“Second room, seventh level. But hurry up, they’re fresh. Might be taken fast.”

The second room on the seventh level was small and dark. Six NPCs were set around a dusty stone table in various poses: three girls and three guys.

“What do you want?” One of the men raised his head from his crossed arms. He was a blond hunk with bloodshot eyes. I noticed several empty flasks on the table and underneath. A red-haired girl sitting next him, thin as a needle, jabbed her elbow into his side. I heard her whispering, “Quiet, Nosquire. I think he might be hiring.”

“We only work together,” another guy said. He was an elf with a strange device on the left side of his face, a cross between goggles and a small spyglass with a collimator.

“All six of you?” I asked in surprise, sitting down and removing my hood. “And what’s the price?”

“Five a day. Unlimited contract. You pay for upkeep.”

I whistled. That was a lot of money! Five thousand a day, eight hundred per head, was the price for elite mercenaries with at least seventy or eighty thousand skill points; true professionals.

“So what can you do? I’m hiring a crew for a flying ship.”

The blond guy gave out a contemptuous whistle.

“Cargo ships? We can do everything, and more.”

“I’m a technician, engineer, and navigator,” the elf said, focusing his eye device on me. “Nosk drives anything up to an astral nave. Impie is the best scout and seeker in all of Sphere.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Astr!” The redheaded girl elbowed him as well, smiling sheepishly.

“And that sleepyhead,” they said, pointing at a fair-haired girl curled up in a ball on a bench next to the wall, “is Ellaria, first mate. She can...”

I had already seen what Ellaria could do. Yes, that team of pawns were top rate, but they cost too much. I had to try and negotiate with their employer, someone named Keith Borland. That sounded familiar. How much Leadership could he have if he had six henchmen? Seven hundred, eight hundred? A real octopus!

* * *

 

Keith the Octopus was almost at peace. The world around him shrunk down to a small part of table with a tall glass, above which flickered the neck of a square-shaped dark bottle. Even the loathsome tavern noises — voices, screams, the clatter of plates — merged into a distant pleasant hum.

Light brown alcohol filled a quarter of a glass with almost no sound, followed by a silvery rectangular chunk of ice that caused a sputter of drops. With a hiss, translucent soda, seething with bubbles, splashed down into the glass from above. The next step was to shake, but avoid mixing. Which one was it, the seventh? The eight? Ah, whatever.

“Keith Borland?”

Pulled out of the alcoholic haze, the Octopus raised his unfocused eyes at a stranger wearing a dark blue cloak of disguise.

“Yes, I’m Keith! What do you want?”

Without the slightest hesitation, the man sat next to him and discarded his hood. Empty glasses quietly clinked. For a second, the silver hilt of a sword flashed on his belt, but was immediately covered by the cloak. A player, human, someone called HotCat from some clan named Watchers... Borland didn’t know him or his clan.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Keith,” HotCat said with a smile. “Will you allow me to drink with you? My treat.”

He produced a square-shaped black bottle with a fancy triangular label decorated with sails and anchors. “Captain’s Rum,” Octopus’ favorite.

Thirty minutes later, half of the bottle was gone, and HotCat and Borland were chatting like old friends. Even if everything around them — the noisy tavern, the scurrying patrons, the waiters, and even the alcohol itself — was nothing more than a titillation of neural receptors, they still succeeded in getting drunk.

“You’ll never build another one like it!” Keith hit the table with the bottom of his glass. “Pour. Why? You’re asking me why? Half of the equipment is faction modules. I’ve spent half a year scrounging up the Crabstrocity, get it? And... Doh!”

He sighed sorrowfully, emptied the glass, sneakily wiped a tear with his sleeve, and continued.

“It’s my fault, anyway. I broke the main rule of Sphere. Really, you don’t know it? Seriously? Don’t fly something that you can’t afford to lose! Remember it, Cat, or one day, you’ll get hurt as much as I did. What, you say it’s unfair? My friend, words like “fair fight” don’t mean anything in Sphere! It’s the battle that matters, not the circumstances. When you press ‘Log in,’ you automatically agree to PvP.”

“So what will I do? I want to take a break from all of that. I just need to find two or three hundred thousand somewhere, rent out the pawns for a few months. A discount? Hey, don’t get cocky. They’re my heart and soul, it’s a pain losing them. They’re a great crew, get it? Is your right hand all right? Pour!”

“No, not everything’s gone. Only the frame is destroyed, the equipment can be salvaged. Look in the kill rating, it’s all there. No, do it yourself. It’s hard for me to even open that.”

“What?! Seriously? What do you mean you’ll settle it with them? It’s PROJECT HELL, bro, the real deal. Haven’t you heard of them? And they aren’t idiots. They won’t trade faction equipment for pocket change.”

“Well, if it plays out, I’ll be damned! But what’s the deal? Don’t play tricks on me, we both know that if something looks too good, there must be a catch. So what is it?”

“A contract? Three months? With the crew? Well, to repair the Crabstrocity... Jeez, I can’t believe there’s no catch. It’s like I’m being cheated, but I don’t know how. Who are you,