It had been a while since I last walked through the town, hood of my large coat pulled up, getting soaked in the rain.
When I was in the service of Lady Agrippina, I mostly traveled by carriage, and without any restrictions on magic, I used isolation barriers to effortlessly repel the rain. It wasn’t until I calmed down that I realized how unnatural it was that my coat wasn’t getting wet at all.
“The footing’s bad, isn’t it?”
“That’s true. Despite the cobblestones, there’s so much mud that it’s unstable. Isn’t it inconvenient to only have two legs?”
The streets of Marsheim were in pretty bad shape. Some parts had missing cobblestones, and others were piled with mud brought in from outside, making for a terrible situation when it rained. Margit, suffering from a hangover, was skillfully moving her legs to avoid slipping, but for those walking on just two legs, it was quite troublesome.
Hmph, perhaps I should modify my add-ons to be able to put up a barrier at the thin layer of skin level, paying some degree of proficiency. Though the clothes might get wet, keeping the body dry would be more natural. Nonetheless, such precise control wouldn’t just be difficult to master but would also have poor activation efficiency, presenting a troubling dilemma.
“I’ve got the knack of walking without slipping down.”
Still, the footing alone required countermeasures, so I was using magic subtly without making it too apparent. Simply deploying an “Invisible Hand” at the point of contact with the ground to avoid stepping on it was a technique applied from the skill I regularly used for jumping and changing direction mid-air. While simple in action, considering that it prevented a swordsman’s crucial step from slipping in the mud, it was akin to a godlike skill. Surely, even self-praise for coming up with such a good idea would be permissible in this case.
“Truly, watching you makes me envious of the knack.”
When I suggested she use it, she declined, saying that the sensation of the ground beneath her feet being strange would be uncomfortable. As a hunter and a spider person, not being able to feel the ground directly was physiologically unacceptable for her.
I suppose I can understand. If I had a bad sword hanging from my hip, it would throw off my center of gravity and make me uncomfortable. It’s certainly the kind of occupational hazard that only those in the same line of work or of the same race would understand.
“Just… you might want to think about work on rainy days.”
“Yeah… unless it’s really necessary, it’s probably best to relax at the inn.”
Even as the sun rose higher, there weren’t many people walking in the rain. That was because there wasn’t a culture of rushing through the rain to get to work. Unlike farmers or dairy farmers, the idea of working regardless of rain or wind only came about in the modern era, and in this age, it was quite ordinary to take a break when the weather was bad.
After all, it is very inefficient. Moreover, without strong rubber-soled shoes that provide good grip, heavy labor and construction work would be impossible. So unless it’s an urgent matter, staying home and doing some light work indoors is how people generally choose to spend their time.
In the middle of all this, I was walking through the mud in search of an inn. The Black Giant Squid Inn had welcomed us but didn’t feel very comfortable, so I had to find another place to stay.
Impressive how even the cheapest inn with a mere 5 as coin stay was so terrible. The room we were given as honored guests by Mr. Lorans was barely tolerable, but in a normal case, it would have been… well, pretty awful. I won’t describe the state of the big room considered a bargain at one libra and 35 as coins as it’s hard to stomach with my rather good standards of cleanliness from my past and present lives. Suffice it to say, cohabiting with bedbugs, fleas, and something else black is something I’d rather avoid.
Exchanging glances with my companion, we silently agreed that the quality of living space directly impacts the quality of life, and thus left the Black Giant Squid Inn in search of something better.
We now found ourselves in a district known as “Shanty Lane,” where the twisted city walls caused the road to take a very irregular path. Due to its rather unchecked development, the roads were of uneven width, giving off an overall unsettled vibe. The name of the street itself was something the residents had spontaneously come up with and grown accustomed to, indicating quite a frontier-like atmosphere where the administration’s reach hadn’t extended yet.
The Imperial Capital was, for better or worse, quite well-organized. It had a certain quaint fantasy charm, but the provinces were truly something else. Personally, I’ve always had a preference for the gritty kind of fantasy—those cinematic works notorious for their dirtiness and where eighty percent of the plot revolves around internal conflicts and betrayals, with titles that make you question the strength of the dragons.
Finding a certain charm in the inconvenience, we eventually arrived at a tavern.
Even soaked with rain, this tavern stood out as being much tidier and better-maintained compared to the other buildings nearby.
