Chapter 7
Chapter 7
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Ruffians (1)
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Two months had passed since a new long-term guest checked into the inn run by Freeman Bron and Saker Bron.
As the longest continuous stayer since they opened shop, this guest held quite a special meaning for the Bron brothers.
The brothers themselves were ex-mercenaries, so it was only natural that their old connections drew plenty of mercenaries to the place.
Regular customers couldn't handle the rowdiness for long, and even mercenaries, who stuck around for a few days at a time, eventually headed out for jobs. Long-term guests were thus hard to come by.
In that light, someone staying a full two months was bound to win their affection.
He wasn't picky, and far from clashing with the other mercenaries who came by, he even seemed genuinely interested in their tales. That made him all the easier to like.
"Kinda curious what he does for a living..."
"What's that out of the blue?"
Saker tilted his head at Freeman's mutter. Freeman added by way of explanation.
"Ah, our long-term guest just popped into my head."
"Galen?"
"Yeah."
"He's a traveler, right?"
"Nijerte's no city charming enough to stick around two months for, is it?"
"Varies from person to person. Could be thinking of settling down."
"Hmm."
"What're you fretting over? If he wants to spill, he will eventually. Otherwise, drop it."
Saker had a point, leaving Freeman to nod in agreement.
They'd grown fairly close over two months, but not enough to pry into personal matters. It might just make things awkward.
In truth, Freeman's curiosity was more a passing whim than anything serious.
Ding—
The little bell on the inn door chimed just then.
Freeman and Saker's eyes flicked toward it in unison.
In walked their conversation topic: the long-term guest, Galen.
"Knew it was you. You have a ghost's knack for timing."
Saker grinned as he spoke.
He knew Galen's routine well by now: rest in his room mornings, lunch, wander the city afternoons, return for dinner.
"I always seem to get back right when hunger hits, and it's always this time."
Galen smiled back.
"Tried eateries all over, but nothing beats this place. Not at the same price, anyway."
"Would've been nicer without that caveat."
"The kitchen's our secret."
Saker chuckled, and Galen shrugged. Freeman chimed in.
"Gonna wash up?"
"Yes."
"Water's ready. Grab some soap. Leave any laundry out."
"Thanks as always."
Galen pocketed the soap with a casual nod, headed upstairs for a change of clothes, then came back down.
Behind the inn building was a communal shower area of sorts.
Partitioned off, with large water barrels and ladles for primitive scrubbing.
For extra coin, private baths with hot water were available—but in this early summer heat, no one wanted that.
Whoosh!
No need to keep dipping a ladle; that much was certain. His Water Flow Manipulation spell drew water from the barrel, showering down over Galen's head like a proper fixture.
The mildly scented soap washed away the day's sweat and grime. The most refreshing moment of his day.
"Phew."
His body felt clean, but his mind did not.
That had been the case lately. No need to show it around the Bron brothers, so he kept smiling.
'At least I don't have to worry about the family anymore.'
He'd watched for two months—long enough to catch flak for excessive caution.
No danger had reared its head once. They might not even know he'd come to Nijerte, or if they did, they were leaving him be.
Either way, no cause for worry. Galen wasn't some big shot worth plotting an assassination over months of surveillance. If they meant to strike a seemingly ordinary guy, they'd have done it by now.
So the Oceanis Family was off the hook.
What nagged at Galen was something else.
Water Flow Manipulation Lv.39
Progress to next level:31%
When he'd arrived in Nijerte two months back, it was Lv.30. Now Lv.39.
Level-ups slowed as levels rose, sure—but grinding mana hard enough still netted at least one per day reliably.
Yet after hitting Lv.39 around ten days in, progress stalled oddly.
He'd brushed it off as temporary at first. But fifty-odd days later, still at 31%.
Less than 1% a day. Like his leveling speed had plummeted to a hundredth.
'No point waiting longer; it's not bouncing back. Time to find a fix.'
Worst case: this was his growth ceiling. Depressing, but no solution there.
Galen's leading theory: solo training had hit its limit.
"Practice and combat are different"—a universal truth on Earth or here.
Even games wouldn't let you level forever in training dummies alone. Hitting Lv.39 self-taught was miracle enough.
'Pretty sure I can replicate every technique the Young Master showed me now.'
Jerbon, trained in magic from childhood, had taken twenty years to reach this point. Galen matched it in under three months.
