The marketplace in this part of the city wasn't difficult to navigate. It bustled with life—traders shouting their prices, customers haggling for a better deal, the aroma of freshly baked bread mingling with sweat and spice. Rahul moved purposefully, weaving through the crowd toward his destination: a bar named "Pyaasa"—The Thirsty One. According to the amethyst dealer's tip, this place wasn't just for alcohol and amusement. It was a hub of information… if you knew whom to ask.
The bar stood like a relic from another era—aged, yet proud. Its facade was wooden, slightly worn by years of sun and rain, but still sturdy. As Rahul entered, a thick smell of fermented liquor and greasy food greeted him, along with the distant scent of burning oil lamps. Dim lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting dancing shadows on wooden walls. The room buzzed with noise—boisterous laughter, the clink of wooden bowls, a loud slap followed by drunken jeers, and the sultry voice of a woman negotiating her price.
Prostitutes drifted from table to table, plying their charms to drunkards with loose purses. Men fought over cards and spilled drinks. Two janitors scrubbed puke from the floors while a pair of bouncers tossed a misbehaving customer out the front door. Yet beneath the chaos, there was a rhythm. A purpose. Like a well-oiled machine wrapped in drunken madness.
Behind a sturdy wooden counter, a thick-bodied man sat—his skin dark, his eyes sharper than any blade. He counted coins without lifting his head, his presence radiating an aura of silent authority. This had to be Rehmat Ali.
"Are you Rehmat Ali?" Rahul asked, approaching the counter.
Without looking up, the man replied in a gravelly voice, "Who's asking?"
"I've been sent by someone you know. The amethyst dealer from the inner city."
That got Rehmat's attention. He raised his eyes and sized up Rahul with a single glance. "What do you need?"
"Information."
"Each question will cost you one gold coin," Rehmat stated flatly.
Rahul smirked. Expensive. But he had the money—and more importantly, he had questions. "Agreed."
Rehmat signaled for him to follow. They entered a back room, dimly lit, sparsely furnished—clearly meant for confidential dealings. Rehmat offered him a drink.
"Country wine? Or something stronger?"
Rahul declined. "Let's get down to business."
Rehmat chuckled and leaned back. "Alright. What's your first question?"
"What year is it according to the international—or rather, the firingi—calendar?"
Rehmat's brow furrowed slightly. "Strange question. But fine. It's the year 1422, according to the firingis."
Rahul froze. The answer confirmed his worst—or perhaps most thrilling—suspicions. He was over 600 years in the past. If he recalled correctly, this was the early Portuguese colonial era in India, long before the British arrived. He was living in a time few historians could even dream of truly understanding.
He asked his next question.
"I want everything you know about Madan Mohan Banerjee."
Rehmat's grin widened. "That'll cost more. His story is long."
Rahul handed over a pouch of 100 gold coins. "That should cover it."
Rehmat nodded, pleased, and leaned forward.
"Madan Mohan Banerjee—tax collector to the zamindar. Mid-40s. Married to Maya Devi, who's about fifteen years his junior. He didn't marry her for love—he married her fortunes. Took a massive dowry. Some say he orchestrated the cancellation of her previous wedding to swoop in like a vulture."
He paused, watching Rahul closely.
"He owns 2–3 courtesans and still preys on new women. His thirst is... unnatural. Rumor says he's responsible for Maya Devi's father and brother's deaths. Some say she doesn't know. Others believe she knows everything and is burning quietly with vengeance."
Rahul clenched his jaw. The man was worse than he'd imagined. But he wasn't done.
"What about the zamindar and the others in his household?"
Rehmat continued, almost enjoying himself.
"Surya Singha Chowdhury—our zamindar. A just man. Open to change. But his son Pralay and taxman Madan Mohan are corrupt to the core. They siphon off public funds, launder taxes meant for the king and colonists."
"And Aranyak?" Rahul asked.
"A scholar. A poet. Keeps to himself. Helps his father run the zamindari like the old steward, Prabin Chandra Roy—loyal, farsighted, invaluable."
Rahul nodded. "Anyone else I should know?"
"Madhubantilata. She's 28. Lives with the landlord—his relative's daughter. Unmarried. Lost her family in a flood. A target of Pralay's lust. One night, he tried to rape her while drunk. Binodini Devi, the zamindar's wife, stopped him."
"And what about interesting places? Or things I should be aware of?"
Rehmat thought for a moment. "There's an arena at the edge of the bazaar. Fights from Tier 1 to Tier 3. You can bet or enter. Winners walk away rich—or dead. Also… there's a job board in the bar. Mercenary contracts, bounties, and more."
Rahul's eyes lit up. "Bounties?"
"There are two notorious bandits warring for territory. Noshu dacoit and Durgeshwari Devi Chowdhurani. Blood feud. Big rewards on their heads."
"Chowdhurani?" Rahul asked, intrigued. "Any link to Devi Chowdhurani?"
"She's her granddaughter."
Rahul sat back, stunned. So the legend was real—and her blood still walked the earth.
"And finally," he said, standing, "I want your best room. For seven days."
He handed Rehmat another pouch of 100 gold coins.
The man's face lit up. "Room upstairs, end of the hallway. Welcome to Pyaasa."
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🩸Next Chapter: The Venom King's Trial🔥
A task worth ten thousand gold... but at what cost?
As Rahul prepares to take down monstrous crocodiles with poison-laced precision, an unexpected horde of wild predators turns the riverbank into a battlefield. Every heartbeat counts, every move risks everything. But when the dust settles, will he emerge as the hunter—or the hunted?
And with a new power awakening within him, the game just changed...Forever.
🗡️ Dive into Chapter 15 and witness the rise of a new title—The Venom King.👍 Don't forget to drop a power stone, leave a comment, and add to your library if you're loving the journey!