Steam Old Days: The Extraordinary Begins with a Corpse Collector

Lyndon was dumbfounded by what Alastor said.

When did he become a Witcher?

But seeing Alastor's confident expression, Lyndon instantly understood the situation.

"It must be because he misunderstood my identity when we did business together before. It's really strange. I just wanted to pretend to be an expert to avoid being ripped off."

After all, putting on airs is the best and most useful negotiation strategy.

Even if you have a bad hand, you shouldn't raise directly.

"Since he mistook me for a witcher, then..."

Lyndon's heart pounded in his chest as he realized that this misunderstanding might be a golden opportunity, a chance to step into the extraordinary.

It's clear from the conversation with Alastor that this black market dealer must know a lot of information.

Therefore, Lyndon could take advantage of the relationship between the two.

"Shh!"

Lyndon quickly feigned panic, pressing Alastor down and placing a finger on Alastor's lips, gesturing for him to shut up.

Then, Lyndon leaned back slightly, creating some distance between himself and Alastor.

He frowned, feigning displeasure, and complained, "Mr. Alastor, are you drunk? How can you just mention witchers in a place like this? Don't you know the sheriff's been cracking down lately?"

After saying that, Lyndon pretended to be nervous and looked around.

The tavern remained noisy, with patrons chatting and laughing, melodious piano music lingering in the air, and the clinking of glasses echoing throughout.

For the time being, no one noticed the two people at the bar.

Alastor was taken aback by Lyndon's sudden aura. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and said with a forced smile, "You're right, Mr. Lyndon, I got a little excited, but please believe me, my loss of composure is only because huge profits are right in front of us."

Lyndon snorted, picked up his glass, took a sip of wine, and felt the icy taste spread across his tongue.

He deliberately lowered his voice, lowered his eyelids, and explained with a look of deep thought and helplessness: "Of course I understand what you mean, but nightmares are not only rare but also difficult to deal with. I really have no experience with them. In that case, it would be better to let the church handle it."

Lyndon glanced at Alastor out of the corner of his eye, secretly observing his reaction, his fingers nervously tapping the rim of his glass, making a crisp, rhythmic sound.

After a long pause, he added, "I think you also know the source of the Witchers' power—it comes from potions..."

Alastor nodded repeatedly, indicating his agreement.

"You're right. Those guys in the church have monopolized supernatural powers, forcing you to rely on potions to temporarily gain power."

It turns out that drinking magic potions can temporarily grant one power...

On the surface, Lyndon's face showed no emotion, but inwardly he was laughing hysterically.

I never expected that I could get such important information out of Alastor with just a few words.

However, amidst his elation, Lyndon was also filled with new doubts.

Can one gain superhuman power simply by drinking a magic potion?

This seems a bit too simplistic. If that's the case, why doesn't the church strictly restrict the circulation of potions?

You know, there's a Potions major in universities. If it were really that simple, wouldn't every university student have superhuman powers?

But the truth is quite the opposite. Apart from some extremely dangerous potions that are prohibited from sale, most potions have a market, but people like myself at the bottom of society cannot access them.

Then there's only one possibility.

There are other conditions, and meeting those conditions is even more difficult than obtaining the potion.

That's why the church doesn't prohibit the circulation of any magic potions.

Lyndon was filled with doubts, but he didn't want to ask Alastor directly.

Because in Alastor's eyes, he was a witcher, and if he asked, Alastor would definitely find out.

Secondly, he was, after all, just a black market dealer, so whether he knew the secrets of the Witcher remains to be seen.

Therefore, Lyndon absolutely cannot alert the enemy at this time.

Moreover, as a black market dealer, Alasto must have dealt with Witchers regularly, and Lyndon could easily obtain the information he wanted through this relationship.

Thinking of this, Lyndon couldn't help but smile. He picked up his glass and took a sip, finding the wine to be so sweet and delicious.

"That's why I have no hope for this matter. After all, I've never heard of any witcher dealing with a non-physical alien."

Lyndon put down his glass and continued his strategy of feigning retreat, hoping to get more information out of Alastor.

As expected, Alastor took the bait. He leaned against Lyndon, his lips almost touching Lyndon's ear, and whispered a huge secret to him.

"Actually, I once hosted a witcher who successfully hunted down a non-physical alien species."

Lyndon couldn't stay calm this time; his eyes were full of surprise.

"How did he do that?"

"Linden asked eagerly."

"It's actually very simple."

Alasto deliberately kept everyone in suspense. He calmly finished the wine in his glass and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand with satisfaction.

"If you want to deal with alien species, you need to drink a potion that can deal with alien species. Similarly, if you want to deal with alien species on the mental level, you need to drink a mental potion."

Lyndon's mind raced: "You mean, I need to use a mental potion to fight the nightmare? But I don't have any of those kinds of potions!"

In response to Lyndon's question, Alastor confidently pointed to his chest.

"Do you have one?" Lyndon asked curiously.

"No," Alastor answered frankly, "but I know someone who does, if only Mr. Lyndon can catch that nightmare."

These words were like a pebble thrown into a pond, creating ripples in Lyndon's heart.

"And all Mr. Lyndon needs to do is..."

Alastor leaned close to his ear again.

As Lyndon listened to Alastor's plan, his expression first changed to one of realization, then confusion, and finally silence.

"Mr. Lyndon, this plan sounds very dangerous, but it's the best way. Whether you do it or not is up to you."

Alastor left the choice to Lyndon himself.

On one side is a huge, life-changing temptation of profit, while on the other side is an abyss of no return.

Lyndon remained silent for a long time, just sitting there.

Time passed by, second by second.

The tavern's customers came and went in waves.

While waiting for Lyndon's decision, Alastor ordered one drink after another from the bartender, and finally fell asleep on the bar counter in a daze.

Alastor didn't know how long he had slept; he was woken up by the bartender.

He groggily opened his eyes and saw a blurry figure in front of him saying, "Sir, could you please settle your bill?"

"Okay, I understand."

Alastor spoke with a thick nasal tone, and he felt dizzy.

He took his wallet out of his pocket and asked the bartender how much it cost.

The bartender said the bill for the two of them would be nine shillings and seven pence.

Only then did Alastor realize that Lyndon was gone.

He asked the bartender, "Where is he?"

The bartender said he had left long ago, that Alastor would pay for the drinks, and that he had even left Alastor a note.

When the bartender handed the note to Alastor, Alastor saw what was written on it.

"I will do my best, and remember to contact the Master—Lydon Copperfield."

……

Lyndon, reeking of alcohol after leaving "Old Oak Barrel," walked down the street toward 17 Rose Street.

Walking down the street, he wondered if he had made the right choice.

Maybe it's a mistake, maybe I'll lose my life because of my choice.

but……

Several children ran past Lyndon; their clothes were clean and their hair was neatly combed.

That innocent smile on his face was something Lyndon rarely saw in the old town.

The old town was gray in color, and the expression he saw most often was numbness, regardless of age or gender.

Everyone there was struggling to survive.

Lyndon watched the children's retreating figures and muttered to himself, "I'm struggling too, struggling desperately."

……

Because he had been drinking, Lyndon was a little unsteady on his feet, so it took him a long time to get back to Emily's doorstep.

But when he stood at the entrance of the mansion, a commotion came from inside.