Wait, what am I even mulling over? I snapped myself out of the daze, shaking my head. Kuilan's the play, right? I'm here to become an adventurer, grind some levels, and figure out how to wield this fancy paperweight the goddess—that old hag—dumped on me. But… Marco's got the kingdom deets. Why not both? Double the intel, double the edge. A grin crept up my face. Main character move, Kozuki—genius as always.
Garrick's voice cut through my reverie, rumbling like a boss NPC prompting a quest choice. "So, which one you want, lad?"
"Both," I said, the word slipping out before my brain could second-guess it. Ha, what am I even thinking? I've got gold coins—presumably top-tier currency in this world. Time to flex a little.
Garrick blinked, then nodded, unfazed. "Alright, that'll be eleven coppers, then."
"Wait a sec," I muttered, digging into my pocket. My fingers brushed the leather sack Masamato had given me, the weight of ten gold coins clinking softly as I pulled it free. I fished out one—its surface gleaming like a rare drop—and plunked it onto the counter with a satisfying thunk.
Garrick's hazel eyes widened, his jaw going slack as he stared at the coin like I'd just tossed him a dragon's hoard.
"What in the Solva—a gold coin?!" he barked, snatching it up. He turned it over in his massive hands, inspecting it with the scrutiny of a loot appraiser—biting the edge with a faint chink, sniffing it like some arcane ritual, even holding it to the lantern light.
"It's real," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice dropping to a reverent hush.
"So, is that enough?" I asked, tilting my head with a dumbfounded look I'd perfected back home—wide eyes, slight frown, total newbie vibes. Inside, I was smirking. Oh, I know it's worth a ton, big guy. Let's see how you react.
Garrick's gaze flicked to me, narrowing slightly, and I could practically hear his thoughts: Which rich noble brat did this kid crawl out from? (Spoiler: He was definitely thinking it.)
"Enough?" he echoed, incredulous.
"Lad, this could buy half my shop—hells, maybe the whole damn place if I threw in the forge!" His beard twitched as he let out a booming laugh, the sound bouncing off the weapon-clad walls.
What?! My façade nearly cracked, my jaw twitching. I knew gold was big, but THAT big? Damn, no wonder Lance moped about those four coins at the Bromùët—that meal was a freaking fortune! The realization hit me like a critical hit: Solva's economy was wild, and I'd just stumbled into high-roller status without a clue. That restaurant wasn't just expensive—it was a gold-plated ripoff masquerading as a tavern.
Mental note: stick to street vendors next time.
I shot Garrick an awkward half-smile, scratching the back of my neck.
"Uh, just the maps, please."
He frowned, rolling the coin between his fingers. "Problem is, I ain't got change for this right now—coppers, sure, but not near enough to match a gold."
"That's fine," I said, waving a hand with feigned nonchalance.
"Keep the change." Smooth, Kozuki—real smooth. Truth be told, I'd rather have the cash, but this? This was an investment. Hook the blacksmith's gratitude now, and maybe he'd toss me a discount—or a little help—down the line. Favor points secured.
"Really!?" Garrick's eyes lit up like a kid unwrapping a legendary weapon, his breath hitching as he leaned forward.
"You sure, lad?"
"Yeah," I said, nodding as I reached for the maps. "So, uh, I'll just take those now—"
He coughed, straightening up with a sudden air of professionalism. "Right, 'course! And, uh—" He pivoted, gesturing grandly to the potion rack behind him, vials glinting in the lantern glow.
"Take your pick of these, too. Top quality, swear it—best in Solva!" Before I could protest, he snatched a vial—its liquid a vibrant crimson that shimmered like molten ruby—and thrust it into my hand.
"Here, this one's on me."
"Thanks, I guess," I said, turning the potion over in my palm. It was heavier than it looked, the glass cool and etched with faint runes that pulsed once, then faded.
"That's a high-grade vitality brew," Garrick boasted, puffing out his chest.
"Rarest you'll find 'round here—nearly worth a gold coin itself, easy. Boosts your endurance, speed, agility—the works. Even knits up a nasty gash if you're bleeding out."
