Chapter 45: Chapton

The night on the continent of Efalara was, at least for the vast majority of humans living upon it, both tranquil and perilous. Except for a few large cities with sufficient military preparedness and sturdy defenses, the words “bustling” and “prosperous” were rarely associated with human settlements under the cover of darkness. After all, no one could guarantee that the hungry, prowling nocturnal monsters wandering the wilderness would not be drawn to the light emanating from your home.

Of course, for River Valley Town—especially the street where the Adventurers’ Guild was located—the scene was quite different.

“Wow… hahaha!”

“One more drink! One more drink!”

“Where’s my rat meat platter? Why hasn’t it come yet?”

The warm, bright lights seemed to blur softly amid the mingling aromas of food and drink wafting through the air. The shimmering liquor splashing from the glasses, the curling orange-red flames rising from the fireplace, even the young, sweating waiter weaving through the crowd of patrons—all together painted the White Sparrow Tavern at night as an almost otherworldly place.

Thud—

A wooden chair was overturned as a bare-chested, muscular barbarian with a thick beard leapt onto the table. Ignoring the food stains on his leather boots, he grasped a wooden cup and awkwardly swayed his scarred frame, breaking into a traditional tribal dance amid the cheers of those around him.

Next to him, a similarly spirited bard leaned back, crossing his legs with flair, playing a hurdy-gurdy as accompaniment.

At a neighboring table, a dwarf with reddish-brown braided whiskers clenched his jaw, his steel-like arm swelling with exertion as he locked wrists with a burly human opposite him. Spectators behind them roared with encouragement, causing both competitors to flush with embarrassment, wary of losing face before the boisterous onlookers.

Behind the bar in the tavern’s main hall, Chapton meticulously polished a glass. His fingers pressed against a soft cloth, moving from the bottom up along the curve of the cup, carefully erasing smudges and fingerprints; then, reaching inside, he rotated the glass with his wrist to cleanse every corner within.

Amid the raucous noise beyond the bar, he kept his gaze down, focused and patient, as if caressing a lover’s hand. Only when the barbarian’s boot stomped heavily on the table or the victorious dwarf’s broad palm slammed down excitedly did his carefully groomed mustache twitch ever so slightly.

This scene unfolded almost every night since the White Sparrow Tavern was established.

As the owner, Chapton knew this well and had long grown accustomed to it.

Running a tavern was neither as simple as it sounded nor as complicated as one might think.

First, one must thoroughly research the local competition and understand the patrons’ identities and spending habits before selecting a prime location.

On this point, Chapton believed he had done well.

The White Sparrow Tavern’s excellent proximity to the Adventurers’ Guild, combined with its menu ranging from expensive status-symbol drinks to affordable, cost-effective fare, allowed both elite professionals whose gear was worth a year’s income and low-tier adventurers eking out a living hunting goblins to enjoy a relatively pleasant evening.

Second, one must maintain good relations with everyone connected to the tavern—from the town’s law enforcement and high-ranking adventurers to the sanitation workers who collected the trash.

Gold opens all doors.

Otherwise, who could say whether one day a poisonous monster’s corpse might appear in your kitchen, or a drunken adventurer might wreck your tavern in a fit of rage?

Lastly, and most importantly—the point Chapton wished every young person aspiring to this trade understood—

Never spoil the mood of adventurers who have just endured a whole day fraught with danger and exhaustion, desperately seeking alcohol and social release.

Otherwise… the annual losses in your ledger and the hefty expenses on healing potions will explain why.

Of course, for those adventurers whose excessive exuberance bordered on uncontrollable chaos, his triple-digit “management fees” each year were not paid in vain.

There was always someone to help him manage the trouble.

Gently setting the now spotless glass back into the wooden cabinet, Chapton ignored the increasing noise in the hall. He took a fresh cloth and began wiping down the bar top, musing to himself:

“Madam Edwina from the Green Crucible seems to have a new potion on the market recently. I should send her two bottles of ‘Lava’s Sigh’ sometime.”

“Mr. Fran’s son has a birthday next month. I heard he’s hired a professional trainer. A finely crafted one-handed sword should make a good gift.”

Creak—

The stiff sound of the wooden door’s hinges scraping, accompanied by a biting cold wind seeping through its gap, dragged Chapton from his thoughts.

He instinctively looked up.

In the doorway stood a tall, black-haired youth. His neatly cropped hair was slightly tousled by the evening breeze outside. His lips were thin and sharply defined, and his narrow, piercing black eyes seemed to hold the depth of the night beyond the door.

At first glance, his features exuded a sharp, cold intensity.

He appeared freshly returned from an adventure; the cracks on his leather armor were visible, and his sleeves bore faint bloodstains.

Slung across his back were two weapons—one long, its iron-gray blade partially visible beneath the scabbard, the other wrapped tightly in bandages, concealing its exact form.

“Dual swordsman?” Chapton thought silently.

Curious.

Regardless of the hour or the young man’s attire, he clearly looked like someone who had just completed a mission.

Yet the youth showed none of the exhaustion or weariness Chapton associated with adventurers after long journeys and countless battles.

On the contrary, he was spirited and vigorous—almost as if he had been resting in town for days.

“Did he rest during the day and now travel by night?”

“That can’t be right. The Mistwood Forest is too dangerous—who would dare travel at night?”

Chapton pondered but found no reasonable explanation.

He decided not to dwell on it.

Having run a tavern for many years, he had seen all sorts of oddities.

And the countless stories among the patrons had taught him one thing about adventurers—

Don’t ask too many questions.

Of course, knowing this himself did not mean everyone else did.

The black-haired youth had already drawn some attention.

Just as he stepped inside and approached the bar, a drunken figure swayed forward, clutching a cup.

“Hey kid, you new here?”