The tavern was rather dim, its ceiling oppressively low. The supporting pillars seemed to retain their bark, and from the rafters hung ropes festooned with all manner of oddities: bottles, cans, chunks of wood, uncarved statues, stones—tokens left by sailors and pirates embarking on perilous voyages, imbued with their unspoken hopes.

At the far end of the bar, a cluster of dilapidated oak casks was piled up, around which several figures were laughing and conversing. The tables were low, sturdy, and massive, bearing the deep, time-worn patina of dark grey and black. Upon them rested brass candlesticks and oil lamps polished to a brilliant sheen. The patrons, mostly sailors or pirates, were clad in faded, tattered dark garments, their hair plaited with glass beads, their beards and hair a wild, unkempt tangle.

Fang Senyan’s entrance garnered no more than a few fleeting glances, perhaps because his habit of chewing betel nut was a common sight here. Before he could speak to the bartender, a wooden tankard banded with tin foil slid across the bar toward him, miraculously without spilling a single drop of the rum within:

“Happy Rum Day, lad. First one’s on the house. After that, make sure your shillings are ready.”

Having traveled so far and wasted time haggling with that cunning, grasping owner, Fang Senyan was indeed thirsty. He took a gulp of the drink and paused, momentarily stunned. The rum he’d tasted during his sailing days was one of the world's true six great spirits, entering his belly like a line of fire, with only a slight sweetness on the finish. Even with his tolerance, he’d only dared to order a medium measure.

But the liquid in this cup possessed a faint, sweet taste of sugarcane, with only a hint of alcohol to it—barely qualifying as beer, more like an alcoholic beverage. This was likely due to the deficiencies in current pressing and brewing techniques, not to mention the bar owner probably watered it down after acquiring it.

Given this, Fang Senyan gulped down the entire cup, smacked his lips with unsatisfied longing, and pulled out his coin purse:

“Another one, please. And make it…”

Fang Senyan suddenly remembered something and added with serious emphasis:

“The four-shilling kind. No more, no less.”

With his pockets currently lean, Fang Senyan naturally had to be prudent. The bartender was slightly taken aback by Fang Senyan’s earlier consumption; while downing a large cup of rum quickly wasn't unheard of, finishing it without batting an eye and immediately ordering another, larger measure, was rare. What the locals didn’t know was that during his time as a sailor, Fang Senyan had sailed Russian routes, where high-proof vodka was essential for surviving the brutal cold of Siberia. Tested by such conditions, Fang Senyan could handle a full jin of hard liquor in the real world, and when drinking beer, he could empty his bladder as fast as he filled it—his performance was naturally astounding to them.

As the saying goes, you get what you pay for. The paid-for rum was undoubtedly more potent than the free sample. After Fang Senyan downed the second cup the bartender served, he had undoubtedly captured everyone’s awe and attention. He nodded in satisfaction, noting the Nightmare Mark notification that his "Drunkard" milestone had reached 1/100, and casually found an empty table. A lanky man sitting nearby, clearly gregarious, raised his mug to Fang Senyan and chuckled:

“Hey there, mate. Good capacity you’ve got.”

Fang Senyan smiled, glancing toward the group gathered around the discarded casks at the bar's far end:

“What’s all the excitement over there about?”

The lanky man shrugged, looking displeased:

“Scar Henry’s arm wrestling someone again. Can’t this muscle-brained oaf find a less barbaric way to have fun?”

Fang Senyan was currently short on funds. Achieving the Drunkard milestone meant spending at least 4 shillings on 99 more drinks; twenty pounds was a fortune to him right now. Hearing the word “gamble,” Fang Senyan’s eyes lit up, and he rose to approach the group.

Scar Henry was a brute, his facial features bearing the clear hallmarks of a Norse Viking. A scar, about five centimeters long and winding like a centipede, crossed his face. His head was completely bald and shiny, and this bearded man’s laugh was booming, seemingly capable of shaking dust loose from the rafters. Despite this, he appeared well-liked; even the sailors who lost money to him were smiling good-naturedly. As Fang Senyan approached, his gaze flickered, and he activated his Insight ability.

