Chapter Fifty: Soaring Through the Night Sky Like a Dragon (Part One)

Lifting the canvas door and stepping into the tent, the elven scout said, “Ayven, I escorted them to the forest’s edge. They’ve already left.” He lingered, not moving away.

Ayven, seated at the table writing a letter, noticed his subordinate had not finished speaking and showed no sign of departing. He looked up at him. “Is something the matter? Your face is full of questions.”

The scout placed his hand over his chest and bowed. “Yes, Ayven. I’m curious why you’re so accommodating with them. Even if they are friends of Floating Harbor Forest and fine bards, but…”

Ayven smiled and waved for him to stop, handing him the letter. “Read this first. It’s nothing confidential, just a greeting between friends.”

The elven scout took the letter in both hands and opened it, skimming past the flowery embellishments until he reached the part Ayven intended for him to see.

Ayven continued, “Anyone introduced in a joint letter from Eophis and Torluveil must be extraordinary… You’ve heard it yourself, ‘With You’ is truly a beautiful song.”

As he spoke, Ayven closed his eyes and spread his arms wide. “I can almost still hear its lingering melody—so lovely. It’s a pity it wasn’t composed by elves.”

Folding the letter, the scout placed it back on the table.

“Still, I find unrequited help a bit abrupt. It might provoke suspicion, which isn’t good for long-term relations. Perhaps we could request some alchemical goods—”

Ayven touched his nose and interrupted in a low voice, “Suspicion is unavoidable. We don’t have time for slow cultivation, so it’s better to let him owe us a favor. It could prove useful at a moment’s notice.

After all, helping in the forest is effortless for us. If we gain nothing, we can treat it as an early investment. Once he becomes a Witch Hunter, and humans shun him as they do all non-humans, he’ll be more inclined to be our friend.

…In fact, I have some ideas already… But first, let’s see if he can handle the Giant Thorn Demon Tree…”

…The conversation went on for some time. The elven scout bowed and then withdrew from the tent.

……

Pushing open the door of the Shaggy Bear Inn, the night within was a world apart from the day. Where daylight brought cleanliness and order, darkness transformed the place into a den of vice.

The smell upon entering was kin to that of a countryside tavern—a jumble of smoke, alcohol, meat, sweat, and cheap perfume. Thankfully, the absence of vomit and urine made it somewhat bearable, though still foul.

Victor and Angoulain were not overly fastidious. Ignoring the odors, they stepped inside. Their leather armor, long swords, and cloaks made them blend in perfectly among the drunks, mercenaries, thugs, and serving girls; the company slipped in like a drop of water, unnoticed by the crowd.

The inn at night offered more amusements. Several medieval barmaids, ready to switch roles at a moment’s notice, darted between tables—bare-knuckle boxing, arm wrestling, dice gambling, and even selling dubious herbs—ah, there was Jessolo again.

Stepping with measured confidence, Victor approached the bar and met the gaze of the innkeeper, Griffelin. “A hot milk, please. And a malt beer for my companion.”

Griffelin studied Victor’s face thoughtfully, then began preparing the drinks.

When the two drinks were set on the table with a smack, Victor pushed the beer to Angoulain, raised his milk, and took a hefty draught. He looked at Griffelin. “Innkeeper, I’d like to meet Mr. Lansmith. I have something to say to him, and I believe he’ll find it interesting.”

Griffelin folded his arms, his stocky body leaning back against the liquor cabinet, and offered Victor a wry smile. “Young man, did you know I’m a veteran of the Battle of Brennar?

After the war, I opened this inn. Here I sell food, drink, and a space for merriment. I’d rather not dabble in brokering affairs.”

“Rather not” was not a refusal.

Victor pressed on. “Help me out, please! Innkeeper, you should know that your casual gesture nearly got me and my companion killed by seven Rams Gang thugs today.”

Griffelin chewed his boxer’s jaw at this.

“I want to meet Mr. Lansmith and find out why such a thing happened.

Since you could point me out, you must remember I’m a newcomer—a mercenary who doesn’t want trouble.” Victor’s voice remained calm and steady.

Frowning in thought, Griffelin poured another round of beer and milk, setting them on the table. “Tonight, the drinks are on the house. I regret your misfortune, but if you want me to broker the meeting, you’ll have to follow the rules here.”

His polished, bald head gleamed as he pointed to a corner of the inn. “The bare-knuckle boxing ring… See it? Win against three opponents, and I’ll introduce you.”

Victor glanced at the recent victor, who was raising his arms in triumph, muscles bulging, then turned back to Griffelin. “Tsk tsk, that brute’s muscles are practically bursting out. Are you trying to send me to my death?”

The innkeeper scoffed, rubbing his beardless chin with a fat hand. “No problem—the seven men wanted you dead today, and yet here you sit, while they’re nowhere to be found…”

Victor finished his gifted milk in one gulp. “You’ll keep your word, veteran of Brennar?”

“Of course. That’s my promise.”

……

On the bare-knuckle ring, the host danced about excitedly, raising his voice to draw the crowd’s attention.

“Gentlemen, ladies, come and see—another challenger steps up! Looks like tonight’s ‘Iron Fist Tournament’ isn’t stopping yet!

In the Shaggy Bear Inn, where the strong gather, let me once again introduce our champion: ‘The Ultimate Killer King!’”

The host gestured to the south, where a man in shorts stood, his muscular form on full display.

“He’s knocked out countless newcomers on this ring, sending them foaming and spitting blood.

Look at this perfect six-foot physique! Those bulging muscles—his chest could crush a fly between its pectorals!

Now, look at his opponent—oh, pity the challenger, such a tiny wretch.

He stands five feet seven inches, as delicate as a chick. I dare say, his little *chick is as small as his stature…”

“Wow! Captain, are you sure you want to do this?” At close range, Angoulain was stunned by the champion’s tangled muscles.

If they were to duel with swords, that’d be another matter, but in a fistfight, physique nearly decides all. Heavyweights rarely lose to lightweights.

“Shut up. Have more faith in your captain—he always has a plan, remember that.” Victor snapped at Angoulain, not letting her dampen the morale.

As the host continued to heat up the crowd, Victor stepped forward, drew near the Ultimate Killer King, and whispered, “Hey, brother, can we make a deal? See that blonde lady behind me? I’m only here to box tonight to impress her. If you’re willing to lose, I’ll pay you two hundred and fifty Oren in private.”

The champion looked down at Victor with disdain, then gathered phlegm and spat—a thick glob narrowly missing Victor’s face.

“You’re dead, kid!” He drew his thumb across his throat.

Rejected and insulted, Victor retreated to his corner, his face dark. He grabbed a nearby bookie and asked, “What are my odds right now?”