"Seriously?" I perked up, holding it to the light. "How long's it last?"
"'Bout fifteen minutes," he said, scratching his beard.
"Short burst, but it'll pull you through a scrap—or a sprint from somethin' nasty"
Aw, man—no permanent stat boost? I sighed inwardly, visions of RPG power-ups fading. Still, fifteen minutes wasn't bad—emergency clutch material, like a potion of haste in a boss fight. "Thanks again," I said, pocketing it alongside the maps.
"No, I've gotta thank you," Garrick countered, his grin widening.
"That coin's a lifeline—forge's been lean lately. You're a good sort, lad."
"So, uh, I'm gonna head out now," I said, edging toward the door. The rolled maps crinkled under my arm, the potion a comforting weight in my pocket.
"Already?" Garrick's brow furrowed. "Don't wanna browse? Got a dagger here that'd pair nice with that sword o' yours—" He nodded toward the Sword of Absolute Death at my hip, its blood-red gem catching the light.
"Nah, it's getting dark," I said, glancing at the windows. The sky outside had deepened to a star-flecked navy, the street lamps casting long, eerie shadows. "Gotta crash soon—big day tomorrow."
"Fair enough, sir," he said, his tone shifting to something almost reverent. He lumbered around the counter, his boots thudding on the sawdust-strewn floor, and guided me through the shop's maze of gear. At the door, he yanked it open with a creak, the bell jingling again as cool night air rushed in. "Thanks for your purchase—come back anytime, y'hear?"
"Will do," I said, stepping out. The doors swung shut behind me, Garrick's parting "Come again!" echoing as I stood on the cobblestones, maps and potion in tow.
I glanced down at the rolled parchment, then up at Solva's bustling night. Two maps, a buff potion, and a blacksmith in my debt—all for one gold coin? My lips quirked into a smirk. Not a bad haul for a newbie. But a flicker of unease crept in—that passerby's warning about the night nagged at me, and the streets, though lively, felt sharper now, shadows pooling in alleys like traps waiting to spring. Better hustle back to the Hkou before I stumble into a random encounter.
I tucked the maps tighter under my arm and started back, the weight of my loot—and my sword—reminding me why I was here. Adventurer life, here I come. Let's just hope the goddess didn't skimp on this blade's manual.
Venturing into Solva's night, I noticed the streets shedding their daytime clamor, the crowds thinning like a festival winding down. The moon hung fat and luminous overhead, spilling silver light across the city like a celestial vault had cracked open, its glow washing over rooftops and cobblestones in a shimmering tide. Shadows stretched long and jagged from the spires and awnings, pooling in alleys like ink, while the street lamps flickered with their arcane hum, their pale orbs struggling to compete with the lunar radiance. The air turned crisp, laced with the faint bite of river mist and the earthy musk of cooling stone, a breeze rustling banners and tugging at my cloak with ghostly fingers. Solva's night was alive yet eerie—vendors' shouts had faded to distant murmurs, replaced by the clatter of a lone cart or the soft tread of a hurrying figure vanishing around a corner. The city felt poised, as if holding its breath, its pulse slowing but never quite still.
"Not gonna lie," I muttered under my breath, quickening my pace, "Solva at night's got some creepy-ass vibes."
That passerby's warning echoed in my head—be careful at night—and every rustle or shadow made me half-expect a bandit ambush or a monster spawn. Relax, Kozuki—no random encounters yet. You're not that unlucky.
By the time the Hkou Inn's weathered sign creaked into view, the streets were nearly deserted, the last stragglers swallowed by the dark. I shoved the oak door open, the groan of its hinges cutting through the quiet, and stepped inside. The inn's atmosphere had shifted since I'd left—its earlier bustle replaced by a hushed, almost somber stillness, like a tavern scene after the party clears out. The hearth still crackled, its flames licking lower now, casting a dimmer glow that left the corners cloaked in shadow. The air hung heavier, thick with the stale scent of spilled ale and the fading warmth of bread, undercut by a whiff of wax from the dwindling lanterns swinging overhead. The trio of leather-clad toughs who'd been roaring with laughter were gone, their table empty save for a few damp rings on the wood. The merchants, too, had vanished—ledger and coins packed up, leaving their bench bare.
