Chapton

On the Aifala Continent, nights were quiet and dangerous—at least for the vast majority of humans living there.

Other than a few large cities with sufficient military preparedness and solid defenses, "noise" and "prosperity" were rarely associated with human settlements after nightfall.

After all, no one could guarantee that those hungry nocturnal Monsters wandering the wilderness would not be drawn to the lights in your home.

Of course, River Valley Town—especially the street where the Adventurers Association stood—presented an entirely different scene.

"Wow... Hahaha!"

"Another drink! Another drink!"

"Where's my rat meat platter? Why hasn't it come yet?!"

The warm, bright lights seemed to grow hazy amid the rich fragrance of alcohol and food hanging in the air.

Crystal-clear liquor splashed and swayed from cups, orange-red flames curled upward from the fireplace, and the green young waiter, drenched in sweat, darted between the drinkers...

At night, the White Tit Tavern was practically another world.

Bang!

A wooden chair toppled over as a bearded Barbarian, bare from the waist up and displaying a body full of lean, powerful muscles, leaped onto a table.

Ignoring the food stains on his leather boots, he clutched a wooden cup and, amid the cheers of those around him, awkwardly swayed his scar-covered body as he performed his tribe's traditional dance.

Beside him, a Bard who was equally high-spirited leaned back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, strumming the lyre in his hands with carefree flair to accompany him.

At the neighboring table, a Dwarf with reddish-brown braided whiskers gritted his teeth. His iron-solid arms bulged with blood as he arm-wrestled the burly human sitting opposite him.

The spectators behind them occasionally burst into noisy cheers, making both men at the table flush red, terrified of losing face before these drinkers who loved nothing more than watching the excitement.

Behind the bar in the tavern hall,

Chapton polished the wineglass in his hands with complete focus.

His fingertips pressed the soft cloth against the bottom of the glass and moved upward along its body, following its curve as he carefully scraped away stains and fingerprints from its surface. Then he reached inside, using the strength of his wrist to rotate it and clean every corner within.

He did not so much as raise his head at the clamor beyond the bar. Meticulous and earnest, he treated the glass as though he were caressing a lover's hand.

Only when the Barbarian's leather boots stomped heavily on the tabletop with his dance steps, or when the Dwarf who had won the contest of strength excitedly slapped his fan-sized palm onto the table,

did his two drooping mustaches twitch ever so slightly.

The scene before him had unfolded almost every night since the White Tit Tavern had been established.

As the tavern's owner, Chapton knew that perfectly well. He had long since grown used to it.

Running a tavern was not easy, but neither was it all that complicated.

First, you needed to investigate the local competition in advance, as well as the identities and spending power of your main customers, then pick out a good plot of land.

On that point, Chapton believed he had done rather well.

The White Tit Tavern's prime location right beside the Adventurers Association, coupled with its full range of food and drink—from expensive options that "showed status" to cheap ones that "offered value for money"—

allowed both Professionals whose single piece of equipment was worth a year of his income and low-level adventurers who survived by hunting Goblins to spend a relatively pleasant evening at the tavern.

Second, you had to stay on good terms with everyone connected to the tavern.

From the town's law enforcers and high-ranking adventurers down to the cleaners responsible for collecting garbage.

Gold Coins paved the way everywhere.

Otherwise, who knew whether one day a poisonous Monster's corpse might suddenly appear in your kitchen, or some drunken, troublemaking adventurer might tear your tavern apart?

Lastly, and most importantly, this was what Chapton most wanted young people hoping to enter the trade to understand—

do not spoil the mood when adventurers had just gone through an entire day of dangerous, exhausting work and desperately needed alcohol and company to vent their energy.

Otherwise... the bills from years of losses, along with the enormous expenses for Healing Potions, would tell you why.

Of course, when faced with certain adventurers whose overly high spirits escalated into uncontrollable extremes, the three-figure "management fee" he paid every year was not for nothing.

Someone would naturally come and handle it for him.

Gently placing the freshly polished glass back into the wooden cabinet,

and ignoring the increasingly boisterous noise in the hall,

Chapton took out a brand-new rag and wiped down the bartop as he mused,

"Edwina of the Green Grass Crucible seems to have released a new potion recently. I can send over two bottles of Lava's Sigh another day."

"Mr. Frank's son has his birthday next month. I heard he has already hired a Professional for special training. A finely crafted One-handed Sword should make a good birthday gift."

Creak—

The sluggish groan of wooden door hinges rubbing together came with an icy wind seeping through the gap.

It pulled Chapton from his thoughts and back to reality.

He looked up instinctively.

A tall, black-haired youth entered his sight.

His neat, short tousled hair was slightly disheveled by the evening breeze outside. His lips were thin and sharply defined, while his narrow black eyes, though not at all cramped-looking, resembled the deep night beyond the wooden door.

At a single glance, his features gave off a sharp, frigid impression.

He seemed to have just returned from an adventure. Cracks were clearly visible on his Leather Armor, and there were even scattered bloodstains on the clothes around his arms.

A long and a short weapon were strapped to his back. Beneath the sheath of the longer one, a steel-gray blade could vaguely be seen, while the shorter was tightly wrapped in bandages, concealing its exact appearance.

A Dual Swordsman?

Chapton thought to himself.

It was somewhat strange.

Whether judging by the time or the youth's attire, he clearly looked as though he had only just finished a mission.

Yet the youth lacked the exhaustion and hardship Chapton associated with adventurers after long journeys and countless battles.

On the contrary,

he was full of energy and in excellent condition.

It was as though he had already rested in town for many days.

Did he rest during the day and travel through the night?

That can't be right. Thin Mist Forest is so dangerous. How could anyone dare travel at night?

After giving it some thought and finding that he simply could not make sense of it,

Chapton stopped dwelling on it.

After years of running a tavern, he had seen every sort of oddball.

And the stories circulating among drinkers had told him countless times that, when dealing with people in the adventuring trade—

do not pry.

Still, just because he understood that did not mean everyone else did.

The black-haired youth had clearly attracted the attention of some people.

He had only just entered the tavern and reached the bar

when a wine-reeking figure, holding a cup and swaying unsteadily, staggered over.

"Kid, you new here?"