Scar Henry (Elite) First Mate of the Bell and Cup Height 7’2” (2.15m), Weight 158kg (For those familiar with the NBA, picture Shaquille O'Neal as a template) Strength 9 Agility ?? Stamina 30 Perception ?? Charisma 14 Intelligence 3 Spirit ?? Basic Melee LV3, Basic Footwork LV2, Basic Endurance LV3 Advanced Abilities ??? Special Abilities ??? Special Ability: First Mate's Heart, grants the owner an additional 1000 Health Points. Note: Scar Henry is merely entertaining his crew right now. If you mistake this for his true strength, the only outcome will be your head being twisted off and piled up with those rotten coconuts.

Seeing his attributes, Fang Senyan gauged the situation, tossed his coin purse forward, and grinned:

“Two pounds. I’ll take a wager with you.”

Scar Henry laughed heartily, looking at Fang Senyan:

“Yellow-skinned lad, if you think heavy drinking means heavy strength, you’re destined to lose your money.”

Fang Senyan shrugged and smiled back:

“That remains to be seen.”

Scar Henry let out a coarse chuckle, ordered a shot of tequila, and sipped it slowly, presumably to recover his strength. After about five minutes, he stretched his wrist:

“Let’s go.”

Tequila was also a potent liquor, often containing substances akin to stimulants. Despite his massive frame, Scar Henry’s mind was sharp. After finishing the tequila, his Strength instantly rose by 1 point, reaching a peak of 10. Fang Senyan calmly sat beside him, sipping his rum, still looking completely confident of victory.

Although Fang Senyan was reasonably well-built, when he rolled up his sleeves and extended his right hand to grip Scar Henry’s massive paw, he was instantly dwarfed, appearing small and vulnerable. Considering sheer physique, Fang Senyan’s 1.77m height and 75kg weight were like a child’s compared to this man! As the two began to exert force, Fang Senyan felt an indescribable, massive power surge through his wrist. His hand was instantly pinned at a 45-degree angle to the tabletop, his whole body leaning into the strain. His eyebrows shot up like blades as he immediately exerted his full strength.

The wooden stool beneath them let out a sharp crack, unable to withstand the immense impact and cracking slightly. Fortunately, the old oak table they were leaning on, though crisscrossed with old scratches, remained solid and unmoving.

A gasp went through the onlookers. Usually, Scar Henry was unstoppable in arm wrestling, renowned throughout Port Tuthaga. Unless someone from the three legendary ships intervened, he won far more than he lost. While it was common for opponents to be immediately forced into a disadvantageous position, as Fang Senyan was, he was the first to hold his ground against such pressure!

Both men’s faces flushed crimson; the veins on their wrists bulged, and both hands trembled slightly. But what stunned the crowd was that Fang Senyan’s hand was slowly, resolutely, beginning to pull the advantage back! Scar Henry’s eyes were wide, a light sweat beading on his brow, seemingly helpless as his opponent rallied.

Just then, the oak cask beneath them could hold out no longer. With a loud smash, it shattered, pieces flying outwards. To avoid tumbling ignominiously onto the floor, Fang Senyan was forced to release his grip and spring backward, standing up. The contest ended abruptly. The crowd let out a disappointed “Oh,” clearly lamenting the missed spectacle of a full reversal.

Scar Henry, however, was good-natured about it. He threw his head back and laughed:

“Blast this rotten cask, messing things up at the crucial moment! I lost this round. Made, bring this gentleman forty shillings.”

Made, a stout man in his fifties with streaked grey hair standing beside him, promptly tossed two pounds into Fang Senyan’s purse and hurled it back. Fang Senyan didn’t leave. He snapped his fingers at the bartender and ordered a round of rum for everyone present—naturally, the 4-shilling-per-large-mug kind. Then, he loudly declared with feigned outrage:

“I am Sailor Yan, from the Far East’s Huaguo. I was hired by a greedy ship owner who promised me a tenth share of the profits. After sailing tens of thousands of sea miles, he successfully sold his raw silk and ceramics for twenty times the profit, then plied me with drink and abandoned me in this beautiful, foreign place!”

With that, Fang Senyan raised his mug high:

“May the Devil curse his soul!”

The men around him, being sailors or pirates themselves, held little affection for profiteers. Those Fang Senyan had treated to drinks heartily raised their mugs and roared in unison:

“May the Devil curse his soul!”

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