When evil gods hold a meeting in my head

Richard carried the bartender back home. The bartender's body slumped limply on Richard's shoulder, his arms dangling limply, and he looked as heavy as a sandbag.

Richard struggled to carry the bartender, and it took him several minutes to get back to the tavern entrance.

The fire in the fireplace had been lit, and all the kerosene lamps on the wall were lit, illuminating the tavern with a warm and gentle glow.

Richard placed the bartender on a bench near the fireplace, laid him down, and covered him with his clothes.

The bartender looked a little better than before, but he was still somewhat weak, probably because he was still feeling cold inside and needed to be warmed up.

As Richard pondered this, he walked upstairs to check on Rosalie, Thales, and Danza.

Just then, footsteps suddenly came from the stairs, the wooden planks creaking underfoot, a sound that was particularly clear in the quiet early morning.

Richard looked up and saw Dansha standing at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in a mess, still wearing the old shirt he slept in, the buttons all askew, looking like he had just gotten out of bed. When he saw Richard, he paused, then yawned widely, still looking not fully awake.

"Uncle? You're up so early?" Dansha asked groggily, his voice still heavy with sleepiness, his eyes half-open.

Richard's heart skipped a beat.

Dansha woke up.

He glanced subconsciously at the bartender lying on the bench, then at Dansha, his mind racing, a series of thoughts flashing through his mind like a revolving lantern.

Dansha had no doubt about his identity!

After being hypnotized, he was convinced that Richard was his father's business partner—his uncle Richard Cutty. This perception was deeply ingrained in his consciousness, becoming a part of his memory. But what about the shop assistant? The young man who led them upstairs last night had a completely different perception of Richard's identity; Richard had used the term "the boss's friend" when hypnotizing him.

These two perceptions are completely different things...

If Dansha and the shop assistant bump into each other, and one calls him "uncle" while the other calls him "sir," he'll immediately be exposed. What Dansha and the shop assistant will think then, Richard has no idea…

But that's definitely not a good thing!

Richard stared at Dansha, feeling a tightness in his chest.

Just then, footsteps sounded on the stairs again.

The young shop assistant also came down, rubbing his neck and muttering something as he walked, looking like he had just woken up.

He saw Richard, grinned, and was about to greet him when he suddenly caught sight of Dansha standing at the top of the stairs: "Hey boss, you're awake? You really drank a lot last night, you were sleeping like a log, I couldn't wake you up no matter what I did. It's a good thing your friend brought you back, otherwise you'd be sleeping on the streets..."

Dansha was taken aback: "What friend? Have you lost your memory?"

The worst thing that happened still happened... Richard thought to himself, "Oh no."

He quickly raised his right hand and snapped his fingers lightly.

Snapped!

Purple mist poured out of the ring and entered Dansha's nose with unerring accuracy.

Richard stared into Dansha's eyes and began to lie: "Dansha, remember this: my business relationship with your father is a very confidential matter and cannot be revealed to anyone. No matter who asks, you must say that I am just an ordinary friend of yours, understand?"

Dansha blinked, her eyes slowly shifting from confusion to bewilderment, then from bewilderment to clarity, and finally to a look of understanding.

"Oh..." He nodded, his voice tinged with realization. "I understand, Uncle. It's a secret, I can't tell you. I understand, you're just a friend of mine, not an uncle."

Richard nodded and then looked at the shop assistant.

The young man was staring at them blankly, not yet realizing what had just happened. He stood there with his mouth agape, like a statue.

Richard snapped his fingers at him, and purple mist drifted over.

"You misheard me last night," Richard said calmly, as if stating a fact. "I'm just Danza's friend. But that's not the point right now. The point is someone's injured and needs help. Put that aside for now; saving lives is the priority."

The shop assistant's expression changed, from blank to enlightened, and the confusion on his face slowly faded, replaced by an expression that said, "Yes, yes, that's definitely true."

