The low wooden door made no sound when Shane pushed it open, as if it swallowed all noise.
Inside was unexpectedly spacious.
Under a high ceiling, a few dim kerosene lamps hung, their light hazed by a sweet scent.
The smell was distinct—like an incense of aged oak and dried herbs—unwinding tension without you noticing.
Those who'd come in earlier sat scattered about, all silent, as if waiting. No one spoke.
Shane and Erza traded a look and took a table by the wall.
The rough chair creaked softly—at the instant he sat, a familiar thrum stirred in his mind.
The dormant Book of Heroic Spirits turned a page without a sound; flame-like script flickered up.
[Trial: Hungry Curiosity vs. Curbed Curiosity]
[The exceptional are driven by strong wants. They always have something to pursue. Now your pursuit stands before you. You may seek—or refrain.]
My pursuit? Shane blinked.
He reflexively checked what he wanted most. Wealth? Power? Neither felt urgent. If anything, he wanted to know about that legendary dark mage, Zeref—
No. Maybe money was urgent… He rapped his head and shoved the thought down.
So… this tavern might be tied to Zeref?
The idea made him sit straighter. He was curious about that figure; if this place truly had a link, it had his attention.
As he thought, a figure glided up to their table.
A man in a neat but old-fashioned livery, with a perfectly placed, heatless smile.
He didn't ask—just set two clear, colorless drinks before them.
Neither Shane nor Erza touched the cups; they sized up the only staff in the room.
The server ignored the wariness. "Won't you try it? A rare vintage."
"Who drinks something with no story behind it?" Erza said bluntly.
"We're not fifteen…" Shane tapped the table with a knuckle to pull the server's eyes back. "And why pull us in?"
"You were invited," the server said, smile unchanged. His gaze slid over them with a hard-to-pin appraisal. "We only ask that you enjoy our service quickly."
"Service?" Shane pressed. "What kind?"
"If you were invited, then your hearts hold wishes. Our service is to help guests fulfill them."
"Don't spout fairytales," Erza snorted.
The server only smiled—as if to say, believe or don't.
Shane stilled her with a hand and looked straight at him. "I do have a wish. What do you need from me?"
Erza's head snapped over, surprise wide in her eyes.
"You believe this?" she hissed.
Shane didn't answer—just waited.
At last a trace of satisfaction touched the server's face. "Only a small price."
"A price?" Shane arched a brow.
The server pointed casually. "That gentleman craved wealth. We took his pity, empathy, and passion. In return, within a year, he built the city's premier merchant guild."
Shane followed the finger—daylight's guild steward. Noel's story fit.
The server pointed again. "That one sought prominence. We took his native hunger for love—no lust for flavor, no ache for flesh, no hunger for fame. With no distractions, he rose in his work."
Shane recognized the burly traveler who'd scoffed at rumors. Now he sat alone, eyes dulled, deaf to the room.
The server turned back to Shane, savoring the moment. This was the best part: guests declaiming how money without mercy is hollow, success without desire is living death—
And then they'd insist they were different—and bargain anyway.
Sure enough, the black-haired boy spoke.
But not with a little speech. He simply asked:
"Tell me everything you know about Zeref. What's the price?"
The server's smile stalled—then reset. Shane didn't miss it.
So this was tied to Zeref. Shane smiled and pressed. "A deal, right? What do you want from me?"
Zeref. Why him? The server's thoughts lurched; his face stayed smooth. "A legend from four hundred years ago. That knowledge is expensive…"
"Say it. If I can't pay, I'll counter." Somewhere along the line, the lead in the talk had slipped to Shane.
"In that case, I will need your—"
A thunderous boom cut him off from outside.
He swallowed the rest with a quick nod. "Apologies. A small matter. Please wait."
As he strode for the door, Shane tugged Erza's sleeve. "Get ready."
"I thought you were going to bargain?" she blinked.
"I've got what I came for. No need to humor them," he said, rising. The greatbow flashed into being; deep red streamers fell to his shoulders—the sign he was done playing.
He chose restraint. Zeref intel wasn't must-have or urgent.
The Book's trials were free-form; they never forced his hand. They set a target and left the path to him.
That, he liked. He wasn't a tool shoved along by the Book—he was a seeker, moving by his own will.
"And I hate their style."
His eyes swept hawk-sharp. Everyone at the tables stared forward with hollow faces. The lack of want sickened him—worse than slaves at the Tower. More corpse than man.
"Their… style?" Erza began—then a streak of light knifed up, punching the ceiling.
A watery ripple sounded; the light surged through and blew a hole clean open.
Splinters and dust rained down. The torn roof framed a moonless black—like a vast curtain unfurling.
A beat later, a dull chorus of snarls rose—wounded-beast groans.
The patrons lifted their cups in eerie unison and drank.
Then their bodies twisted and writhed—skin turning a sickly blue-green, keratin crawling over their flesh, faces warping into insectile shapes.
Shane lifted the bow without a ripple. Days of grind had nudged Strength and Endurance over the edge into a new rank.
At this tier, he could hold release for twenty minutes.
Plenty of time to "play."
~~~
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