Chapter 70: The World Seen by God (5)
Pushing open the low, creaking wooden door of The Leaky Cask, the first thing Tiamat noticed were the swaying lanterns casting their flickering glow inside. Since no sunlight reached this mountain city, windows were useless; instead, lanterns hung from the ceiling here and there, their reddish flames bathing the tavern in a dusky glow.
Then the smell hit him. Oil-soaked timber, layers of stale dust, a faint musk of sweat and something sour—it was hardly the fragrance one expected of a place that served food. Yet, in its own way, the stench was strangely captivating.
Feels just like the Middle Ages. Or… maybe this is the real thing.
Tiamat's mind wandered back to the days of Yggdrasil. Among its millions of players, plenty had enjoyed "roleplay builds"—picking a concept, building their avatars around it, and acting accordingly. Especially in a fantasy MMO like Yggdrasil, adopting a medieval adventurer's persona was practically the norm.
Many even went so far as to wear patched leather armor, battered shields, longswords, and ragged cloaks, speaking in archaic tones like "~thou" and "~forsooth." Entire communities had flourished around that shared aesthetic.
But this—this was different. The wavering lantern light, the pungent reek, the drunken laughter and curses echoing from every corner—this was real. No system could replicate the tactile "lived-in" quality he was experiencing now.
Movies set in the Middle Ages never captured this. They showed sweeping castles, grand battlefields, or glittering CGI fantasy—but never this: the reek of old beer, the guttural snores of drunks slumped on tables, the disorderly yet vibrant chaos of a dwarf tavern.
His eyes roamed the room: dwarves bellowing as they downed their drinks, others silently spooning greasy stew, and a few collapsed across the tables, red-faced and muttering in their sleep. It was lawless, crude, and decadent—but also fascinating.
"Quit gawking! Don't mind the drunks! If they notice you, they'll snatch up all the premium stout I set aside. Quick, upstairs!"
"Ah—yes."
"…Premium stout… gulp."
"You…! Ugh, never mind. Just keep quiet. That's safer."
Following their guide, they climbed toward the rooftop.
Halfway up, there was a dull thunk followed by a hollow reverberation.
"Ah."
"What—?! Are you alright?"
"Y-Yes, I'm fine."
He'd accidentally slammed his head into the low ceiling beam while climbing. He rubbed the spot reflexively, though there was no pain. Instead, his sharp eyes caught the absurd sight of the wood itself dented inwards from the impact.
He sighed inwardly. Of course—his durability carried over even here. He'd suspected it back when he breathed dragonfire, but seeing the ceiling cave under his skull was still… embarrassing.
"Hah! Don't mind it. We built these halls to suit our size, not lanky humans. Should've warned you sooner. Is your head alright? Shall I fetch a bandage?"
"No, truly, I'm fine. If anything… I should be the one apologizing."
"Eh? Apologizing for what?"
"…Nothing. Forget I said anything."
Tiamat averted his gaze. If word spread that the ceiling cracked while his skull stayed intact, he'd be branded "stone-head" forever. No thank you.
"W-What happened?! Tite-sama, are you unharmed?"
"The sound was so loud… Are you sure you're okay?"
Behind him, Colton and Rohaim rushed over in a panic. They'd heard the impact as clearly as a hammer blow and looked terrified that he might be offended.
"Yes, I'm fine. My head's… tougher than it looks."
"…If you say so. Still, it looked painful."
"I'm glad to hear you're unharmed. Though, to speak of healing magic in front of Tite-sama… ha, what a foolish thought."
"Hahaha."
Tiamat laughed lightly, brushing it off.
Tiamat let out a soft laugh. Of course he did—based on what he'd seen so far, Rohaim's strength was at best around the 5th or 6th tier of magic, which meant a pure caster might reach somewhere in the upper 20s to low 30s in level. With hybrid classes, perhaps the 40s. Admirable by this world's standards—but compared to a max-level player like Tiamat, pitifully small.
Perhaps his chuckle sounded like mockery, because Rohaim's face shriveled like an empty wineskin.
"Are… are you laughing at me?"
"No, not at all," Tiamat replied gently. "I only meant—see? I wasn't hurt in the slightest. That's all my laughter meant."
"…I see."
Unconvinced but with no way to argue, Rohaim sighed and settled himself down. Colton followed, and Tiamat sat with them at the rooftop table.
Though only two stories high, the clustered architecture of the dwarves' city meant this rooftop perched much higher than it seemed. From here, one could look down over almost the entire fortress. Wisps of steam, firelight, and smoke curled into the air, vanishing into the faint shafts of sunlight that managed to reach the cavern's ceiling.
