CHAPTER 387: THOMAS

In the far corner, a bearded man muttered, "Not from around here..."

A waitress, hardened by years of serving men who solved arguments with their fists, hesitated for a moment before forcing her legs to move. She approached slowly, wiping her hands on her apron.

"What’ll it be?" she asked, with a flat voice. Apollo didn’t look at her. His eyes roamed the tavern — not the people, but what hid behind them. Some faces were too calm. Too still. Pretending too hard to be drunk or indifferent.

"I want to meet someone who knows well about the things around here." He said simply.

Hearing this, the waitress wasn’t surprised. She gave a small, knowing smile and nodded.

"Thomas," she called out, turning her head toward the back of the tavern. "This gentleman wants a word with you."

From a dim booth in the corner, a figure shifted. A man with streaks of grey in his dark hair and sharp eyes that flickered like candlelight in wind slowly rose from his seat. He wasn’t dressed like the others — no ragged cloak, no chipped weapon. Just simple, travel-worn clothes and a presence that didn’t match his quiet posture.

He walked over, dragging a wooden chair with one hand, and sat across from Apollo.

"So," he said, voice low but steady, "what you want to know or where you want to go. I know everything about nearby cities and towns; I even know some dealers. If you want anything, I can get it for you."

He smiled like an expert salesman, as he knew Apollo was definitely a rich guy. Just from the cold, handsome face and clothes, he knew this was a big customer.

"Hmm, really?" Apollo leaned back slightly, his voice calm. "Then tell me — who’s the strongest person in the Northern Continent?"

Thomas’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes narrowed slightly, measuring the intent behind the question. He drummed his fingers once on the table before replying.

Thomas leaned in, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might be listening.

"That’s a dangerous question, friend," he said with a smirk. "Not because I don’t know — but because naming the ’strongest’ in the Northern Continent is like trying to hold mist in your hands. This land doesn’t have kings or empires like the centre or west. Power here hides in shadow."

He glanced around the tavern, then continued.

"But... if you really want names, I can give a few."

There are numerous sects, gangs and cities in the northern continent that confront each other at every moment. But after numerous secret realms appeared, it became even more chaotic.

Although no major force has been unable to conquer the Northern Continent, there are still some forces that have a long history and are terrifyingly strong with Void gods. Five among all is the most well known; they are also called the five northern kings.

The Blackflame Demon Sect.

The Silent Warden Pavilion

The Titanbone Ridge Clan

The Duskweaver City

The Ironhowl Dominion Hall

"And there are also some individuals like the Red-Eyed Demon."

"Lives in the Ashen Mountains. People say he used to be a great healer... until he went mad. Now he controls curses and the power of blood. You don’t find him — he finds you."

"Then there’s Granny Nine."

"Don’t let the name fool you. She’s ancient, maybe not even human anymore. Lives in a forest that eats people alive. The trees sing there at night. She trades in secrets, memories, and lives — if you survive long enough to meet her."

"There’s also the Silver Ghost."

"No one’s ever seen him — at least no one who lived. But every few years, a fortress gets levelled. Cities vanish in a night. Survivors only speak of a flash of silver and silence.

And added to all are now awakened ancient races that seem to be not weaker than any established power.

"Oh, indeed there is quite a lot. So, which faction is closest?" Apollo asked.

Thomas leaned back slightly in his chair, tapping two fingers on the table in thought. His eyes flicked toward the window, as if measuring distance in his mind.

"Closest?" he repeated. "That’d be the Titanbone Ridge Clan. You’re maybe a day or two out if you fly straight."

He leaned in, lowering his voice a notch.

"They control the jagged mountain range to the northeast — it used to be the spine of an ancient titan, or so they claim. Harsh land, harsher people. They respect strength, nothing else. They seemed to have blood of an ancient titan and a physique that is said to be almost indestructible."

"And yeah, I remembered. There seems to be a worshipping ceremony going to be held tomorrow, and many powerful and extraordinary guests will come."

"Oh, indestructible, interesting," he murmured and immediately decided to go there. Not to mention there is a worshipping ceremony going to be held tomorrow, and he can see many warriors. Hopefully among them he can find someone worth investing in.

Apollo stood up slowly, his chair scraping the floor with a faint screech. His gaze was calm, but beneath that surface was a quiet intensity.

"I’ll leave at dawn," he said simply. And gave some money, being ready to leave.

"Looks like the young lord has made up his mind." Thomas said with a smile, as he could see Apollo seemed to be interested in seeing the Titanbone Ridge clan and the worshipping ceremony.

And after talking with Apollo, he can be sure he was an ordinary person. He even had a mysterious feeling that if he followed him, he might be able to finally get the chance of a comeback.

He watched Apollo’s back as it disappeared through the creaking tavern door, the cold wind trailing behind him like a silent herald. The air still buzzed faintly from the pressure he had released earlier. The other patrons pretended to resume their drinks, but no one had forgotten.

He wasn’t the kind to believe in fate. Not after the things he’d seen. Not after the betrayals, the ruined years, the fall from power. But something stirred in his chest now — a feeling he hadn’t tasted in decades.

"Tch." He clicked his tongue and stood up.

"Maybe... just maybe... following this ’young lord’ might be my road back to the top." The corner of his mouth tugged into a half-smile, half grimace — the kind worn by men who had lost too much to smile honestly.

He glanced back once more toward the door, then grabbed his coat and sword from behind the counter.