Twilight faded. Evening settled in.
Leon changed into a black shirt and trousers, pulled on a pair of brown leather boots. In the washroom, he splashed cold water across his face and felt the fog lift. Hours of intense study had left him drained, but the chill snapped his focus back into place.
He raked the messy fringe out of his eyes and studied the mirror. Black hair, black eyes, a tall frame standing a clean 185 centimeters. Sharp jaw, well-defined features, the kind of face that turned heads.
Who's this handsome bastard?
Leon narrowed his eyes, then sensibly swept his hair back down into its usual seven-three parted fringe.
On went the black-framed glasses. The edge in his reflection dulled instantly, traded for something unremarkable and forgettable. He nodded in approval.
Clothes straightened, a plain plaid jacket thrown over the top, wallet and keys pocketed. Out the door.
Of course, in Orario's current climate, leaving home without a weapon was asking for trouble. A compact dagger or short blade, easy to carry, fit the bill.
...
Leon's rented house sat on the north side of West Main Street's central road, backed up against the District Seven forest at the city's outermost ring.
Standing in the yard, you could see the imposing city walls looming close.
The area was sparse with lamplight, a stark contrast to the bustling glow of the inner districts.
Thanks to the gods and their influence, Orario's nightlife thrived. The Pleasure Quarter, taverns, gambling halls, hot spring bathhouses... you name it, the city had it. Taverns ran hottest of all. The moment darkness fell, the noise swelled to a roar.
Adventurers ground through the day for this. One drink at the end of it all. Leon was no different.
He followed the stone path out of the back streets and merged onto the busy main road.
His mood was light as he slipped into the crowd. The bottleneck shattered, a new spell learned, better grinding efficiency and personal safety on the horizon. Hard not to feel good.
He was humming to himself when the sign caught his eye, not far down the road.
The Hostess of Fertility. Two crossed mugs of ale carved in wood, hanging bold and proud.
"Welcome! Just the one tonight?"
The famous poster girl's already out front playing hostess? At this hour?
Leon sized up the grey-haired girl with the ponytail. Grass-green uniform, white apron, black knee-highs over brown ankle boots. Cute as a button. The thought flickered and vanished behind a neutral expression. His tone stayed easy.
"Luvis and Dormul here yet?"
The girl, Syr Flova, the Hostess of Fertility's beloved front-of-house, broke into a smile.
"Oh, you're friends of Mr. Luvis and Mr. Dormul! They're already inside. Right this way."
She stepped aside and led him in, her stride quick and light.
Watching her bounce along, that lively grey ponytail swishing behind her, Leon raised an eyebrow thoughtfully.
Quite the nerve on this goddess. Evilus wanted her dead more times than he could count, and here she was, disguised as a tavern waitress, mingling with the public, soaking in the mortal experience without a care in the world. Confident? Reckless? Hard to say. If it were him, he'd have barricaded himself at the top of Babel and never come out.
His thoughts wandered as he followed Syr inside.
The noise hit him like a wall. A hot, heady cocktail of roasting meat, spilled ale, and honest sweat.
The wide hall was packed to the last seat. Groups of three and five crowded every table. Some had arms slung around each other's shoulders, laughing loud enough to rattle the rafters. Others were shoveling food down like they hadn't eaten in days. Most were clinking mugs, draining amber ale in long pulls. The waitresses in their matching uniforms wove through the chaos with practiced smiles, threading between packed aisles like fish through a reef, their grace softening the rough edges of the scene.
"Leon, over here!"
A handsome blond young man in the corner waved an arm high. As for the classic novel trope where the protagonist's entrance draws every eye in the room, sparking gasps or sneers?
None of that happened. Not even close. Nobody so much as glanced his way.
He reached the table and murmured a quick "thanks" to Syr. The moment he sat down, Luvis threw a familiar arm around his shoulders.
"Hey, you're late tonight. Three penalty drinks!" A tipsy grin spread across the elf's face.
Leon chuckled. "Three it is." He tilted his head toward Syr, still hovering with that pleasant smile. "Start us with ten iced ales, a grilled skewer platter, and a pan-seared bonito tofu. What's today's special?"