Absurd growth aside, skyrocketing skill from solo water play felt cheat-y. A brake made sense.
'If it stays locked, it'll suck—and no guarantee combat unlocks it...'
Still, worth testing.
Mages earned respect for their power; combat was inevitable eventually.
No sense fearing the unavoidable.
Galen finished his shower.
*
The ground floor of Bron Brothers' Haven doubled as diner and tavern, popular for solid food at fair prices.
Luckily, Galen had a reserved spot for guests, so arriving leisurely was fine.
"Usual?"
"Please."
"One daily special!"
Two months of near-identical orders meant no need for details. Rotating menus kept it fresh.
As Galen savored the seafood-heavy fare befitting a coastal spot, the crowd began thinning.
Dinner-to-drinks shift; diners fled before mercenaries got loud.
Owners gained breathing room then. Galen beckoned Freeman.
"Got a moment?"
"When a guest calls, you make time."
"Fancy a light beer? On me."
"Now that's an idea."
Freeman, ever the social type, jumped at it—ignoring Saker's half-hearted "don't slack" mutter. He fetched two mugs.
"Cheers."
They clinked and sipped.
"Thought you weren't into booze. First time ordering here I can count on one hand."
"Not that I hate it. Just rarely drink."
"Isn't that the same?"
"Maybe."
By drinking age, he was Jerbon's constant attendant—no chances. Even here, nighttime practice meant abstaining.
Unaware of that, Freeman's interest piqued. Sober folks suggesting drinks usually had words to share under the influence.
"Something up?"
"Not really... Just after some advice. You've got experience."
"What good's advice from an ex-merc hack?"
"Plenty. It's about that world."
"Huh?"
"As a merc, you'd know. Any decent combat gigs for a mage new to the real thing?"
Freeman nearly dismissed it as naive romanticism about merc life.
Then the odd word registered.
"...Mage?"
"Yes. Merc mages exist, right?"
"Sure, but... why ask...?"
"Exactly what I said. Want real combat experience."
"You... Galen, you're a mage?"
"Yes."
Galen replied calmly. Freeman's jaw dropped slightly. No joking tone, but the claim sounded like one.
"Puhaha!"
Laughter exploded from the next table. Galen and Freeman glanced over.
Three weathered middle-aged men were boozing heartily.
But the laugh wasn't internal; all three stared at Galen and Freeman.
"Hey, kid. Few sips got you tipsy already? Spouting nonsense with a straight face."
The scar-faced one snickered. Freeman frowned.
"Told you not to hassle regular guests."
"How can I help it when it's hilarious? A mage? What mage! And you taking it seriously?"
They knew each other, but not enough to curb drunken tongues.
Without his tempered patience from innkeeping, Freeman might've added another scar. As he pondered silencing them—
Fwoosh!
Beer erupted from scar-face's mug like a fountain, dousing his face.
"Gah! Gulp! Blub!"
"W-what?!"
Scar-face flailed, soaked from head down. His buddies startled.
Freeman, equally shocked, instinctively eyed Galen—who smirked, one corner of his mouth up.
"My face is still fine. Yours? Not so much now."
"You little...!"
"What'd you do?!"
His two companions bolted up, yelling—minus the dazed scar-face.
But their momentum fizzled. As they rose, their beers defied gravity, snaking up to eye level like living things. Eerie.
"First offense, so just a splash. Won't be so gentle next time."
"Uh... ugh..."
"Sit. Unless you want beer baths and smashed faces."
"S-sorry."
No one prized life like mercenaries. They sat meekly; scar-face wiped off and wilted too.
No enjoying drinks after that. They soon slunk out like whipped dogs.
They bumped new arrivals at the door.
"Oof!"
"Watch where you're going, idiot!"
"You lot burst out first."
"What'd you say?"
"Ugh, bad mood already."
"Move it. Don't block the door."
"This punk's got some mouth!"
Doorway scuffle—out of Galen's sightline, but trouble brewing clear.
Freeman signaled Saker: handle it.
But Saker, at the counter, just shook his head slightly with a grin. He had the view.
Why became obvious fast.
Thwack! Thwack! Crack!
Three hits, then scar-face flew back inside, rolling across the floor. Nose gushing blood, out cold.
"Gotta watch your step, boys."
The bickered voice's owner grumbled as he entered.
Noticing the weird silence blanketing the room, he faltered.
"What the hell. Wrong place?"