Chapter 101 — Odin's Banquet
By the time the carriage entered Flea Bottom, it was already close to midnight.
Yet the district was far from dark.
In fact, it was brightly lit.
Along both sides of the street, wooden poles stood every ten steps or so. Hanging from them were lanterns, not burning expensive candles but refined fish oil.
The smell was slightly fishy, but the light was strong enough.
It had been Rorge's idea—cheap, durable, and practical.
Through the carriage window, Odin could clearly see the streets.
There were no beggars curled up in the shadows.
No drunkards collapsed beside gutters.
No hollow-eyed prostitutes lingering at the corners.
People moved along the streets in steady numbers—but everything was orderly.
Children played in the road.
An old man sat beneath a doorway, scraping away at a battered violin. The tune was horribly out of pitch, yet the rhythm remained lively.
Near the porridge stall, a long line had formed.
The warm smell of bread drifted through the air.
"Stop here."
At Odin's command, the carriage halted one street away from the Hall of Order.
He lifted the curtain and stepped down into the street.
Standing there, he took a deep breath.
The aroma of baked wheat.
The rich scent of stewing meat.
Smoke from burning firewood.
The sharp tang of fresh paint.
All those smells mingled together into something unique—
something that could only be called life.
A boy ran past carrying a bundle of firewood.
When he saw Odin, he stopped abruptly and gave an awkward bow.
"Good evening, Lord Odin!"
"Good evening," Odin replied with a nod. "Careful not to trip."
The boy grinned widely, revealing crooked teeth, then dashed off toward a house at the end of the street.
Odin continued forward.
Iggo walked half a step behind him, relaxed.
In Flea Bottom, no one would dare harm Odin.
Everyone they passed paused to greet him.
"Good evening, Lord Odin."
After the greeting, they returned to their work.
Odin responded to each of them with a faint smile.
When they reached the small square before the Hall of Order, Odin stopped.
The square was filled with long tables, covered with clean coarse linen.
Candles flickered atop each table.
Food had been laid out—nothing extravagant, but plentiful.
Chunks of pork.
Fish.
Stew made from potatoes and turnips.
Fresh black bread.
And several barrels of beer.
At least three or four hundred people sat at the tables—men, women, the elderly, and children.
They wore clean clothes.
Their hair was neatly combed.
Their faces carried genuine smiles.
Some talked quietly.
Others shared food.
Children chased one another between the tables, laughing.
Yet even their playfulness stayed within the bounds of basic order.
At the center of the square, Rorge was directing several young men as they distributed food.
When he spotted Odin, he hurried over.
"Everything has been prepared as you instructed, my lord."
He bowed slightly, lowering himself with obvious respect.
"Today marks the completion of the Hall of Order."
"We prepared enough food for five hundred people. There's some beer as well—and we even hired a band."
Odin didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he stood at the edge of the square, watching the crowd enjoying their meal.
He watched for a long time.
"Good work."
Only after a while did he speak.
Just two simple words.
But Rorge straightened proudly, his slightly hunched back lifting as if it had suddenly gained strength.
---
Third Floor — Hall of Order
A fire roared inside the fireplace, warming the room.
Heavy curtains were drawn shut, blocking out the lights and noise from the square outside.
Odin sat behind his desk.
Spread across the table were account books and maps.
From outside, faint music and laughter drifted upward.
At the sound of it, the corner of Odin's mouth lifted slightly.
Odin did not particularly enjoy crowds.
But he loved this warm, lived-in atmosphere.
It meant Flea Bottom was getting better day by day.
Three soft knocks sounded at the door.
"Come in."
The door opened.
A middle-aged man stepped inside. His appearance was intimidating—an ugly scar ran from his forehead down to his chin, making him look even more frightening than the noseless Rorge.
Yet his expression was nervous.
Standing before the desk, he rubbed his hands anxiously.
"Lord Odin… you… you asked for me."
"Sit, Karl," Odin said casually without looking up.
Karl swallowed and sat down.
But he barely touched the edge of the chair, his mind racing as he wondered why he had been summoned.
Once, Karl had been one of Flea Bottom's most vicious loan sharks.
Anyone who failed to repay him had their fingers cut off.
But ever since Odin arrived, Karl had never returned to that business.
After a while, Odin finally put down his work and looked up.
From the shadows, a black, scruffy cat with a torn ear leapt onto his lap.
Firelight from the hearth illuminated half of Odin's face, flickering between light and shadow.
Karl grew even more uneasy.
He didn't know where to put his hands and ended up gripping his trousers nervously.
"I heard," Odin said calmly, "that yesterday at the docks you 'persuaded' a worker to give up his job… so your nephew could take it."
Karl's face turned pale instantly.
"T-That was a misunderstanding, my lord! Please let me explain—"
"I understand you, Karl."
Odin cut him off.
His tone was calm and matter-of-fact.
"You're used to ruling through fear."
"A knife works better than reason."
"Blood convinces people more effectively than words."
"In the old Flea Bottom, that was how people survived."
He leaned forward slightly, the firelight dancing across his face.
His dark eyes seemed even deeper in the shifting shadows.
"But this is not the old Flea Bottom anymore."
"In my territory, there is only one rule."
"Labor earns reward. Loyalty earns protection."
"No exceptions."
"No privileges."
"No 'because of who I am.'"
Cold sweat formed on Karl's forehead.
"I understand, Lord Odin. I'll return the job to that worker immediately."
"No."
Odin shook his head slightly.
"You don't understand."
"Apologizing is meaningless."
"The job already belonged to that worker."
"Giving it back isn't generosity."
"It's simply correcting a mistake."
"And I expect more than that."
He looked up again.
"Starting tomorrow, you'll work at the docks."
"As a porter."
"One month."
"Ten hours a day."
"You'll receive the same pay as everyone else."
"If you can last the month without causing trouble or complaining…"
"Then we'll discuss what role you might take afterward."
Karl's lips trembled.
"A porter?"
"No, Lord Odin, please reconsider! I've never done that kind of work before—it's too exhausting!"
"Then learn."
Odin simply looked at him.
Just one glance.
Karl felt as though his heart had stopped.
"Either learn, or leave."
"Flea Bottom can accept anyone."
"But not people who refuse to follow the rules."
"You may go."
Karl sat there for a moment, stunned.
He seemed unable to process what had just happened.
Finally, he rose stiffly and walked toward the door.
"Oh, one more thing."
Just as Karl touched the handle, Odin spoke again.
"You're welcome to attend tonight's banquet."
"But remember."
"Every bite of food you eat, every sip of wine you drink…"
"…belongs to the Black Hand."
"You should be grateful."
Karl took a deep breath and nodded.
The door opened, then closed.
Silence filled the room briefly.
Soon another knock sounded.
The second guest entered.
"I have a request, Lord Odin."
(Special Thanks to jayyskii.)