Rumors (1)
“What are you doing?”
“Writing a letter, obviously.”
“A letter?”
“I have to send word to the Administrator.”
No matter how casual his ties were, he couldn't simply show up unannounced at the Administrator's Castle. Sending advance notice was common courtesy.
Hmm. While I'm at it, maybe I should write to Abel and Lena too?
As the quill moved across the paper, Eron found himself thinking of Abel, his former personal maid, and her daughter, Lena. In that godforsaken, wretched household, they were among the precious few who had looked upon him with kindness and treated him like family. Naturally, he longed to see them again if he could.
Are they still stuck in that dumpster fire of a family?
If he sent a letter under a pseudonym, it ought to be safe enough. Jeylen, that piece of trash, wouldn't notice a thing, but Abel and Lena would recognize his handwriting the moment they laid eyes on it.
Yeah, I should give it a shot.
Having made up his mind, Eron set aside the letter for Felik and began preparing another for Abel and Lena.
“Are you really satisfied with just that?”
“Hm? With what?”
Hovering in the air around the desk, Ifrit let out a petulant whine. “What you took from those humans, of course!”
“We got exactly what we agreed on, didn't we? That's plenty.” Eron produced the coin pouch he had extracted from Bran's party, giving it a light shake so the contents jingled.
“No, but now it looks like they finished the commission!”
“Does it really matter? Doing it this way was the only way we'd get paid without any hassle.”
Ifrit crossed her tiny arms, her cheeks puffed out in discontent as if someone had robbed her of hard-earned glory. Frankly, Eron couldn't care less about claiming credit for a trivial goblin hunt.
“Besides, we got to see that Bran guy get thoroughly humiliated. That alone was worth the price of admission.”
“Well… that part was hilarious, but still—pfft!” Remembering the sight of Bran groveling in the dirt, Ifrit burst into snickers, unable to keep her scowl intact.
“Taking credit for one little commission isn't going to change their lives,” Eron said mildly. “Don't worry about it. People like them will never reach Class 2 anyway, not even in their dreams.”
If anyone in that party had held a sliver of promise, it was Bran, but even his chances were effectively ruined now. A failure of that magnitude left deep scars. Some individuals used humiliation as a stepping stone to grow stronger, while others shattered completely beneath the weight of it. Bran was unmistakably the latter.
Having traveled the continent with Merna and broadened his horizons, Eron prided himself on his judgment of character. Bran possessed an exceptionally small vessel—petty, fragile, and bitter, much like Jeylen. The shame of nearly dying to a band of goblins only to be rescued by a commoner general mage would haunt him for the rest of his days. With men of that sort, one didn't need to worry about them rising higher; one had to worry about them sinking into depravity.
“Besides,” Eron added, tapping the slender piece of wood leaning against his chair, “we walked away with this.”
It was the pristine white staff retrieved from the goblin leader. Selling this artifact alone would turn a handsome profit. Once he cashed it in, he wouldn't need to take on odd jobs for quite some time.
His ultimate goal was to become an Archmage. Unfortunately, he couldn't ascend the ranks through conventional channels. Take the promotion requirements for Class 3, for instance: complete at least ten commissions and pass an examination overseen by the Magic Tower.
Fulfilling ten commissions was simple enough, but the examination was an insurmountable wall. He could never pass it. Why? Because he could only cast fire magic.
Wielding a diverse repertoire of elemental spells was the virtue the Magic Tower demanded of mages, the primary benchmark of competence. Because of that doctrine, ordinary advancement was completely closed to him. Not that he had any intention of playing by their rules in the first place.
Who had the patience to grind through ten petty tasks and sit for a bureaucratic exam? His master had already given him the answer long ago.
“Build achievements, carve out a reputation, and hone your true strength. When you stand tall enough, the Magic Tower will have no choice but to acknowledge you on their own.”
To follow that path, securing sufficient travel funds was vital. He needed the freedom to seek out monumental feats worthy of renown, not waste time hunting pests for pocket change.
Now then, I need to sell this staff before heading to the Administrator's Castle, but where?
An official magic tool boutique was out of the question. The bureaucratic procedures and identity checks were an absolute nuisance.
Even if I take a bit of a loss on the price, an unofficial channel is far better.
And when one needed an unofficial channel, the classic destination was obvious.
