The next morning, Henwell wakes up early on his own, before anyone comes to rouse him, and begins training in the courtyard.

  He still wears a handmade head covering, carefully hiding his face. After all, his distinctly European features stand out sharply among the Eastern popuce. Revealing his face now could cause unnecessary complications for Lucy’s pn.

  When the steward enters, he pauses in surprise but quickly arranges for Henwell’s measurements to be taken. He promises to have suitable clothing delivered soon.

  Thoughtfully, the steward also asks Henwell what kind of mask he prefers.

  Henwell considers for a moment, then fetches pen and ink to sketch the mask design he wants, exactly the one he used as a gdiator in the Bloodhorn Arena.

  Until the mask and clothes are ready, Henwell isn’t allowed to leave the manor, especially not wearing his own armor or gear and drawing attention in public.

  The Eastern dynasty strictly controls armor; possessing it without permission is a capital offense.

  Henwell’s heavy crossbow and greatbow are also reguted items and cannot be carried outside.

  Though some carry swords and knives here, they’re usually concealed in cloth bags, never openly dispyed.

  Fortunately, Number Eight works efficiently. By the next day, the clothes and mask arrive.

  Henwell ties his hair back into a simple ponytail, puts on the mask, and with the help of servants, changes into a sharp, practical outfit.

  The new attire tones down some of Henwell’s intimidating aura, but his broad frame and impressive height still make him look commanding and heroic.

  Just one look and anyone would guess he’s a military man.

  Number Eight praises, “Young Master Henwell, you’re truly imposing, such a physique is rare even among soldiers. Those so-called invincible warriors on the battlefield look quite frail compared to you!”

  Henwell smiles quietly and asks about Lucy: “When will your master be avaible?”

  The steward lowers his voice. “Please don’t rush, Young Master. Miss Lucy is currently busy doing other things. She specifically told me that if you get bored, I can accompany you for a walk.”

  Gncing at the sky, Henwell frowns. “It’s getting te. By the time we reach the city gates, Hongfeng City will probably have locked down for curfew. Can we even get in at this hour?”

  Number Eight chuckles. “Even if we could enter, all the districts inside would be closed by now. Getting into any of them would be tough. Plus, the Forbidden Army on night duty is no joke, especially this time of year.”

  ”The emperor’s health is fragile, and various factions are restless. The Forbidden Army, Imperial Guards, and even the Imperial Dragon Guards are all on edge. No one’s willing to give an inch.”

  Henwell notes the information and casually asks, “So where can we go then?”

  “Outside the city, there’s plenty to see. For example, the pleasure boats on Fengyue River, or the bustling night markets in the outer districts.”

  Henwell queries, “Won’t that cause trouble for your master?”

  Number Eight straightens up. “Young Master, you worry too much. There aren’t many here who’d dare cause us problems beyond the city walls.”

  With that, the steward begins arranging their outing.

  Henwell wears no armor, not even his inner armor.

  As for weapons, he only brings along the Dawn Greatsword, which he leaves inside the carriage.

  The carriage is drawn by four horses, spacious inside. The woodwork bances lightness and sturdiness, a clear sign the carriage isn’t cheap.

  Number Eight accompanies Henwell inside the carriage, while eight guards carrying swords jog alongside.

  Along the way, the Number Eight reads Henwell’s curiosity and offers expnations whenever he shows interest.

  Damn!

  This Eastern-style scenery perfectly suits Henwell’s taste!

  And those fmboyantly dressed beauties? Just his type!

  Soon, the carriage arrives in front of a vish four-story pavilion. Henwell steps down and gnces up at the sign—Drunken Dream Tower!

  A young attendant greets him with a smile, “You look unfamiliar here. Is this your first time at our pce?”

  Number Eight steps in front of Henwell, blocking the attendant. “This is my young master’s first visit. Please arrange a refined spot for him.”

  “Got it! Gentlemen, right this way!”

  Of the eight guards, four follow Henwell closely while the other four stay by the carriage. Though the tavern has its own carriage parking and attendants, these guards remain vigint.

  Led by a server, they reach an elegant seat near the railing on the second floor.

  Seeing he’s the only one seated, Henwell waves them over. “Everyone, come sit! So many empty seats would be a waste.”

  Number Eight politely declines, “Young Master, you sit. We servants dare not sit with you.”

  Henwell insists, “I’m new here. If you sit, you can tell me more about the pce.”

  Reluctantly, the Number Eight and four others take seats, maintaining respectful postures. The four guards adjust their stance, ready to spring into action if needed.

  At the center of the tavern is a stage, with a suspended ptform held by over a dozen iron chains above it.

  It’s around seven in the evening, dusk just settling. The main performance hasn’t started yet, but several alluring dancers already weave through the private tables.

  Soon, two dancers approach Henwell carrying fine wine and delicacies. “Sir, may we serve you tonight?”

  Henwell doesn’t object, and the two women beam, nestling close to him.

  Their sharp eyes immediately spot who’s in charge.

  Leaning against the couch, Henwell accepts their feeding—fresh fruit, dried treats, and carefully selected wine, all brought to his lips by the beauties.

  Below on the stage, the show begins. Several graceful dancers move to the elegant melodies, captivating the audience.

  Henwell asks Number Eight, “How much would we spend here for food and drink?”

  “Just eating and drinking? At most ten gold.”

  Henwell presses on, “And what’s the monthly income of a typical family nearby?”

  “Five thousand coins, about five taels of silver—less than half a gold piece.”

  Henwell chuckles, “Haha... truly a high-end pce! We’ve just spent what two families earn in a year, all in one night.”

  One dancer giggles, “Sir, you speak so! That sum is probably made back by you in a single day, right?”

  Henwell smiles and holds up his hand, counting, “One, two, three...”

  Curious, one dancer asks, “Sir, what are you counting?”

  When he reaches ten, he says, “Done! I’ve earned ten gold already!”

  The women pause, then pyfully punch his shoulder, pouting, “You just like teasing us!”

  Henwell ughs heartily, “Haha... winning a beauty’s smile is worth a thousand gold! I’ve hit the jackpot!”