"Hurry up, dear, it's time to open! Money won't earn itself." Ben, a sturdy fifty-year-old man with streaks of gray in his dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, stood by the door. He wore a light-brown shirt with rolled-up sleeves, dark trousers, and a tavern keeper's leather apron, worn with age. His brown eyes, framed by wrinkles, showed impatience.
He waited as Maria, his forty-five-year-old wife, brought over a large straw basket filled with fruit, vegetables, and a small amount of raw meat. Maria's chestnut hair was pulled into a practical bun, with unruly strands escaping, and her lively green eyes flashed with annoyance. She wore a simple dark-purple sundress covered by a white apron bearing faint cooking stains. Comfortable, heel-less leather shoes covered her feet. Her skin was lightly tanned from working in the garden behind the tavern, and she sharply cut off her husband:
"Don't rush me! I still have rooms to clean!" Her voice was loud, but the tone held more habitual irritation than true anger.
They were in the tavern's spacious kitchen, where wooden cabinets and shelves lined the walls, crowded with dishes, spices, and kitchenware. In the corner stood a massive red-brick oven, beside it a table polished smooth by years of use. Bundles of dried herbs and braids of garlic hung from the ceiling, filling the air with spicy aromas. Morning light streamed through two small windows, illuminating the gleaming wooden floor.
Approaching her husband, Maria shot him an angry look, thrust the basket into his hands, nudged him with her elbow, and slipped out the door with a sarcastic smirk. Ben flinched from the nudge and muttered under his breath:
"Nasty woman."
Then, smiling slightly, he walked out into the corridor and headed towards the main entrance.
The tavern was a three-story building of light-gray stone adorned with intricate wood carvings. The ornate pattern ran the length of the facade, dominated in the center by an enormous bird with outstretched wings spanning at least three meters. Its feathers were carved with such precision they seemed real, and its eyes, inlaid with dark wood, seemed to watch every passerby. For the owner, it was a symbol of freedom and new beginnings.
The main hall greeted guests with high ceilings supported by massive wooden beams. Cozy alcoves lined with dark-red leather sofas hugged the walls. Twelve oak tables surrounded by carved chairs filled the space. The walls were decorated with antique tapestries depicting hunting scenes and bronze oil lamps that cast a soft glow.
Ben walked towards the entrance door made of pale ash wood, which shimmered with a pearlescent sheen even in dim light. Stained-glass windows with geometric patterns flanked it on either side.
The bar counter, crafted from dark wood with copper inlays, gleamed spotlessly. Behind it stood bottles of every shape and size, and the copper drink taps shone like new.
As sunflower oil hissed on a cast-iron skillet, Hall began descending the spiral staircase adorned with wrought-iron railings. He was a young man of about twenty-five with an athletic build. His clothes were made of durable gray spider-silk farmed cloth, and the protective plates on his arms, crafted from a lightweight titanium-aluminum alloy, shone like mirrors. His wheat-blond hair fell carelessly to one side, revealing sharp features with high cheekbones and a straight nose. His gray-blue eyes were observant, and light stubble gave him a slightly disheveled look.
"Mornin', Ben!" Hall ambled lazily towards the bar.
"Good morning. The usual?" The tavern keeper smiled, tossing chopped vegetables onto the sizzling pan.
"Oh, yeah, Ben, that'd be great." Hall slid onto a high stool, leaning on the counter. "Heard the news?" he drawled lazily.
"No, what happened?" Ben paused briefly from the meat and, turning his back, reached for a jar of coffee beans on a high shelf.
"A research team went missing during an expedition to the mountain's foothills." Hall stretched, shaking off the remnants of sleep. "Officially, there were four. You know Jack, right? Yeah, the farmer? But few would dare cross him."
"Yeah, I crossed paths with him during the Migration," Ben replied, methodically brewing coffee.
"He's dead, Ben. Vanished with the whole team." Hall sighed heavily. "They say the expedition was meant to open a path to new lands. But you can't get near the mountain – there's some eerie fog all around. Many have already died up there, and now it turns out it's not safe below either… Creepy."
"Not the best news," Ben murmured, lowering his gaze. "So many died during the Migration. We thought the worst was over, but this world… It might be even more terrible than the one we left."
He began simmering the meat, which was already nearly cooked.
A few hours after opening, patrons began trickling into the tavern. Some rented rooms, others came for quiet respite, and others to drink and discuss recent events.
Ben continued his tasks, trying not to involve himself in the conversations at the bar. He merely listened silently, filled mugs with drinks, delivered orders, and occasionally prepared light snacks. The stew he had cooked earlier was still warm, but aside from Hall, who had ordered it that morning, no one else seemed interested yet.
