Three o'clock in the afternoon was the quietest hour at the Red Crow Tavern. The vast main hall held only three people. Old Mike, the red-nosed bard, had knocked back too much ale at noon and was sound asleep face-down on a table. Playing cards by the fireplace to while away the time were Old Hop, whose family ran a shoe shop, and Old Tom, the retired postal officer. Both men were now staring wide-eyed at Lorist as he made his way into the tavern.
Nodding to Old Hop and Old Tom, Lorist unloaded all his burdens and dumped them on the floor in front of the long tavern counter — bags, satchels, cases, and beast-hide scrolls of every size piled into a small mountain. He pulled the bearskin cap off his head and tossed it onto a nearby table, then shrugged out of his black leather overcoat and drew the two mismatched swords from his waist, setting them on the counter. He let out a long breath, slapped the counter, and called out, "Old Gally! Old Gally! Where is everyone? Where'd you run off to? The beer barrels have been carried away!"
"Good heavens, it's Little Locke..." That was Old Tom, who had finally recognized Norton Lorist now that he'd taken off his leather overcoat.
Old Hop sprang to his feet impatiently. "Hey, Little Locke! What took you so long this time? It's been over half a year — we were all worried something had happened to you. Did you manage to get hold of the star-patterned deer hides I asked for?"
Lorist pointed to the beast-hide rolls on the ground. "Three of them, all bundled up inside. See for yourself."
A tall, lean old man with a limp appeared through the small door behind the counter. Seeing Lorist standing there, a fleeting smile crossed his dour face. "You're back?"
This old man was the owner of the Red Crow Tavern — Bronan Garrilando, whom Lorist called "Old Gally." Forget about his limp making it hard to get around — who would have guessed that this taciturn, expressionless old man who spent his days behind the tavern counter was a Gold 1-Star Swordsman? Even the regulars who frequented the tavern took him for nothing more than an ordinary tavern keeper.
"Ah, Old Gally! First things first — pour me a mug of black plum ale to wet my throat, and wake up Fatty Mai in the kitchen to whip me up a proper feast. It's been over half a year of eating outdoors and sleeping under the open sky. I've been dying for your food." Lorist made no bones about it.
"Got it." Garrilando scooped out a large mug of ale and set it in front of Lorist. "Drink up while I go wake Maidov."
"Oh, right — Old Gally, do me a favor later and check through everything. I brought back what everyone ordered this time. Make sure it matches what's on the registry." Lorist sipped his ale while watching Old Hop rummage through the beast-hide rolls.
Garrilando grunted and vanished through the small door.
"Haaah—" A sleepy, yawning woman appeared in the doorway. "Who is it? Don't people know everyone's supposed to be napping this time of day? Coming to eat now — isn't that a bit late? Honestly, what's wrong with you people?"
Her ample bosom strained against the tightly fitted waitress uniform. This was Louisa, the head waitress of the Red Crow Tavern.
"Uh—" Lorist choked on a mouthful of ale, his face flushing red. Anyone would feel a little guilty running into the first woman they had ever slept with. Lorist, in particular, was more than a little intimidated by Louisa. After all, on his twentieth birthday, he had gotten drunk at the Red Crow Tavern and Louisa had taken his virginity, calling it a coming-of-age gift. Several years had passed since then, and the sight of her still made his blood run cold.
"Oh my! Our little Locke is back! It's been half a year — big sis missed you to death! Come here, give me a hug!" Louisa's eyes lit up the moment she saw Lorist. Her drowsiness vanished in an instant, and she threw open her arms and rushed toward him.
Across the counter, Lorist and Louisa exchanged an awkward, halfhearted embrace, and Louisa planted two firm kisses on his cheeks.
"You just got back? Poor little Locke — just half a year and you've gotten thinner and darker. We're always talking about you back here, worrying that something might have happened. No word for so long — we were really afraid the worst had happened..." Louisa launched into her usual tirade.
