The Inn (Part 1)

Since the inn was doing brisk business, all ten tables were full. Besides the owner and his wife, a young man was helping out as well.

Even after becoming a druid, Romon continued to lend a hand. Carrying a tray loaded with eight full cups, after several years of practice, he could weave swiftly through the crowd without dropping or spilling anything.

After delivering the drinks one by one, he could take a brief rest. Some people had not found seats, but they did not mind; they held their cups, drinking and chatting.

"Tomorrow is the Harvest Festival. I heard a new troupe has arrived. Supposedly, there's a magician in it, along with some pretty actresses," someone said.

"A magician?"

"Of course. Did you think some distinguished mage had come to perform? Our lord baron would probably have to sell his ancestral armor before he could afford one."

"Ah-ha, don't mock little Kaide. He's only remembering his childhood dream of becoming a great mage!"

The entire inn burst into laughter. Clearly, everyone knew this joke well.

Romon secretly smiled at the young man whose face had turned alternately green and red, but he did not dare laugh aloud. After all, the other boy was considered his friend.

This joke had been told for years and was nothing new. Everyone quickly shifted their attention. "Still, although our Romon can't become a great mage, with Miss Eileen's help, he may very well become a druid."

With the conversation suddenly turning to him, Romon grew a little bashful and hurriedly said, "No, no. Although Miss Eileen has taught me, I still haven't managed to learn it!"

This immediately made everyone burst out laughing.

A moment later, the topic shifted to the newly arrived troupe. "I heard there are eight young girls in it. I wonder what their prices are like?"

"None of us could afford them anyway. One night might cost you two months of hard work. Look, those fellows are the ones who go looking for girls. I heard a mercenary company passed through town last time, and a few of the female mercenaries were quite something."

Following their gazes, Romon looked over at that table. It was covered with food and drink, with entire jugs of wine brought out. They seemed to be in equally good spirits. He recognized one of them—Bode, a merchant who regularly came to town.

"Bode, you made another fortune this time, didn't you? Any plans to settle in town? It'd make things more convenient when I buy goods," Motte asked after finishing his work.

"Heh heh, of course I'd like to. But the lord's price for a Free Citizen certificate and twenty mu of land is very high. Besides, I want to get a boat. That would make travel much easier," Bode said, shaking his head. Yet judging by his expression, he was not terribly troubled by it.

"Bode, I don't understand. Why do you want to live here? Isn't the city better?" someone else asked curiously.

"You don't understand. Of course the city has its advantages, but the taxes are terribly heavy, and all the major guilds demand money. Small merchants like us..." Bode stopped there and said no more. Clearly, he had his own unavoidable difficulties.

Busy at the counter was Mrs. Motte. She was only around thirty, dressed in a coarse linen skirt and a once-white apron that had turned gray. A few wrinkles already marked her face, showing how hard she worked. She was constantly calculating the day's earnings when she spotted Romon and said, "Romon, you're helping again."

"It's nothing. I'm staying in your room for free, so consider it payment," Romon said.

"Mm, well said. Romon, please go down to the cellar and bring up another barrel of wine," Motte called out. "And grab yourself a pancake while you're at it!"

Romon answered, took a pancake, and examined it. It was golden brown, piled with a layer of fresh seafood—fish, shrimp, mussels, and clams cooked in a riot of colors. A purplish-red sauce had been poured over the seafood, with several green leaves laid over the top.

It was delicate and tender, with an exquisite taste, exceptionally fresh and delicious. This was Mrs. Motte's specialty, praised by every passing customer, and Romon could only eat it during festivals.

After finishing the pancake, Romon went through to the back, descended the stairs, and pushed open the wooden door.

The cellar was always dark and damp. He could not possibly use expensive candles, so he moved the wine barrels around in the pitch-black basement.

This was a scene he knew all too well. Romon felt dazed and sat down heavily on a wooden barrel. Looking around, he only came back to himself after a moment. "Tomorrow, I'm going to the Earth Goddess's Temple to be certified as a druid."

He carried the barrel upstairs.

"Ah, Romon, you're here." Mrs. Motte lifted her head from behind the counter. "Quick, take the trays!"

"Yes, Mrs. Motte!" Romon said. He skillfully took the tray and began pouring wine, serving dishes, and even helping in the kitchen. These were all tasks he knew well.

By then, the local idlers had all left, except for the drunkard Ford.

