Chapter 45 Chapton

Night on the Aifala Continent was quiet.

And dangerous.

At least, that was true for most humans who lived there.

Outside of a handful of large cities with strong defenses and enough armed force to keep monsters away, words like “bustling” and “lively” rarely belonged anywhere near a human settlement after dark.

No one could guarantee that a lamp burning too brightly would not attract some starving nocturnal monster wandering through the wilderness.

For most people, night was a time to shut the doors, lower the lights, and stay inside.

Rivervale Town was different.

Or rather…

One particular street in Rivervale Town was different.

The street where the Adventurers’ Association stood.

“Whoa… Hahaha!”

“Another drink! Another drink!”

“Where’s my rat-meat platter? What’s taking so long?!”

Warm lamplight filled the tavern.

Wine splashed from raised wooden mugs.

The smell of roast meat and alcohol hung thick in the air, almost blurring the light itself.

Orange flames twisted in the fireplace.

A young server, sweat pouring down his forehead, hurried between crowded tables with both arms full.

At night, the White Chickadee Tavern might as well have been another world.

Thud!

A wooden chair toppled over.

A shirtless barbarian with a thick beard and a body packed with hard muscle suddenly jumped onto a table.

The crowd roared.

Ignoring the scraps of food stuck to his boots, the barbarian raised his wooden mug and began swaying his scar-covered body through some traditional tribal dance.

His movements were enthusiastic.

Graceful?

Not so much.

No one cared.

A bard nearby was already leaning back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, playing a hurdy-gurdy to accompany him.

The bard looked far more elegant than the dancer.

At the next table, a dwarf with a reddish-brown braided beard had locked hands with a muscular human.

Arm wrestling.

The dwarf’s teeth were clenched.

His thick forearm bulged like a steel cable.

Across from him, the human’s face had already turned red.

Spectators crowded behind both men, shouting advice that neither contestant had asked for and cheering louder every time one side’s arm moved even slightly.

Neither man wanted to lose in front of an audience this eager to mock him.

Behind the bar, Chapton polished a cup.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He pressed a soft cloth against the bottom, ran it upward along the curve, and wiped away every stain and fingerprint.

Then he pushed the cloth into the cup and rotated his wrist, cleaning the inside just as meticulously.

The chaos in the tavern might as well have been happening somewhere else.

Chapton did not look up.

He handled the cup with the concentration of a man caressing a lover’s hand.

Only when the barbarian’s boots slammed particularly hard against the tabletop…

Or when the dwarf won the arm-wrestling match and smashed a massive palm down in celebration…

Did Chapton’s neatly trimmed mustache twitch.

Barely.

This happened almost every night.

It had happened ever since the White Chickadee Tavern first opened.

As the owner, Chapton knew the pattern well.

He was used to it.

Running a tavern was not easy.

But it was not especially complicated either.

First, you studied the market.

How were the other taverns doing?

Who were your customers?

How much money could they spend?

Then you chose the right location.

On that front, Chapton believed he had done extremely well.

The White Chickadee Tavern stood right beside the Adventurers’ Association.

Perfect.

And the menu covered nearly every level of spending.

Expensive wine and food for people who wanted to “display status.”

Cheap meals and drinks for people who cared more about “value for money.”

A class holder wearing equipment worth more than Chapton earned in an entire year could sit down and enjoy himself.

So could a low-level adventurer who lived from one goblin hunt to the next.

Everyone had a place here.

Second…

You maintained relationships.

Good ones.

With everyone who mattered to the tavern.

Town law officers.

High-level adventurers.

Suppliers.

Even the cleaners who collected rubbish.

Gold opened doors.

That was not philosophy.

It was business.

Otherwise, one day you might walk into your kitchen and discover the corpse of a poisonous monster dumped beside the stove.

Or some drunk adventurer might decide the tavern walls looked better after being demolished.

Neither was good for business.

Finally, there was the most important lesson.

The one Chapton wished every ambitious young person dreaming of opening a tavern would learn before losing all their money.

Never ruin the mood when adventurers had just returned from a long, dangerous day and desperately needed alcohol, noise, and company to burn off their remaining energy.

Do that, and eventually the losses in your account book…

Plus the money spent on healing potions…

Would explain the mistake much more clearly than Chapton ever could.

Of course, there were limits.

Sometimes an adventurer became a little too excited.

Sometimes “lively” turned into “someone is about to break a table over another person’s head.”

That was what Chapton’s annual management fee of more than a hundred gold was for.

He did not pay that money for decoration.

Someone would come deal with the problem.

Chapton placed the freshly polished cup back into the wooden cabinet.

The noise in the hall had somehow become even louder.

He ignored it.

Then he picked up a fresh cloth and began wiping down the bar.

His mind wandered to other matters.

[Lady Edwina from the Verdant Crucible seems to have launched a new potion recently.]

[I should send her two bottles of Lava’s Sigh when I get the chance.]

Then another thought.

[Sir Fran’s son’s birthday is next month.]

[I heard he hired a class holder to train the boy.]

[A finely crafted one-handed sword should make a decent gift.]

Creak…

The tavern door opened.

Cold night air slipped through the gap.

Chapton looked up.

A young man stood in the doorway.

Tall.

Lean.

Black-haired.

The night wind had slightly tousled his short, neat hair.

His lips were thin and sharply defined.

His eyes were long and narrow, yet not small.

Dark enough to resemble the night sky behind him.

At first glance, the young man’s features carried a sharp, cold edge.

He had clearly just returned from an adventure.

Cracks ran across his leather armor.

Small bloodstains marked the fabric around his arms.

Two weapons were strapped across his back.

One long.

One short.

Part of the longer weapon’s iron-gray blade was visible beneath its sheath.

The shorter weapon had been tightly wrapped in bandages, hiding its appearance completely.

Chapton’s eyes paused on them.

[A dual swordsman?]

Maybe.

Something about the young man felt strange, though.

The time of night.

The damaged armor.

The blood.

Everything about his appearance said he had only just returned from a mission.

Yet he did not look tired.

That was the odd part.

Chapton had seen countless adventurers return from the wilderness.

Days of travel.

Fighting.

Poor sleep.

Constant tension.

It left marks on people.

Exhaustion in the eyes.

Slower movements.

A certain heaviness.

This young man had none of that.

If anything, he looked completely refreshed.

Full of energy.

As though he had already spent several days resting safely in town.

[Did he stop somewhere during the day and travel through the night?]

Chapton immediately rejected the idea.

[Impossible.]

[The Misty Forest is dangerous enough during the day.]

[Who would deliberately travel through it at night?]

He thought about it for another moment.

No answer came.

So Chapton stopped thinking about it.

Years of running a tavern had taught him many things.

One of them was that adventurers came in every possible variety of strange.

Another was even more important.

Do not ask unnecessary questions.

The stories traded among his customers had reinforced that lesson more times than he could count.

Unfortunately…

Just because Chapton understood it did not mean everyone else did.

The black-haired young man had barely walked into the tavern and reached the bar when a drunken figure noticed him.

The man staggered over.

A wooden mug swayed dangerously in one hand.

He leaned toward the newcomer with a grin.

“Kid, new here?”