"Well, I'm back, aren't I? This time I went to the Ruins Archipelago. There's no way to send messages across the ocean, and besides, everyone knows the supply ships only make the trip once every six months. What was there to worry about? Couldn't you at least have a little faith in my abilities?"
"Faith in what? Your Iron 3-Star strength? Plenty of Silver-rank Swordsmen have died in the Ruins Archipelago — I've heard more than enough of those stories in this tavern." Louisa showed Lorist absolutely no mercy.
"Uh... but with my Iron 3-Star strength, I've never lost to a Silver-rank Swordsman..." Lorist rubbed his nose, a little embarrassed.
"That was just academy sparring, not life-or-death battles against magical beasts! They were going easy on you. I really can't figure out what those old professors at your academy see in you — picking you to be their bodyguard on expeditions. There were plenty of Silver-rank Swordsmen they could have chosen instead." Louisa considered having Little Locke, who only had Iron-rank strength, do the work meant for Silver-rank Swordsmen to be nothing short of a grievous sin — an affront to the natural order itself.
He had been assigned to join the expedition to the Ruins Archipelago as a life-support assistant.
Without at least Silver-rank strength, venturing to the Ruins Archipelago was a death sentence — a fact known to every adventurer on the continent of Galentea. The scholars and researchers under protection were, of course, the exception. Though Lorist had gone in the capacity of a life-support assistant caring for several academy professors, the truth was he had shouldered no less of a burden than any Silver-rank Swordsman. Every danger that should be faced and every danger that shouldn't — he had weathered them all. He had even faced ordeals that exceeded the limits of Silver-rank strength on several occasions.
The round trip took nearly two months, and he had spent four months on the Ruins Archipelago itself — the gains had been immense. Lorist could feel it himself. His life-or-death battles with those magical beasts, the ordeals that had nearly claimed his life on several occasions, had truly caused his strength to surge. His swordplay had grown sharper, his movements more agile, and even his mental instincts more keen. However, his original hope of breaking through the Iron tier of
He regretted it deeply. How had he been so foolish as to attempt running his Combat Force using the qigong circulation method from his previous life? One operated through meridians, the other through the bloodstream — one was internal, the other external. They were completely unrelated, and it had taken a truly addled mind to try such a thing. The result? The high-tier Inferno Combat Force that was his family's inheritance had been botched entirely. For over three years, he had been stuck at the Iron tier, unable to advance to Silver. He had gone from being the envy of the academy — a sword prodigy — to becoming a laughingstock.
"Hey, little brother Locke, you're finally back! It's so good to see you..." The large man who interrupted Lorist's self-pity was Maidov, the head chef of the Red Crow Tavern. At that moment, he was tying a mottled blue linen apron around himself while struggling to squeeze his massive belly through the small door behind the counter.
"Hey, Maidov. Good to see you too." Lorist raised his ale cup. "Anything to eat? I'm starving — haven't had breakfast or lunch, just gnawed on a rye stick on the ship..."
"Goodness, little Locke, why didn't you say so earlier? Don't just drink — you'll ruin your stomach on an empty one. Maidov, think of something you can serve right away!" Louisa said.
"Let's see, there's roast goose in the smoke oven, though it hasn't been seasoned yet. There's potato stew with ribs in the big pot, but it's gone cold and needs reheating — those will all have to wait. Oh, the lamb meatballs steaming over the low fire can come out right away, they're still hot. Louisa, go to my room — there's a birch box next to the bed with two cream-white loaves of bread in it. Bring those to Locke first. I was saving them for an afternoon snack." Maidov was somewhat reluctant to part with those two cream-white loaves.
Louisa bustled off in a flash.
"Mm, then bring a roast goose, a pot of the potato rib stew, fry me a herring, a plate of green pea blood sausage, steam a dish of egg and small shrimp, stir-fry some mushrooms with green cabbage, and that'll do — just throw in a bottle of fruit wine," Lorist continued ordering.
"That much? Can you even eat all that?" Maidov eyed Lorist skeptically.
"I'm so hungry right now I could eat an entire cow. Hurry up and get cooking — once you're done, we'll sit down and have a drink together, brother."