Almost like a hot spring in winter, Tiamat mused, watching the mist drift upward. Of course, he'd never actually been to one in real life—the thought came from VR memories and scraps of knowledge.
Then came the heavy clatter of straining stairs, followed by the appearance of a dwarf, face red with exertion, hauling up a barrel that looked half his size.
"Here it is! My pride and joy—stout brewed from barley of the Velarus plains—"
"Beer!" Colton blurted, already lunging.
"Hey!" Rohaim snapped, glaring daggers until Colton sheepishly backed off. Both glanced at Tiamat. He only smiled faintly and lifted a finger.
A pale-blue glow seeped from his hand into the barrel. The dwarf nearly dropped it in shock, but Colton dove to catch it and heaved it onto the table.
"…Cold?!" Colton yelped, jerking his hands back.
The dwarf tried it too, and his callused palms recoiled instantly. The cask, lukewarm just moments ago, now radiated the chill of ice as if buried in a glacier.
All eyes turned to Tiamat. He shrugged lightly, smiling as though embarrassed.
"Doesn't everyone say beer's best chilled? I just took the liberty of helping. Was that too presumptuous?"
"Presumptuous? Ha! That's a fine trick, lad! You fit right in with these heroes! Hahaha!"
The dwarf clapped Tiamat on the back so hard it echoed like a drum, but Tiamat didn't budge an inch. Rohaim glared again, half-expecting an explosion, but the boy only smiled serenely. At last, Rohaim exhaled in relief. Maybe things wouldn't go so badly after all.
"Alright then—let's crack it open!"
"Hurrah!"
"Mm, I'm looking forward to this."
The cask was tapped, frothy foam bubbling up as the sharp, roasted scent of stout filled the air. Thin shards of ice floated amid the foam, glistening. The tavern-keeper dipped a battered metal-rimmed mug into the barrel and pulled it out brimming with beer.
The fragrance alone made mouths water. Colton and Rohaim quickly grabbed their mugs. All eyes turned to Tiamat.
"Tite-sama, would you do the honors?"
"…Then I shall. With gratitude."
Tiamat lifted his mug.
"Then I'll have the next round—!"
Each of them dipped their mugs into the cask, scooping up stout topped with foam and drifting shards of ice. The sharp aroma of roasted malt and hops filled the rooftop, and in this city of smoke and forges, the air around them felt like the heart of a snowy mountain peak.
They raised their mugs and clashed them together. "To victory!" The shout overlapped before anyone could say otherwise, and the drinking bout began.
....
A Few Dozen Minutes Later
Rohaim, who had finally let himself relax, leaned back and admired the view below while savoring the finest dwarven stout. Yet something nagged at him.
Between rounds of drinking, the dwarf innkeeper had gone below to fetch some greasy stew, then came back up with it… and then—what happened after that?
"…Ugh."
The stout was stronger than expected, and Rohaim's tolerance wasn't great. His head spun as he tried to piece together the memory.
'So you see…'
'Yes, that's how it is! We dwarves were driven from the capital, beaten again and again by those beast-bastards until we were forced to retreat here. Even now, we can barely hold them off. The future looks grim…!'
That was it—the innkeeper drunkenly ranting, pouring his grievances out. And Tite-sama—calm, sober, listening patiently, nodding in understanding.
And then… and then…
Rohaim's eyes snapped open.
Wait. Who was still here?
Colton, who had downed a single glass of the innkeeper's fire-liquor and promptly collapsed unconscious. The innkeeper himself, slumped over the table after alternating between laughter and sobs. Rohaim, left woozy but still barely awake.
And Tite-sama—
"Wh—where did he go?!"
Rohaim shot to his feet and shouted.
Gone. Nowhere in sight. The most important person to guard—vanished, leaving nothing behind but an empty seat.
His knees buckled, and he sank back down, not from the drink but from sheer dread.
Of course, for someone like that boy, disappearing without a trace would be child's play. But Rohaim hadn't noticed, hadn't heard a reason, and worst of all—he had no idea if or when he would return.
Wild-eyed, Rohaim scanned the rooftop, but there was no sign of him. In the end, he slumped toward the cask, desperately checking if any beer was left.
Fortunately, there was. He filled his mug, and in order to blot out his panic, he tipped it back, letting the foamy cold wash away his thoughts.
Please, he prayed silently, when my senses return, let him be back here.
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