"Yes, yes, yes," he nodded, quickly walking over, "Saving lives is the priority, saving lives is the priority. What happened? Why is she lying here?"

Richard breathed a sigh of relief and pointed to the bartender lying on the bench.

"He fainted outside last night, probably from the cold. Do you have anything here that can warm you up? Alcohol, medicine, anything will do."

Dansha walked over, looked down at the bartender's face, and then reached out to touch his forehead. His brows furrowed more and more, and his expression became somewhat serious.

"Why is it so cold?" he said, his tone incredulous. "It's summer, it's so hot outside you can sweat, how can it be so cold?"

"Let's not talk about that," Richard waved his hand. "Is there any way?"

Dansha thought for a moment, then suddenly slapped his thigh, making a crisp cracking sound.

"Yes!" he said, his eyes lighting up. "There's a kind of wine in the cellar called Flame Wine, which is specially prepared for sailors. When those sailors come back from a stormy sea, soaked to the bone, a cup of it will warm them up from the inside out. It's incredibly effective. I've seen it many times; some people's lips were so cold they turned purple, but after a cup, they'd be bouncing around again in no time."

Richard's eyes lit up: "Then go get it quickly."

Dansha shook his head, an embarrassed expression on his face, and scratched the back of his head somewhat awkwardly.

"We're out of stock," he said. "The last bottle was bought by a sailor a few days ago, and we haven't had time to brew any new ones yet. My dad's been busy with other things lately and hasn't had time to think about it, so I forgot about it too..."

Richard was taken aback for a moment.

"What should we do then?"

Dansha frowned and thought for a long time, then suddenly looked at Richard with a hint of expectation and a little bit of embarrassment in her eyes.

"Uncle, why don't you come with me to mix a bottle?" he said, his tone somewhat tentative. "The recipe for Flame Liquor was actually learned by my father from Puta. It's not anything complicated; it's just a few kinds of liquor mixed together with a few other things. I can't manage it all by myself. If you lend me a hand, we can mix it up quickly; it won't take long."

He paused, then added, "Judging from his appearance, he should be able to hold out for a few hours; there's enough time."

Richard looked at him, then at the bartender lying on the bench. The bartender's face was still pale, but his breathing was steady; he shouldn't be in any serious trouble anytime soon.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

Dansha grinned, turned and walked toward the wine cellar. After a couple of steps, he turned back to look at Richard, signaling him to follow.

Richard followed, took a couple of steps, then stopped and turned back to the shop assistant, saying, "You stay here and watch him. If anything seems wrong, call us. Don't let him move around, and don't give him any water. We'll be right back."

The clerk nodded, sat down on the bench next to the bartender, and stared intently at the bartender, as if he were completing some important task.

Richard then followed Danza into the wine cellar.

The cellar door was at the far end of the hall, a heavy oak door painted a dark brown, with a brass handle that had been worn smooth and shiny from being touched so many times. Danza pushed open the door, and a rich aroma of wine and oak barrels wafted out, so strong it was almost overwhelming.

Inside was a narrow, downward-sloping stone staircase, just wide enough for one person to pass through. A few dim oil lamps flickered on the walls, casting swaying shadows. Richard followed Dansha down the steep staircase, needing to hold onto the walls for support.

When you reach the bottom, the view suddenly opens up.

A large cellar, even larger than the tavern hall above. Rows of oak barrels were neatly stacked, some waist-high, some taller than a person, with various markings written on them in chalk, some so faded they were illegible. Countless bottles of all sizes and shapes were piled in the corner, reflecting a faint glow in the dim light.

The aroma of alcohol in the air grew stronger, mixed with the scent of oak, making it almost intoxicating.

Dansha walked to a workbench with various tools, measuring cups, and bottles and jars filled with different colored liquids. He rolled up his sleeves, turned to look at Richard, and grinned.

"Uncle, come here, I'll teach you how to make Flaming Liquor."