Only two figures remained. The cloaked woman by the fire sat unchanged, her spoon scraping the bowl in that same slow, deliberate rhythm, her face still lost in shadow—total mysterious NPC energy, check. The bartender lingered at his post, that same grizzled old man with the graying mop, still polishing his glass with a rag that looked older than the inn itself. What the actual hell? I thought, staring. How long's he gonna buff that thing? Is it a magic glass? A cursed artifact? Dude's been at it since I checked in—give it a rest! His eyes flicked up briefly, dark and unreadable, before dropping back to his task, the glass squeaking faintly under his cloth.
I trudged upstairs, the steps groaning underfoot, and fumbled the key into my door. It swung open with a creak, and I dumped my haul on the round table—the Sword of Absolute Death clinking against the wood, its blood-red gem winking in the candlelight, followed by the rolled maps and the crimson potion vial. I glanced at Kuilan's map, its jagged edges tempting me to unroll it and geek out over dungeon names like Nazzrick, the Great Tomb. Prime adventurer homework right there… But my lazy ass kicked in hard.
"Nah, tomorrow," I mumbled, waving it off. Plenty of time to strategize when I'm not half-dead from today.
Peering out the window beside my bed, I pressed my nose to the rippled glass. The street below was a ghost town—no civilians, just the occasional flicker of movement: armored figures with lanterns, patrols maybe, their boots echoing faintly as they swept the lanes. The moonlight bathed them in silver, their shadows sharp against the cobblestones, a quiet reminder that Solva didn't sleep easy.
Patrols at night? That's either reassuring or a red flag. Let's hope it's not the 'monsters ate the last guy' kind of patrol.
I flopped onto the bed, the mattress yielding with a soft whump, and sank into its unexpected plushness.
"Man, I haven't had decent sleep since that old hag yeeted me into that forest," I grumbled, stretching out. The ceiling's beams loomed above, their knots staring back like eyes in the dim flicker of the lantern. My mind drifted, a sleepy haze settling in. Can't believe I actually got isekai'd. Me, Kozuki, a real-deal otherworlder. Sure, the start was a dumpster fire—zero XP, no cheats, just a sword I can't use—but still… I'm here. Day one's in the books.
A smirk tugged at my lips as I ticked off the mental checklist.
Let's see—spawned in a forest, check. Met a quirky adventurer party, check. Got gold coins, ate like a king, snagged maps and a potion from a badass blacksmith—check, check, check. Hell, I even dodged a night ambush so far.
That's the full isekai MC starter pack, right there. I chuckled softly, the sound swallowed by the room's stillness.
Not bad for a guy who was slurping instant noodles and marathoning Overlord a week ago. Guess I'm nailing this gig after all.
Yawning, I burrowed deeper into the bed, pulling the coarse blanket up to my chin. This thing's leagues better than my old setup—sleeping on the floor with a ratty futon and a pile of manga for a pillow? Pathetic. I rolled onto my side, the springs creaking faintly, and my gaze landed on the sword propped against the table. Its gem glinted, almost like it was staring back, a silent challenge in the dark. What should I do with you, huh? I thought, eyelids drooping.
Unlock your secrets, swing you at a slime, chuck you at the goddess next time she pops up? My mind fuzzed out, trailing into nonsense as sleep clawed at me. Tomorrow… figure it out… tomorrow… With a final glance at the blade, I let the softness drag me under, the night's quiet wrapping me like a shroud.
At that same hour, in a shadowed alleyway of Solva, five thugs cornered a lone figure draped in a hooded cloak, the narrow passage a chokehold of grime-slicked stone and festering damp. Moonlight sliced through the gloom, glinting off their crude weapons as they closed in, their boots scuffing the uneven cobblestones.
"Give us your money," snarled the lead thug, his voice a guttural rasp, blade twitching in his grip.