“All right, so where are we going now?” Ifrit asked, darting ahead.
“To a tavern.”
“Huh? A tavern?”
The premier place to gather intelligence. In any city across the realm, the tavern remained the undisputed center of rumors and chatter. No other establishment came close.
If there was lucrative or unusual work to be had, that was where he would catch wind of it. Ignoring Ifrit's barrage of questions about why on earth they were visiting such a place, Eron briskly set off down the street.
Inside the dimly lit, rustic tavern, a burly, rough-faced barkeep set a heavy glass bottle down on the counter with a dull clunk.
“Here you are, lad. Golden Beer.”
“Oh, finally!” Eron couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face as he stared at the bottle. Good grief, how long has it been since I've had a drink?
Having reached the age of fifteen, Eron was now an adult by imperial law. He was fully entitled to drink without anyone raising an eyebrow. In neighboring nations, adulthood began at fourteen, but Merna had strictly forbidden him from touching a single drop until he turned fifteen under imperial custom. Naturally, being told he couldn't have it only made him crave it all the more.
Human nature was funny like that. To celebrate his monumental first legal drink, he had splurged on Golden Beer, a luxury brew.
Glug, glug…
Eron tilted the bottle, pouring with practiced care into a thick glass. The liquid emerged somewhat thick and opaque, far cloudier than the refined beers of his previous life. Caught off guard by the unexpected texture, Eron nonetheless adjusted his pour, tilting the glass with fluid ease to produce a perfect, frothy head.
It was the practiced technique of a veteran drinker, entirely out of place on a youth whose cheeks still held the softness of adolescence. The tavern keeper watched him with wide, curious eyes.
Gulp! Gulp!
The instant the chilled liquid washed down his throat, a sharp shudder ran down his spine, setting his blood singing.
“Khaaah! Now that's what I'm talking about!”
It was like finding a cold spring in the middle of a desert. That first draught possessed an incomparable bliss. In truth, the flavor profile was lacking; rather than a crisp bitterness, a heavy sweetness dominated the palate, and the body felt weighed down by mixed grains. Yet because it had been drawn straight from the cellar's ice bins, the biting chill was perfection.
Bathed in that crisp coldness and the sheer euphoria of tasting alcohol again, Eron barely noticed the flaws. Hovering nearby, Ifrit stared at him with an expression that screamed What is wrong with this lunatic?, but Eron paid her no mind.
“Well, I'll be! You certainly put it away with vigor for a young fella! Hahaha!”
Thud!
With a hearty chuckle, the barkeep planted a second bottle right next to Eron's glass.
“Wait, I didn't order—”
“On the house, kid. On the house.”
“Oh… Well, thank you very much.”
Free alcohol? Though slightly puzzled, Eron wasn't about to turn down hospitality. Of course, the barkeep wasn't acting purely out of charity; it was a token of appreciation for a sudden surge in sales.
The barkeep hadn't been the only one watching. Across the tavern, patrons had their eyes glued to Eron from the moment he walked in. With very few exceptions, mages were high-born aristocrats who would never step foot into a dingy dive like this. A youth strolling in with a staff strapped to his back was an exotic spectacle, naturally drawing every gaze in the room.
And beneath that collective scrutiny, this striking young mage had thrown his head back and relished his beer with sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. The combination of his handsome features and theatrical delight served as an irresistible advertisement. Men who normally nursed the cheapest dregs began shouting for bottles of expensive Golden Beer one after another.
With his coin box filling up fast, the barkeep was only too happy to treat his lucky charm to a drink.
Gulp, gulp.
Wait… what is this? Did they switch the brew?
Now that his initial thirst was slaked, Eron's palate finally registered the actual flavor. It was flat. Cloyingly sweet. A muddy clash of various mashed grains that didn't taste like proper alcohol at all.
And this passes for high-end beer…?
Golden Beer was indeed a luxury in these parts, celebrated for having richer aroma than common grog and being the only brew served over ice. But to Eron's modern sensibilities, it fell woefully short. Leaving taste aside, it simply didn't match what he wanted from a beer. His enthusiasm evaporating, he quietly lowered his mug and turned to his original purpose.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Hm? What is it, lad? Need something else?”
“No, I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Questions, you say?”
