"I thought you'd take longer to think about it," Morin turned to Turner. "I didn't expect you to be this impatient, Mr. Turner. It seems Miss Elizabeth is very important to you."
"Shut up, you scoundrel! Don't you dare call Miss Swann by her first name!" Turner put on a fierce front, his hand resting on the hilt of his rapier, ready to draw at any moment.
"Besides, I only came here out of respect for Miss Swann!"
In this era, people only addressed each other by first name if they were close.
Acquaintances were called by their last names. That was why Turner only ever dared to call Elizabeth Swann "Miss Swann" in front of others.
Of course, when he was alone, he called her Elizabeth.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Morin shook his head.
"You don't even dare say the name of the person you care about? How pitiful..."
"You-"
"Hold it." Morin cut him off calmly. "I doubt you came here just to trade insults."
"If you're here because of what I said earlier, then I'll be clear. Every word was true."
"As a blacksmith, it's impossible for you to marry Elizabeth Swann, the daughter of Governor Weatherby Swann, unless some rare accident occurs."
"So tell me." Morin looked at him steadily. "Are you really willing to stand by and watch Miss Elizabeth Swann marry someone who isn't you?"
"I know what you're telling yourself right now. Excuses. Your family isn't wealthy, and you're afraid she'd suffer. Your status is too low, and you're afraid she'd be looked down on and feel wronged."
"Tsk, tsk. Very reasonable excuses."
"But there's another word."
"Unwillingness."
"Especially when it comes to that inconvenient thing called love."
"Your reason and your emotions are fighting. One tells you that you shouldn't do it. The other tells you that if you don't, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."
"Now," Morin continued, "I can give you one of those rare accidents."
"If you accept, I can guarantee that you'll soon have enough capital to marry Miss Elizabeth Swann."
"At that point, every excuse and obstacle in your mind will be nothing more than dust on the road."
"Something to step on."
"So." Morin smiled. "What do you think of my terms?"
Under the dim oil lamp, his originally sunny smile carried a trace of malice.
It wasn't late, but the silence around them made the tavern feel oppressive.
"If devils really exist," Turner thought unconsciously, staring at him, "then it's the man standing in front of me."
Morin was quite satisfied.
Since everyone already called him a devil, he didn't mind sounding like one.
If his performance were graded out of a hundred, he felt an eighty-two was fair. The remaining eighteen could be generously awarded by handsome, authentic readers in the form of "666."
"I..." Turner was so shaken that he couldn't even finish a sentence.
"Relax." Morin waved a hand when he felt the pressure was enough.
Any further and he might scare the man senseless, which would be counterproductive.
"This is a voluntary transaction. You work for me, and I give you what you want. Fair and simple. No contracts."
"I said I'd give you time to think. So go back and think carefully about what you really want."
"Alright." Morin smiled lightly. "Goodbye, Mr. Turner. I wish you a happy life?"
Turner didn't even know how he made it back to his blacksmith shop.
But when he saw the sword blank already taking shape, images surfaced in his mind.
James Norrington.
Weatherby Swann.
Those figures slowly faded, replaced by the face of a little girl.
The first person he saw when he opened his eyes after crawling back from the brink of death years ago.
She grew up.
The freckles on her face faded. She became more beautiful, and somehow, more unhappy.
Only when she saw him did that familiar smile bloom.
Elizabeth Swann.
Unknowingly, Turner fell asleep, his brows still tightly furrowed.
Elsewhere, Morin decided to deal with the low-quality wine in the tavern.
He found a few burly men who "wanted wine but not their lives" and had them haul it away.
He didn't charge them. The money didn't matter.
His tavern would sell only high-quality goods. He wouldn't ruin his reputation, even if it hadn't officially opened yet.
With a wave of his hand, the wine was given away for free.
Doing it himself would have been faster, but he had just shed his "devil" identity.
If he used his powers, he'd be called a devil again. If he didn't, it would be a hassle.
So free wine it was.
It turned out that loving a good deal was a universal trait across all races.
Some were afraid at first, but once a few people tried it and nothing happened, the wine disappeared quickly.
Within hours, Morin's name and the new tavern spread through the town, along with several strange titles.
Morin didn't care.
Arguing with such people would only lower his dignity.
He would wait until the tavern opened.
Then he'd take their money.
The biggest impact was that his words spread as well:
"Such low-quality wine isn't worthy of being sold for money. Selling it would ruin my reputation."
Advertising was remarkably effective in this era.
Almost everyone began wondering just how good the wine in Morin's tavern would be.
After all, this was someone willing to give wine away.
There was a faint but growing anticipation.
"I'll have to brew my own eventually," Morin thought, "but that takes time. For now, demand isn't high. Transporting some is more cost-effective."
He locked the tavern door.
With a thought, ten experience points vanished.
The next moment, he appeared in a modern city.
Gotham City.
Morin retrieved a phone from his system space and made a call.
"Ring, ring, ring."
The ringtone interrupted Fox mid-presentation.
Everyone turned, then quickly looked away when they realized the sound came from Bruce Wayne.
Someone they couldn't afford to offend.
Bruce stirred groggily, checked the caller ID, and stood up at once.
He nodded to Fox and walked out.
Fox raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
He knew Bruce carried two phones.
One for social occasions.
The other was reserved for people who truly mattered.
The former had been left outside.
Which meant the call was important.
Very important.
But who would call now?
"Morin?" Bruce answered.
"What did you do last night?" Morin asked, glancing at the sun high in the sky.
"..."
Why did that sound like an interrogation?
"Ahem. It was Rachel's birthday..." Bruce admitted.
"Then that explains it," Morin said.
"Your body couldn't handle it."
"That's not the main issue." Bruce rubbed his temples. "Something happened afterward."
"A group wearing clown masks robbed a bank. I was busy all night and didn't sleep."
"Gotham's gangs have been heavily suppressed recently. Robberies are rare, let alone a bank job."
"Anyway." Bruce paused. "Are you back from your trip?"
"No. Just a temporary return." Morin frowned.
Clown masks.
One familiar name surfaced in his mind.
The Joker.
"Is something wrong?" Bruce asked.
Morin never called without a reason.
"Yes." Morin replied. "I need you to help me find an architect. And I want to place an order for some wine."
"...That's it?" Bruce finally said.
After all this time, that was why he called?
Bruce was stunned.
"As payment," Morin chuckled, "how about I teach you some new skills and upgrade your equipment?"
"Deal." Bruce agreed instantly.
At the same time, he understood.
So that's it.
He's helping me.
I knew it.
You do care.
After getting Morin's location, Bruce drove over immediately.
"That should handle it," Morin thought calmly.
In this world, the Joker was still just an ordinary person.
He only gained the upper hand by ignoring rules.
But when the gap in strength was absolute-
Sometimes, the best way to deal with someone who didn't play by the rules was to play along.
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