Its walls and roof tiles were intact, and though the windows lacked glass, they were properly covered with neatly crafted boards. The area in front of the tavern was swept clean, showing a glimpse of the cobblestones beneath, revealing the landlord’s dedication.
The tavern, branded by the elegant script of “Kitten’s Drowsy Rest Inn” and a sign carved with a sleeping, curled-up cat design, seemed inviting.
It was this place to which I ended up coming on my search for an inn after hearing stories from Kevin and Ebo. What could it be like to meet adventurers sung of in epic tales? Such opportunities were rare in the Imperial Capital, so I couldn’t blame myself for getting carried away with excitement. If you hear that a favored café of your favorite author is nearby and don’t feel the urge to visit, then let those who don’t cast the first stone at me.
Still, upon our arrival, a concern arose.
“The front doesn’t look bad, does it?”
“Yeah, but… it doesn’t exactly look like an adventurer’s tavern, does it?”
Both of us had the same impression upon seeing it from the outside. Its carefully maintained appearance seemed, for better or worse, too proper to be the usual resting place for adventurers, who typically roughhouse.
Moreover, it was odd that it hadn’t been recommended by any of the hostesses in reception. If it were as renowned with heroes as we’d heard, it would not seem unusual to find young ones eager to learn congregating outside.
This might just be a regular inn for traveling merchants and travelers instead.
“Shall we go in?”
“Yeah, sure.”
As I indulged in thought, my left hand, which had been holding hers, was squeezed once more as a reminder. It was a bad habit of mine to get lost in deep thought and stop moving when I harbored a question. Knowing my tendency to wander off in thought, her action as my childhood friend was truly helpful.
Before entering the shop, we wiped off the mud from our boots. We entered, with hearts racing, and were greeted by the pleasant chime of a bell.
It was the kind of place that would remind you of a chic café.
The elongated store, shaped longitudinally, had a long counter occupying approximately one-third of its space while providing only eight seats. Beyond that, there were merely five rows of tables with four seats each, significantly limiting the seating capacity.
The boards of the flooring were immaculately polished without a single gap, and the walls were spotless, devoid of any dust. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture that was broken or leaning, and the bottles of liquor arranged neatly on the shelf behind the counter showed they were handled with affection.
Most striking were the three chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, emanating magical light. These items, reminiscent of a grand store in a major city, were shining brightly even during the daytime, casting a warm, noon-like glow in the space. In a provincial setting, they were items so precious one could probably build a house with their worth.
Oh my, this place thoroughly defied my expectations in every sense. The imagined rowdiness of a typical adventurer’s tavern I had envisioned before coming was nowhere to be found. Instead, this was like a pure café that quietly operated during the day but transformed into a bar at night.
I thought how pleasant it would be to sit here in a relaxed manner with a paperback book and some tobacco, enjoying coffee.
“Hello, you’re new faces.”
Before I could fully absorb the surprise, a waitress approached from the back of the shop, addressing us. Adorned in a classic style with an apron dress and triangular cap, she was a cat-person with pointed triangular ears and a nose, and glossy black fur that shimmered like velvet.
Cat-person is an anthropomorphic race originating from the southwestern continent, different from the central one where the empire resides, and their ancestry extends from the same source as the cats that populated the nation. They possess a hybrid of flexible feline grace and a human silhouette, with a slightly svelte human-like face topped by a feline head, making it quite an impressive sight.
“Please hang your coats over there by the wall; it gets good ventilation there, so they dry quickly.”
Perhaps because of the difference in mouth shape, there was no common “nyaa” suffix in their speech, but the edges of words were slightly curled, giving a truly feline impression. She indicated with claw-less, or rather, retractable clawed, padded fingers toward a wall corner where I hung my robe, and we were guided to a counter seat.
“It’s a bit an odd time, so the menu might be random. Would you like breakfast? Imperial style? Kingdom style? Ah, we can do Eastern nomadic style too.”
“Ah, no, we’ve already had breakfast, so could we have tea?”
“Perhaps something small to nibble on would also be appreciated.”
While it seemed uncouth to enter the shop and order nothing, my request for tea saw Margit apparently interested in something light. Judging from last night’s leftovers served for breakfast, they had been too heavy to eat much of.
“Tea will be three as, but… oh, you young lady, are you hungover? We have something good for that.”
The female cat-person waitress disappeared with a sound akin to “pata-pata,” though making barely any footstep sound, back to the kitchen. Since handling fire is quite challenging compared to the previous world, such cooking could not be done behind counters like here.