Ordinarily, dealing with a mage meant bowing and scraping with honorifics, but this tavern keeper despised stiff formalities. That distaste was precisely why he avoided aristocratic spellcasters and ran his tavern in a manner that discouraged high-society patrons. Yet seeing Eron's easygoing manner—not to mention the coin he had brought in—the barkeep found himself genuinely liking the boy.
For the first time in years, he felt inclined to hold an honest conversation with a mage.
“You're a wizard, aren't you? Quite different from the rest of your lot. The others usually…”
“Act like arrogant jerks, right?” Eron finished smoothly.
While not every mage was insufferable, the odds were overwhelmingly high. Most were born nobles raised on privilege, carrying a toxic sense of entitlement.
“Hah! Hahaha! You're a refreshingly blunt one, kid!”
Eron's cheerful candor endeared him to the barkeep even further.
“Say, is there a reliable place in this city to conduct a quiet transaction?”
“A transaction? What sort?”
“I have an item I'd like to sell off the books.”
Seeing that he had earned the man's favor faster than expected, Eron cut straight to the chase, confident he could extract the information he needed.
“Normally, I keep my mouth shut about this sort of business,” the barkeep said, stroking his scruffy beard in brief contemplation. “But I like you, kid, so I'll give it to you straight.”
Running an establishment like this, he rarely peddled underworld rumors. Getting tangled in shady affairs brought trouble, and he had no desire to turn his tavern into an information broker's den. Yet Eron was so completely unlike the haughty mages he despised that he decided to offer a genuine warning.
“Don't sell it in this city. Move on to another town. The brokers around here have a foul reputation. If you want, I can write you an introduction to someone I trust in the next city over.”
Eron raised an eyebrow. That's far better intel than I bargained for.
Most brokers would have simply pointed him toward a local fence. Warning him away from danger went above and beyond. It seemed the barkeep had taken an exceptional liking to him.
Still, trekking all the way to another city sounded tedious. Even if he took a slight loss, dealing with it locally would save a lot of time.
“Is the local market really that bad?”
“Asking me means you want to steer clear of the official trade halls, right?”
“That's right.”
“Word is, the black market dealers here are in bed with the official guilds. The two sides are running dirty rackets together, trapping folks from both ends. If you don't want a noose around your neck, take your goods elsewhere.”
Well, if they're colluding, that settles it.
Eron nodded in understanding. Strolling into a trap just to save a few hours of walking was foolish. Unless there was a compelling reason, he had zero desire to entangle himself in local corruption.
“Understood. Then… have you heard any interesting rumors lately?”
“Rumors?”
“Anything that hasn't come to light yet, but smells suspicious. An incident brewing under the surface, perhaps?”
“Hmph. You ask the strangest things, kid.” Even as he grunted, the barkeep leaned back, sifting through the countless scraps of gossip he had overheard from drunken travelers.
“Now that you mention it, there've been whispers about Demonfolk lately. A few patrons were muttering about it over the past couple of weeks.”
“Demonfolk? Around here?”
Eron's eyes narrowed. If demons were involved, that wasn't just interesting—it was monumental.
Of course, ninety percent of demon rumors turned out to be baseless hysteria or unrelated crimes blamed on mythical monsters. But if there was even a grain of truth to it, an incident involving a demon would shake the entire territory.
Just as Eron leaned forward to ask for more details—
“Hweee~ Why is the room spinning around…?”
Eron froze, his gaze dropping to the counter.
Ifrit was staggering across the wood like a drunken old sot, her tiny translucent wings fluttering erratically as she wobbled from left to right.
What on earth is she doing? She can't be drunk off of—wait, she is. She's completely plastered.
Looking closely at his mug, the level of liquid had dropped by a nearly imperceptible fraction. The tiny spirit had clearly sneaked a sip while he was talking.
“Whoaaa~ Everything feels so soft and floaty~ I've never felt like this before in my whole life~!”
You have wings, you idiot! You float every single day!
“Good grief… what am I going to do with you?” Eron muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Eh? Did you say something, lad?”
“No, nothing at all. Could you tell me a little more about those Demonfolk rumors?”
After prying every last detail he could from the cooperative tavern keeper, Eron gently scooped up the swaying, hiccuping fire spirit, tucked her safely into his coat pocket, and stepped out into the crisp evening air.