"Mustard cream chicken," Syr answered without missing a beat.
"One of those, plus a chilled cucumber salad and garlic confit. We'll order more if we need it."
Syr jotted everything down on her board, her smile warming past professional into something genuine. "Coming right up. Drinks first, food won't be long."
"Great."
The ale arrived well before the food. An unfamiliar waitress appeared moments later, tray in hand.
Cold mugs hit the table. Leon didn't waste a breath. He grabbed a glass and drained three in a row, one after another, barely stopping to swallow.
"Urp. God, that's good."
On a sweltering summer night like this, ice-cold ale pouring down his throat sent a wave of relief flooding outward from his core, washing away the day's exhaustion in one go. Every knot of tension in his body unraveled. After a full day grinding in the Dungeon's oppressive depths, this was the moment he'd been working toward.
This. This was what life was about.
"Ha! Now that's how you drink!" The dwarf Dormul slammed his palm on the table, laughing, then shot a contemptuous sideways look at the blond elf beside him. "Not like a certain beanpole elf, nursing his cup like a little girl!"
Dormul, the senior dwarf of the trio, clapped with approval at Leon's performance and took the opportunity to drag his rival through the mud.
"Who are you calling a beanpole, you stubby little brick!" Luvis fired back instantly.
Leon picked up a piece of food with his chopsticks, watching the two go at it, and grinned. "Good to see the bromance is alive and well. Though making an elf chug like that is a bit unfair."
"Leon, you traitor!"
The handsome elf faked outrage, then cracked up despite himself.
...
Seven or eight rounds in, the mood at the table had risen to match the tavern's roar.
The three of them picked at dishes between drinks, trading recent gossip and funny stories in low voices, breaking into laughter every few minutes. They fit right into this adventurer's paradise.
"Hey, Luvis." Leon set his mug down, his tone carefully casual. "What's the occasion? This spread isn't cheap. This is the Hostess of Fertility. You're looking at ten, twenty thousand valis for a meal and you're just footing the bill?"
His eyes darted to the bar, where the proprietress was busy at work. As if she'd heard him, the formidable woman's sharp gaze swept their way. Leon flinched and plastered on his most innocent smile.
Luvis raised an eyebrow, putting on a stoic, mysterious expression. He said nothing.
"Oh, drop the act." Dormul cut in, dripping with sarcasm. "Leon, this guy hit Lv. 2 today. From now on, we'll have to bow and scrape. 'Lord Luvis' this, 'Lord Luvis' that."
Silence.
The grin Luvis had been fighting finally won. He couldn't hold it together.
"Heh. That's right, yours truly got there first. Go on, let me hear a 'Lord Luvis.' Come on, don't be shy. And don't worry, seeing as we go way back, I'll look out for you two from here on. Now drink up!"
Leon and Dormul exchanged a look. Without a word, they raised their mugs in perfect sync and launched a "friendly" coordinated assault.
How much could one elf drink?
Under the two-man onslaught, it didn't take long to find out. A few heavy mugs of ale in, Luvis didn't even survive the third round before he slid clean under the table.
"Hmph. Lv. 2 my ass. Still useless at the one contest that matters." Dormul snorted.
Leon bared his teeth in a grin. An elf challenging a dwarf to a drinking contest? That was walking into the dragon's den wearing a steak suit.
He glanced under the table. Nothing but pity in his eyes.
"Say, Leon." Dormul cradled his oversized wooden mug and leaned in close, as though something had just occurred to him. His voice dropped. "Watch yourself in the Dungeon lately. Keep your eyes open."
The levity drained from Leon's chest. His expression didn't change, but his gaze swept the noisy hall in a quick, practiced arc. Nobody paying attention. He kept his voice low. "The Dungeon... what happened? Monster surge, or...?"
He meant the other kind. The kind that preyed on their own.
"Not other adventurers." Dormul shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Word on the grapevine... apparently Evilus is up to something down there. Nobody knows what. Someone supposedly spotted traces of their activity."
"Where's this coming from?"
"Where do you think?" Dormul took a sip and jerked his chin toward somewhere distant. "The bastards up in Rivira on Floor 18. Leaked out from there."