“Good atmosphere, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s calm and relaxing.”
With no other customers present in the quiet shop, we took a slow look around and engaged in leisurely conversation. The initial purpose of finding Mr. Fidelio had completely escaped our minds due to the unexpected decor.
“I could actually really like this atmosphere. It’s a charm I’ve never encountered in my hometown nor in the ancient city.”
“I think I saw a similar place once before in the Imperial Capital. It was run by people from the Northern Island Circle for their ambassadors and merchants. They had a lot of beer.”
“Do people from there prefer beer?”
Lost in thoughts of a whiff of foreignness, we were soon approached by the waitress carrying a tray. There were two cups and one small plate.
“Sorry for the wait. Here you go, for you, sir.”
Before me was a simple yet aromatic black tea, something ingrained in the blood of citizens of the Threefold Empire and enjoyed multiple times a day. The color and fragrance suggested it was not chicory but probably dandelion.
“And for you, young lady.”
On the other hand, a rather unknown drink appeared before Margit. It was white and cloudy, likely warmed milk with a hint of piquant aroma mixed with its inherent sweetness.
“Ginger and honey…is it?”
“That’s right! It’s the best thing for hangovers. The husband swears by it!”
Oh, now that’s interesting. Though I rarely suffer from hangovers, there are times when I’m served bad liquor that results in light inebriation. It’s good to know; honey might be a bit costly but is great as emergency food, and ginger is affordable and accessible, so I might carry them with me in the future.
“And is this small fish?”
“Yes, indeed! Pickled river fish with ginger pickles. Extremely sour, but it’s sure to completely banish your hangover in one go. The husband guarantees it!”
On the small plate was a serving of small fish and thinly sliced ginger. It was more akin to a pickle than marinated, but it would indeed be highly invigorating, suitable for a body tired from drinking. The river fish-specific odor was removed by the vinegar, and I was tempted to try it for myself too.
Then again, the husband… Didn’t Kevin mention a hero’s tale…
“Shaymer, you’ve forgotten the lemon.”
All of a sudden, a soft male voice drifted from the back, followed shortly by the light footsteps of someone gliding into the bright light.
“Without this, the flavor doesn’t come together as it should, haven’t I said that multiple times?”
“Ah, sir! Sorry, but I avoid lemons instinctively. The smell when squeezed is pure hell.”
There was nothing particularly outstanding in his attire. A cotton shirt, linen trousers, and a sailcloth apron, worn and tattered, made him look like a perfectly suited innkeeper.
Ethnically, he was unmistakably of the human race. His features were rather faint by imperial standards—shallow contours, not particularly high nose—and his soft, droopy eyes with a clear shade of green, along with his chestnut hair, almost like auburn, that carelessly curled, made his face rather gentle and calming to look at.
An approachable impression of an innkeeper who would likely be well-liked.
Yet, an observant person would quickly notice.
His posture, the movement of his gaze, the silhouette of his body hidden beneath his clothes. The coarse and distorted fingers holding a small plate with a squeezed lemon.
Everything declared that he was a warrior, one firmly clad in martial prowess.
The bulging shoulder muscles indicative of a knight who wielded his lance and shield, at times even in mounted combat; the thick, log-like legs grown from constant marchings; weapons of war, not for ceremonies but battle-tested, akin to armor polished by actual use. The scent of martial valor lingered around his face, so serene it would make one think he should wear a monk’s robe.
Above all, a clarity impossible to conceal beneath rough clothing. I see now, this is why the gods themselves would grant blessings and permit petitions for miracles.
I instinctively stood to greet him.
“Would you be the esteemed Lord Fidelio the Holy One?”
Indeed, I pay homage to this master-class adventurer, revered as a saint.
Looking over, my childhood friend must have instantly discerned his skills, for she too got off her seat to bow. Any person minimally acquainted with martial arts would be compelled to recognize his profound expertise.
For someone who didn’t understand this, they’d have to be either incredibly foolish or both.
“Troublesome.”
However, the adventurer to whom greetings were sent shrugged his cheeks in confusion, contorted his face into a weak smile, and made a powerless grin.
“I’m not that big a deal to warrant such formalities. And this inn isn’t really for adventurers anyway. Please, take a seat.”
He seems accustomed to receiving grand gestures but evidently dislikes them, as this saint, unmatched to the tales of heroism attributed to him, smiled gently…