The hooded man shifted slightly, his face obscured save for a faint glint in his eyes.
"What if I don't?" he replied, his tone flat, edged with a quiet menace.
"Then we've got no choice but to kill—" The thug's threat choked off as a blur of steel flashed from Drake's cloak. In a single, fluid arc—too swift for screams or counterstrikes—five heads parted from their bodies, tumbling to the filth-strewn ground with wet, heavy thuds. Blood sprayed briefly, a crimson mist settling on the stones, the headless corpses crumpling in a tangled heap.
"Fools," he muttered, flicking a thin, curved blade to shed the gore before it vanished back beneath his cloak. He stepped over the remains, leaving the alley behind without a glance, his silhouette melting into Solva's night.
Moments later, he pushed through the creaking door of a bar on the city's rougher edge—a low-slung den wedged between a shuttered pawnshop and a sagging tenement. The air inside hit like a stale fist: a mingle of sour ale, old tobacco, and the faint copper tang of blood that clung to his cloak.
He slid onto a barstool, its wood warped and splintered, the cushion long worn to a thin pad that groaned under his weight. The bar wasn't empty—not like some forgotten haunt—but sparsely populated, its few occupants a rogue's gallery of Solva's underbelly, their presence a low hum of menace beneath the quiet.
The room sprawled in a dim, uneven rectangle, its walls a patchwork of peeling plaster and scarred timber, stained with years of spilled drinks and the occasional fist-sized dent. Lanterns dangled from the ceiling on rusted chains, their flames guttering low, casting a jaundiced glow that flickered across the pocked floorboards. A trio of tables hunched along the walls, each hosting a figure or two—criminals, by the look of them, their eyes sharp and hands never far from concealed steel. At one, a wiry man with a shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo curling up his neck hunched over a tankard, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm, a dagger's hilt peeking from his belt.
Across the room, a broad-shouldered woman in a patched coat nursed a glass of something dark, her scarred knuckles gleaming as she muttered to a gaunt companion with a hood pulled low, his twitchy gaze darting to the door every few seconds. Near the back, a lone figure slouched against the wall, face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, a coiled whip resting on the table beside a half-empty bottle—his stillness more threatening than motion. The air buzzed faintly with their presence, a coiled tension that didn't break into words, only the occasional scrape of a chair or the clink of glass.
Behind the counter stood the bartender, a wiry man whose lean frame belied a quiet toughness, his movements deliberate as he polished the bar top with a rag grayed by use. His hair was a thinning crop of salt-and-pepper strands, slicked back unevenly, clinging to a scalp marked with faint scars. His face was a map of hard years—cheeks hollowed, jaw sharp and stubbled with a patchy beard, lips fixed in a thin, knowing smirk that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes were a pale gray, almost colorless in the dim light, glinting like dulled steel under brows knitted with creases.
He wore a faded brown shirt, its collar frayed, sleeves rolled to reveal sinewy forearms crisscrossed with old cuts—some from blades, others from hotter work. A leather apron hung loose over his chest, its surface mottled with dark stains and burn marks, the ties knotted sloppily at his waist. His hands, rough and calloused, moved the rag in slow, rhythmic circles across the counter's scratched oak, the wood gleaming faintly under his relentless attention as if he could buff away the bar's sins.
He glanced up as the hooded man settled in, then slid a tin mug across the counter without a word—the amber liquid inside sloshing with a sharp, bitter whiff that cut through the stale air. Leaning on one elbow, he fixed Drake with a sidelong look, his smirk deepening. "What adventurer'd you kill this time?" he asked, his voice a dry scrape, laced with a dark familiarity.
He tugged his hood back just enough to reveal a hard jaw and a flicker of a grin, his fingers brushing at the blood streaking his cloak—still tacky, smearing red across the fabric. "Nah," he said, lifting the mug and taking a slow, deliberate sip, "didn't kill an adventurer." He paused, swallowing the bitter brew, then wiped his mouth with a blood-smeared hand. "Just some thugs—five of 'em, too stupid to back off." The mug clinked softly as he set it down, his tone casual, almost bored, as if decapitating a gang was just another chore.
