The Mercenary's Home Bar was packed with burly patrons covered in tattoos. They were all mercenaries. This bar catered specifically to mercenaries, and those in New York City would come here for a drink when they weren't on a job.
Things hadn't been peaceful in New York lately, so mercenary work was actually booming. With more people having money, the bar had become much livelier.
Jack Hammer the Weasel had used the money he'd made in Mexico, along with his savings, to open the bar. He'd even given Wade a share. The bar's annual income was substantial, enough to live comfortably in retirement.
He preferred his current life as a bar owner and bartender to his previous days of risking his life.
"Do you guys know what this is?"
A mercenary, a bit tipsy, pulled a green, glowing piece of scale from his pocket and slammed it on the table.
"Guys, this is a Lizardman's scale."
"You're at it again, Gore."
The other mercenaries started to jeer, as Gore had made a habit of boasting in the bar.
Gore's forehead veins throbbed with anger. Spitting as he recounted how he had fought the Lizardman for three hundred rounds before finally killing it, and how he had then peeled off a scale as a memento. He also kept trading insults with the mercenaries who called him out on his lies.
"That's nothing. I once fought alongside the Green Goblin."
Jack Hammer the Weasel raised a glass of beer, and after downing it in one gulp, he said this.
The bar went silent for a moment, then erupted in laughter.
"Hammer, I concede, you're the king of bullshit in this bar!"
A few mercenaries laughed heartily as they pounded on the tables.
"Come on, let's have a toast to the king of bullshit, Jack Hammer!"
The Mercenary's Home Bar was filled with mercenaries drinking and carousing, the clinking of glasses and splashes of spilled alcohol everywhere. Jack Hammer the Weasel shook his head indifferently, mixed a cocktail, and slid it across the bar.
"I recognize that scale. It's from an African Rock Python's shed skin. Gore picked it up when he was on a mission in Africa."
Matt, sitting at the bar, picked up the cocktail.
"It's normal that they don't believe it. Even I find it hard to believe when I think about that time. By the way, how's Wade doing now?"
Jack Hammer the Weasel picked up his glass and silently took a sip.
"Still the same. Living each day as it comes, I guess. I still have to thank you for the letter of introduction, which allowed him to get into the cancer center. It's a shame that the cancer cells in his body have already begun to spread. There's no cure."
Wade, as one of the shareholders of this bar, used to come around often, helping to maintain order. Later, he found true love in the bar and came less often. Unfortunately, his happiness didn't last long; Wade was diagnosed with terminal cancer during a physical examination, almost untreatable.
Matt sighed. Because of their shared experiences fighting together in Mexico, he and Wade were on good terms, and he provided Wade with all the help he could. Unfortunately, everyone is equal in the face of a disease as intractable as cancer. Wade only had a few months left to live.
"Clang."
The sound of a door opening echoed through the bar, and a tall, powerfully built Asian man walked in. All the mercenaries turned their eyes toward him almost simultaneously.
A stranger.
The mercenary circle wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either. No one recognized this kid who had just entered, and he was clearly another unfortunate soul who had stumbled into this bar.
Although Mercenary's Home Bar was in a relatively remote location, greenhorns still occasionally wandered in. They wouldn't suffer any major losses, but some teasing was inevitable.
"Gore, didn't you say you killed a Lizardman? Go tell this young man how you did it."
Someone egged him on with malicious intent.
Gore, already drunk, staggered to his feet and walked in front of Broly.
"Kid, hic, this isn't a place for someone like you, hic. How about this, you crawl under my crotch, and I'll let you leave."
Broly raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as he sized up the boozy, portly man in front of him.
"Hey! Hey! Hey! Don't you start anything in my bar."
Jack Hammer the Weasel slammed his hand on the bar. Even though it was his bar, he couldn't control the reckless mercenaries. He could only try to get the unfortunate souls who wandered in to leave in one piece.
He came out from behind the bar, ready to intervene with Gore, who was taking things too far. But when he saw the face of the newcomer, he froze.
Broly reached out and patted Gore's greasy bald head, then suddenly grabbed his neck, lifted him up, opened the bar door, and stuffed him into the trash can outside.
He clapped his hands and swept his gaze across everyone in the bar.
"Anyone else?"
The bar went silent. Gore, despite his penchant for boasting, was still one of the strongest mercenaries. Yet, he'd been grabbed like a helpless chick.
Broly sat at the bar.
Jack Hammer the Weasel struggled to keep himself from trembling.
"What'll you have?"
"Just water, Hammer," Broly said, remembering the weasel. He glanced around the bar. "This your place? Not bad."
"Yeah, built it with the money I made in Mexico."
The weasel poured a glass of water and slid it across the counter.
"What do you want, Matt?"
Broly picked up his glass and took a drink. His previous phone had been destroyed in the fight with the Fire Cloud Evil God. Matt had reconnected with him through Alejandro.
Matt took a sip of his cocktail first.
"The higher-ups want me to ask, about the incident in New York City, uh, you destroyed part of the East Coast. This, uh, is quite a big problem."
His head was about to explode when he accepted this task, holding Broly accountable was like provoking a dragon. He couldn't afford Broly's wrath. Someone like Broly, whose strength was beyond the constraints of the system.
"That monster that appeared in New York City, it was hiding there, I wanted to kill it, and your people attacked me."
Broly placed the glass in his hand on the bar.
Matt's heart skipped a beat, and he immediately explained.
"We are not in the same system as the Air Force, it wasn't the CIA that attacked you, Broly. The CIA has always advocated for cooperation with you. We just hope that when you use high-powered moves on home soil, you can notify us in advance so that we can prepare and avoid causing large-scale…"
Broly raised an eyebrow.
"I can only say I'll do my best. That monster might not really be dead. If you find its trail, I can help you take it down."
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(End of Chapter)