The only ones remaining were the mercenary party staying at the inn. There were seven of them in total. They all knew Romon well and thought rather favorably of him. As soon as they saw him come downstairs, several smiled at him, and he returned each smile with a nod.

"Mr. Haiwavi, your beer." Romon brought it over—seven cups in all.

The beer carried a faint aroma of wheat and hops, along with a trace of coolness from being chilled in well water. Naturally brewed and very fresh, it had a fine taste, leaving a light sweetness of malt in the mouth afterward.

This mercenary party was very small, with only seven members and no women among them. They often worked nearby, so Romon knew them. Their captain was Haiwavi.

Haiwavi smiled, took the beer, and gave Romon a copper coin as a tip. Then he slowly drank, occasionally chatting about stories from their adventures.

After finishing his work, Romon stood to one side, listening to their casual conversation while taking a rest.

"Captain, you're already a Fourth-Level Warrior. If you break through and gain Battle Aura, our mercenary party will have a future," Bobo said with emotion. "You'll qualify to become a knight."

"How could it be that easy? Reaching Fifth Level and gaining Battle Aura is only one requirement for becoming a knight. Knights possess feudal benefices—how many noble lords or kings would be willing to grant one so easily? It would only improve our rating at the Mercenary Guild, or perhaps qualify us for a deputy squad leader's post in some town. Rather than placing your hopes on me, you should work harder yourselves. If you rise another level, the jobs we can take will become easier instead," Haiwavi said. He was still in a good mood, though.

"Haha, next year I'll see whether I can reach Third Level," Bobo said awkwardly.

Romon listened silently. The things these mercenaries said unintentionally could, when considered from another angle, reveal much information about this world and this kingdom.

In his original world, human combat strength was basically on the same level, so there was no need to divide it into ranks. Yet wealth and status had been divided into many levels: the nine ranks and eighteen grades, the Song dynasty's forty-two grades of honorary officials, the thirteen ranks of nobility, as well as classifications such as having enough to eat and wear, modest prosperity, and the petty bourgeoisie.

Even language had been divided into several levels. Exams such as Modern English Level Eight were clearly identical in nature to this world's ranking examinations for warriors and mages.

In this world, individuals differed greatly in combat power. Naturally, just as with official positions, they were divided into ranks. This was an objective necessity for administration.

From what they said, Fifth Level was the dividing line for warriors. Below Fifth Level, they merely developed their bodies' potential. Soldiers in Romon's original world could reach that standard as well. But starting from Fifth Level, warriors gained strength beyond the limits of ordinary people. This strength was called Battle Aura.

In this world, credentials and reputation were the two major standards by which people were judged. Reputation had to be accumulated slowly, while credentials were rank. Though not necessarily completely accurate, they were the fairest possible measure of a person's ability.

Testing one's rank was not the Mercenary Guild's exclusive right. Warriors went to the God of War's Temple to be tested. Under divine supervision, there was little room for fraud, so nearly every country on the continent recognized the value of such credentials.

Just like modern diplomas, the higher one's credentials, the easier the work offered by great nobles and wealthy merchants tended to be, and the higher the wages. The hardest lot were low-level mercenary parties, who did the most dangerous work for the least reward.

After the mercenaries finished drinking and talking, they went upstairs to rest. They had to rest well before taking on dangerous and exhausting tasks.

Romon looked around the inn and found that there was nothing left to do.

Mrs. Motte said, "All right, Romon, go get some rest."

Romon nodded in agreement, then quickly slipped back to his own lodging.

It was a tiny storeroom with very poor lighting. The floor was covered in a thick layer of straw, and on top lay a wolf pelt that served as his blanket.

In truth, this treatment was not bad. Ordinary apprentices and hired hands only had straw. The wolf pelt had been given to him by the kind Mrs. Motte.

There was a wooden box in the room. When he opened it, copper coins lay inside.

The copper coins were bluish green. They felt very light in his hand, and although he had no scale, he could tell they weighed roughly five grams each.

Letters were engraved on them. While working, Romon had secretly learned several characters from Mr. Motte, and with Eileen's kind instruction, he could basically read and write.

The words on them read: "Glory of the Aisk Kingdom."

Around them was a strange flower-shaped decoration.

After counting them, he had exactly ninety-two copper coins. He still needed eight more to make one silver coin. This was all the wealth Romon possessed.