No sooner had Lorist sent Maidov off than Louisa returned carrying a large plate of steaming lamb meatballs and two cream-white loaves of bread. "Eat up quick, don't ruin your stomach from hunger."
"Oh, little Locke, you're amazing! These are exactly the pelts I wanted — look at those beautiful star-like markings!" Before Lorist could even swallow the bread in his mouth, Old Hop's voice came from behind him, filled with admiration. The old man was holding three deerskins as large as tabletops, examining them by the light of the fireplace and marveling endlessly, unable to put them down.
"Oh right, I'll go home and get the money. Be right back." Old Hop finally set down the deerskins and rushed out of the tavern with an agility that belied his age.
"Huh, why's he in such a rush...?" Lorist shrugged at Louisa across the table, mumbling through a mouthful of lamb meatball.
"That Old Hop's been going on about you for the past two months here at the tavern. I thought he was just being kind, but turns out he was thinking about those pelts you promised to bring him..." Old Tom, the retired postmaster sitting nearby, raised his ale cup toward Lorist.
When Louisa brought out the green pea blood sausage for Lorist, Old Hop came rushing back in as well, drenched in sweat. He staggered up to Lorist's table, gasping for breath, and poured fifteen gold Forde from an ornate patterned leather pouch onto the table, counting them out one by one. Then, unable to contain himself, he was about to go grab those three star-patterned deerskins.
"Hold on, Old Hop — are you sure about this price?" Without anyone noticing when he'd appeared, the tavern owner Garrilando had materialized in front of Old Hop, placing his hand on the three star-patterned deerskins on the table.
"Garrilando, what's the meaning of this? Little Locke didn't object, did he?" Old Hop stared at Garrilando.
"Just because Little Locke didn't say anything doesn't mean he has no objection. The current market price is seven gold Forde plus eight large silver coins for a single star-patterned deerskin. You think you can walk off with these three excellent pelts for just fifteen gold Forde? That's outrageous."
Old Hop's face flushed red. "But I placed the order half a year ago..."
"When you placed the order with Little Locke half a year ago, you didn't settle on a price — you just said you'd pay market rate. Half a year has passed and you want to use the old market price? You've got some nerve. Star-patterned deerskins are getting rarer and rarer on the market, and prices keep climbing. These three excellent pelts — if I put them up for sale, someone might offer eight gold Forde apiece. You could make a dozen pairs of boots out of them and earn yourself dozens of gold Forde. If you won't make up the difference, this deal is off — I'll take Little Locke's pelts outside to sell, and I guarantee someone will offer a high price."
"Even on the islands, star-patterned deerskins go for five gold Forde each, and they're not even that good. Old Hop, isn't it obvious you're bullying the boy? Little Locke went all that way to bring you three excellent pelts, and you have the nerve to make him go through all that trouble for nothing?" Louisa rolled her eyes at Old Hop, her face full of contempt.
Old Hop slunk back to Lorist's table, looking disgruntled. He fished seven gold coins from his money pouch and set them on the table. "I didn't bring any large silver coins..."
A single gold Forde was worth twenty large silver coins, so Old Hop still owed four large silver coins.
Lorist waved his hand magnanimously. "Forget it."
Watching Old Hop hurry off with the pelts, Louisa was visibly displeased. "Why so generous? You let that old bastard off easy — four large silver coins could cover a dozen decent meals."
Lorist chuckled. "What's wrong? Did Old Hop offend you?"
Louisa flew into a rage. "That old scoundrel, that cheap old miser — he's in the tavern every day taking liberties with the waitresses, and he never tips. He'll nurse a five-copper mug of ale for an entire afternoon, hogging a seat and giving nothing back…"
Well, the tavern waitresses were there for the patrons to flirt with — a bit of banter, a touch here and a pat there, grabbing a bit of advantage was hardly a big deal. But customers who took liberties with the waitresses without ever leaving a tip? Those were universally despised, the least welcome sort of patrons. They deserved to walk out and get run over by a carriage.