The tavern smelled like smoke, sweat, and the kind of ale that could strip paint off a wall.Perfect.
Kyle sat on his usual stool, elbow resting on the counter, boots crossed, the rim of his glass catching the low orange light.
The drink looked alive—tiny swirls of gold inside, the bartender's fancy new "dwarven blend." It burned like sin and felt like peace.
"Slow night?" Kyle asked, swirling his drink.
The bartender—old man Teren, wrinkles deep enough to hide coins in—snorted. "For you? It's always a slow night. I've seen snails age faster than you, kid."
Kyle grinned. If only he knew. "Guess time just likes me, huh?"
"Time hates everyone." Teren poured another glass, leaned his elbows on the counter. "Speaking of hating everyone—heard the Empire did their big thing. Summoned a hero from another world or somethin'."
Kyle raised a brow, pretending to be interested. "Another world, huh? What, are they that desperate already?"
"They say the Demon King's armies have hit the northern walls. Burned three towns in a day. You'd think you'd notice when the sky turns black."
Kyle took a sip, eyes half-lidded. "Eh. I was busy minding my drink."
Teren shook his head, muttering, "One day, that tongue's gonna get you killed."
"killed huh?"
The bartender laughed, but Kyle didn't. He just stared into the glass—saw the faint shimmer inside it twist like smoke—and his mind slipped.
Eight hundred years ago…
Rain.
Cold, thick rain hammering against his face as he coughed blood onto broken ground.His lungs felt like they were filled with glass. His vision—nothing but mud and thunder.
He remembered the voice before he saw the figure.
Deep and tired.
"You've had enough, haven't you?"
And then he'd looked up. A shadow standing in the storm, cloak made of night, eyes like dying stars.
Death.
"I can take you now," it had said. "Or… you can take my place."
He'd laughed, even then. "You mean… do your job?"
"Until the end of all things."
He didn't even think about it. He was tired, bleeding, half-mad.
"Sure. Why not. Beats dying useless."
And then everything had gone quiet.
When he woke again, he wasn't lying in mud.
He was breathing clean air in a world that wasn't his.
The deal sealed itself in silence.
"Kyle."
He blinked. The tavern light came back. The sound of rain outside returned. Teren was looking at him with that you zoned out again expression.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Kyle said, smirking faintly. "Just remembering an old job offer."
Teren chuckled, wiping a glass. "Hope it paid well."
"Oh, it's a lifetime gig."
He finished his drink, left a few silver coins on the counter.
"Tell your Empire they'll need more than a 'hero' to kill a Demon King," he said, standing up and stretching.
Teren raised an eyebrow. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Kyle tossed him a lazy grin over his shoulder. "Means the world's about to get a reminder of what real death feels like."
He stepped out into the rain. The door swung shut behind him.
The street went cold for a second, the torches flickering blue.
Then everything went still again—like the world had just held its breath as he passed.
After some while-
The tavern door creaked once more, a gust of cold rain slipping in before it shut.
For a moment, only the steady tap of water from the ceiling filled the silence.
Teren was wiping the counter where Kyle's glass had been — as if trying to erase the chill he'd left behind.
Then the man in the corner finally moved.
He'd been there the whole time — hood pulled low, nursing a single cup of watered-down wine.
The sort of presence you forget until it decides you shouldn't have.
He stepped up to the counter, the fabric of his cloak still dripping. "The guy who just left," he said quietly. "How long's he been around here?"
Teren didn't look up right away. He poured himself a small drink, took a slow sip, and finally muttered, "Kyle? Been here a few months, maybe more. Comes and goes like smoke. Why?"
The hooded man studied the empty stool. "No records of him at the Guild. No town entry logs. He fights like a veteran, but no scars. No stories, no past."
"Plenty of folks with no past," Teren said. "This world eats memories faster than time."
The man lowered his hood slightly — young face, eyes that tried too hard to be calm. Probably some church scribe or empire watcher. "He doesn't age, does he?"
That got a look. Teren's gaze sharpened just a little. "You're asking dangerous questions, priest."
"I'm asking because we've been tracking… anomalies," the man replied. "People who shouldn't exist this long. Sightings going back centuries — same face, same name, same features, you name it."
Teren poured another drink, pushed it toward him. "If you're smart, you'll forget you said that out loud."
The priest didn't touch the glass. "You think he's—"
"I think," Teren cut in, voice flat, "that you should finish your wine and walk back to wherever you came from before the night decides it doesn't like you."
A heavy silence. Outside, thunder rolled over the hills.
The priest swallowed, turned toward the door. Before he left, he glanced back once. "If he's what I think he is… and the Hero's really been summoned—"
Teren didn't let him finish. "Then may the gods help the Demon King."
The door shut behind him, and the tavern went quiet again.
Teren stood there for a long while, staring at the stool where Kyle had sat.
The wood was still cold to the touch.
He muttered under his breath, barely audible, "What a strange kid he is…"
Then he blew out the lantern, and the room fell into darkness.