The bartender snorted, a sharp huff that didn't disturb his polishing, the rag still gliding over the counter in steady arcs. Across the room, the criminals barely stirred—Spiderweb's drumming paused for a heartbeat, Scarred Knuckles flicked her eyes toward Drake, then away—but the tension held, their silence louder than any chatter. In this bar, blood on a cloak was no surprise, just another thread in Solva's night.
In the dim heart of Solva's night, the man sat hunched over his tin mug, the bitter amber liquid sloshing as he drank, the faint clink of the metal against the counter punctuating the bar's low hum. The sparse crowd of criminals—shaved-head with his dagger, scarred-knuckles with her dark glass, and whip-coiled in the shadows—kept their distance, their murmured tension a dull undercurrent. The bartender, wiry and weathered, polished the oak counter in slow, relentless circles, his pale gray eyes occasionally flicking toward the door.
A figure slipped into the bar, her presence cutting through the stale air like a blade through fog. She wore all black—sleek trousers and a tailored coat that swallowed the light, topped with a wide-brimmed hat draped with a veil that shadowed her face in a lattice of darkness. Without a word, she settled onto the barstool beside him, her movements fluid and deliberate, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound she made. The bartender's polishing paused for a heartbeat, his rag stilling, before resuming with a tighter grip, as if the counter's gleam were his domain to guard.
For a few seconds, silence stretched between them, thick and taut. Then she spoke, her voice low and smooth, carrying a hint of velvet over steel.
"It's been a while, Fovos."
He didn't turn, just tilted the mug to his lips, the blood on his cloak catching the lantern's flicker. "Who do you want me to kill this time, Zarnkxild?" he asked, his tone dry, edged with a weariness that didn't quite mask the bite.
She tilted her head, the veil shifting slightly, revealing the barest glimpse of a sharp jawline and lips painted a deep, blood-red hue—striking against the pale skin that peeked through.
"Do you really think I'm that heartless, to ask you to kill every time we meet?" Her words carried a faint lilt, almost playful, but the air around her felt colder, heavier.
"Well, you are heartless," he shot back, taking another swig, the mug's rim smudging with the blood still on his knuckles. A soft chuckle escaped her, muffled by the veil.
"Fair enough. But this time, I'm not here for blood." She reached into her coat—her fingers long and gloved in black leather, nails gleaming faintly—and produced an envelope, its parchment crisp and sealed with a wax hexagon, the edges sharp as a blade's cut. "I'm delivering an invitation."
"An invitation?" He snorted, setting the mug down with a dull clank. "If this is to join your fancy little clique, I'll pass—told you before, I don't play well with others."
"No," she said, sliding the envelope onto the counter, her gloved hand lingering a moment as if to ensure it stayed. "It's to a party we're hosting. Figured you might meet some… interesting employers there."
"And why should I care?" Fovos asked, his voice flat as he drained the last of his drink, the mug thudding back onto the wood.Zarnkxild shrugged, the motion elegant despite the shroud of her attire.
"I don't, really—come or don't, it's your loss. Just thought you might fancy a chance at some serious coin." She rose, her coat whispering against the stool, and turned to leave, her boots clicking softly on the floorboards. The bartender's eyes tracked her, a flicker of deference in his stony gaze, his polishing slowing as she passed—his hands hesitating, as if awaiting a command that never came. At the door, she paused, half-turning so the veil caught the light, obscuring all but the curve of her smirk. "Hoping to see you there," she said, then slipped out, the door creaking shut behind her.
Fovos stared at the invitation left on the counter, its hexagon seal glinting like an eye in the dimness. The bar's hush swallowed her departure, the criminals' glances darting his way—shaved-head's fingers tightening on his tankard, scarred-knuckles whispering something low—before settling back into their own shadows. The bartender resumed his polishing, the rag's rhythm steady again, the counter gleaming under his care as if it were the only thing in the room he truly owned. Fovos rolled the mug in his blood-streaked hand, his gaze fixed on the letter, the weight of her words lingering like a blade's edge against his thoughts.