The thick, heavy air of *The Broken Anchor* hit Ethan like a physical blow. The tavern was a sprawling, subterranean den of low-tier mercenaries, rugged hunters, and shady lookouts. A massive iron hearth dominated the center of the room, crackling with green wood that spat pops of sap into the air, filling the room with a pungent blend of burning pine, spilled grog, and the metallic odor of dried beast blood.
Ethan stepped around a semi-conscious brawler draped over a bench, keeping his head down. His ears, maximized by the million-point torrent, filtered through the deafening roar of the tavern—the clattering of pewter mugs, the shouting over dice games, and the scraping of iron boots on wet sawdust.
[Target: Low-Tier Mercenary (Level 5).]
[Target: Wilderness Trapper (Level 4).]
[Target: Tavern Bouncer (Level 6).]
None of them were even close to his capped Level 10 baseline, yet out here, they swaggered with the confidence of kings. Ethan carefully slipped toward the scarred wooden bar, ensuring his posture remained small, frail, and thoroughly unthreatening.
The barkeep was a massive man with a thick, grease-stained apron and an iron prosthetic hook where his left hand should have been. He slammed a wet tankard onto the counter, his single eye locking onto Ethan's muddy, torn Westmere robes.
"You look lost, scholar," the barkeep grunted, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "We don't sell poetry or ink here. This is a place for people who bleed for a living."
Ethan let out a weak, nervous cough, fumbling into his robes to pull out two of the silver coins Master Jeremy had given him. He placed them on the damp bar, letting his hand tremble slightly. "I... I am not looking for poetry, sir. I am looking for work. Or rather, information that can lead to work."
The barkeep's eye flicked down to the silver. Two silver pieces could buy ten gallons of cheap ale, or a very specific kind of silence. His iron hook scraped against the wood as he dragged the coins closer to his apron.
"What kind of information does a Level 1 novice want that costs two silver?" the barkeep asked, lowering his stance slightly, his voice dropping below the tavern's din.
"I am a scholar of... anomalies," Ethan whispered, leaning in, ensuring his eyes darted nervously to the left and right, playing the part of a desperate man out of his depth. "Back north, I heard tales of structural distortions. Disruptions in the local wildlife. I am looking for a newly formed, unregistered Rift. Something small. A Tier 1 manifestation that hasn't been claimed by the town vanguard or the official guilds yet."
The barkeep stared at him for three long seconds. A cold, mocking smile crept onto his face. "A rogue Rift? Boy, you don't want a Rift. You want a suicide warrant. The vanguard executes anyone caught smuggling raw Core energy inside the walls, and the local beasts inside a fresh Rift will flay a scholar alive."
"I have a patron," Ethan lied smoothly, lowering his voice even further. "A wealthy collector in the Upper Ring who pays well for raw data. I just need the location. I won't be entering it myself."
The barkeep grunted, the silver coins disappearing into his apron pocket. He leaned back, wiping down the counter with a greasy rag, but his eyes drifted toward a dark booth at the very back of the tavern, hidden beneath the shadow of a low stone arch.
"See that fellow in the dark cloak back there? The one drinking alone?" the barkeep murmured. "That's Vance. He's a rogue scout who ran with a vanguard auxiliary unit until he got caught skimming from the spoils. If anyone knows which boundaries of the lower valley are beginning to tear open, it's him. But be careful, scholar. Vance doesn't talk to anyone for less than three silver, and he handles loose tongues permanently."
[Objective Updated: Approach Vance.]
[Time remaining until energetic decay: 29 days, 22 hours.]
Ethan gave a small, submissive nod to the barkeep. "Thank you, sir."
Clutching his remaining three silver coins deep inside his pocket, Ethan turned away from the bar. He walked toward the dark booth, his heart rate steady, his mind completely unbothered by the warning. Vance was a rogue vanguard scout, dangerous to a commoner, but to a peak Tier 1 anomaly, he was nothing more than a map waiting to be read.