The hall filled with people wearing armor of every description. Hunters in worn leather jackets with numerous pockets and reinforced shoulders occupied several tables. A group of mercenaries in lightweight composite armor with a matte sheen, adorned with battle scars and guild symbols, sat in a corner. Some guests sported combined armor of reinforced fabric with metal inserts – a popular choice among scouts and caravan guards.
Particular attention was drawn to a grizzled veteran in magnificent plate armor made of titanium, seated at the bar. His perfectly fitted armor, decorated with intricate engravings and inlays of rare metals, was a status symbol – very few could afford such luxury in these times. Two guardsmen in chainmail with ceramic plates – standard city guard equipment – sat quietly beside him.
Near the fireplace, a company of trackers warmed themselves in practical armor made of reptilian scales reinforced with metal plates. Their gear, covered in wear and homemade improvements, spoke volumes of long journeys.
Every patron brought news: some boasted of artifacts looted from dungeons, others of successful deals, while others simply listened, weighing the stories. Some got into arguments about their levels, comparing achievements.
It was no secret that levels increased through killing monsters. How this mechanism worked had long been a mystery – it seemed that with each kill, a person's body subtly surpassed some threshold of capability. Scientists worldwide had developed special devices capable of reading a person's level and abilities.
Abilities came intuitively – whether controlling electricity or healing magic. But using them required "fuel" – soul energy, linked to the nature of this world. Exactly how this worked remained a secret that the best minds struggled to unravel.
A true race for power had begun in the new world. Many were willing to kill even comrades for an extra level. Governments lost control – resource shortages and widespread chaos meant that within two months of the Migration, real power began shifting to influential families. Ambitious and unscrupulous, they climbed over bodies, seizing territories and resources.
Hall, seated at the bar, was animatedly conversing with the guards. Taking a sip of wine, he asked loudly:
"Heard about the sole survivor from that expedition?"
The hall fell momentarily silent – many listened, their interest unconcealed.
"Heard he barely escaped with his life," someone shouted from the tables.
This comment sparked a wave of discussion. Some claimed the survivor had gone mad, others theorized about the expedition's true purpose. Ben, meanwhile, silently polished mugs, only occasionally glancing at the heated patrons.
The noise was cut short by the sharp shout of the guard captain, who was already quite drunk:
"Shut up if you want to know the truth!"
The hall instantly hushed.
"The survivor's name is Fiona. She's in the rehab center now," the guard began, pausing for effect. "Officially, their squad walked into an ambush. The monsters killed the healer first – meaning they aren't just beasts, they're thinking creatures. Then Jack fell. Yeah, *that* Jack, one of the pioneers. According to Fiona, he didn't last a minute against their leader. She and an archer named Heinrich tried to run, but split up in the caves. Heinrich didn't make it… Fiona barely escaped, with a severe gut wound. To survive, she had to cauterize it and trek for two days to the nearest camp."
The hall held its breath as the guard captain took a long swig of wine.
"But that's the official version. Rumors say there was a fifth member in the squad," he shrugged, "maybe Fiona was delirious from the wound."
His story was interrupted by the creak of the door. A short figure entered the hall – a teenager of about fifteen, barely reaching five-foot-three. All eyes turned to him. Some, especially those near the bar, noticed his gaze… Dead. Empty.
The boy slowly scanned the room. His torn clothes – a t-shirt and trousers from the old world – hung off him like on a hanger. In his right hand, he dragged a short sword resembling a tulwar – an 18th-century Indian blade. The edge scraped against the stone floor with a grating sound. In his left hand, he clutched a battered backpack, large enough to hold someone his size. But the smell was the most striking – a mixture of rotting flesh and unwashed body. Though in this tavern, people were accustomed to such things.
Within moments, the boy was at the counter, squeezing himself between Hall and the guards. Ignoring them, he fixed Ben with his dead eyes. Then he raised his hand and pointed a finger into his open mouth.
Ben froze. The boy's appearance – especially the way he dragged the sword, and that gaze – sent shivers down his spine. He couldn't imagine what this child had endured. The gesture demanding food snapped him back to reality.
"Can you pay?" Ben asked, though the answer seemed obvious.
In response, the boy slammed his backpack onto the counter. Trying to climb onto the high stool, he kept a tight grip on the sword. Finally seated, he untied the backpack and pulled out a cloth sack that reeked of corpses. Ignoring the disapproving looks around him, he shoved the sack towards Ben.
Ben already suspected the contents, but the sack's weight was alarming. Holding his breath, he untied it and froze. Inside lay ears – dozens, if not hundreds, of different shapes and sizes.
"How many…?" Ben's voice trembled.
The boy slowly raised three fingers.
A tomb-like silence fell over the hall. Three hundred ears. Three hundred monsters killed.