Chapter 45: Chapton

The nights on the continent of Aifala, at least for the vast majority of humans living upon it, were quiet and dangerous.

Aside from certain large cities that possessed sufficient combat readiness and solid defenses, "bustle" and "prosperity" were terms rarely associated with human settlements under the cover of night.

After all, no one could guarantee that the ravenous, nocturnal monsters wandering the wilds wouldn't be drawn by the lights of your home.

Of course, for River Valley Town—and specifically the street where the Adventurers' Guild was located—it was a different story entirely.

"Waaah... Hahaha!"

"Another round! Another round!"

"Where's my rat-meat platter? Why isn't it here yet!"

The warm, bright lights seemed to blur slightly amidst the swirling aromas of alcohol and food in the air.

The crystal-clear liquid splashing from swaying cups, the orange-red flames dancing in the hearth, and even the sweating, green young waiter weaving through the patrons...

The White Tit Tavern at night was almost another world.

*Thud!*

A wooden chair was overturned as a bearded barbarian, bare-chested and displaying a physique of lean, hardened muscle, suddenly leapt onto a dining table.

Ignoring the scraps of food clinging to his leather boots, he gripped a wooden tankard and, amidst the cheers of the crowd, began to perform a traditional tribal dance, swaying his scarred body somewhat awkwardly.

Beside him, an equally high-spirited bard leaned back with legs crossed, elegantly strumming a lyre to accompany him.

At the next table, a dwarf with a reddish-brown braided beard gritted his teeth, his steel-hard arms bulging with blood as he engaged in an arm-wrestling match with a burly human opposite him.

The onlookers behind them jeered and cheered intermittently, causing both men at the table to flush red, fearing they might lose face in front of these spectators who lived for the spectacle.

In the tavern hall, behind the bar.

Chapton was focused intently on polishing a glass in his hand.

His fingertips pressed against a soft cloth, moving from the base up the body of the glass, following its curve to meticulously scrape away every stain and fingerprint; then, he reached inside, using the strength of his wrist to rotate and clean every corner of the interior.

Facing the clamor beyond the bar, he did not lift his head. He was meticulous and serious, as if he were caressing a lover's hand.

Only occasionally, when the barbarian's boots struck the table heavily with his dance steps, or when the dwarf won his test of strength and slammed his palm-like hand onto the table in excitement, did his two thin whiskers twitch imperceptibly.

This scene occurred almost every night since the White Tit Tavern was established.

As the owner of the tavern, Chapton knew this well and had long since grown accustomed to it.

Running a tavern was not simple, yet it wasn't overly complicated either.

First, you needed to investigate the business status of local competitors and the identities and spending power of your primary customers before selecting a good piece of land.

On this point, Chapton believed he had done well.

The White Tit Tavern occupied an excellent location adjacent to the Adventurers' Guild, offering a full range of food and drink—from expensive options that "reflected status" to cheap ones for those "seeking value."

This allowed everyone, from professionals whose single piece of equipment could equal his annual income to low-level adventurers making a living hunting goblins, to spend a relatively pleasant night in the tavern.

Second, you had to maintain good relations with those connected to the tavern.

From the town's law enforcement officers and high-ranking adventurers down to the cleaners responsible for waste disposal.

Gold coins paved the way, making everything smooth.

Otherwise, who knew if a poisonous monster's corpse might suddenly appear in your kitchen one day, or if some drunken, rowdy adventurer might tear your tavern apart.

Finally, and most importantly—the point Chapton most wished young people entering this profession would understand

Do not be a killjoy when adventurers have just finished a dangerous and grueling day of tasks and are in desperate need of alcohol and socializing to vent their energy.

Otherwise... the bills of consecutive annual losses and the massive expenses for healing potions would tell you why.

Of course, when faced with certain adventurers whose behavior became too extreme to be reined in, his three-digit annual "management fee" was not paid in vain.

There were always people who came to solve those problems for him.

He gently placed the cleaned glass back into the wooden cabinet.

Ignoring the increasingly loud clamor in the hall, Chapton took out a fresh cloth and began wiping the bar top, thinking to himself

"Ms. Edwina of the 'Grassy Cauldron' seems to have new potions on the market recently; I should send over two bottles of 'Lava's Sigh' some other day."

"Mr. Flan's son has a birthday next month. I heard they've hired a professional for special training; a well-crafted one-handed sword should make a good birthday gift."

*Creak—*

The stiff sound of the wooden door hinges rubbing, accompanied by a chilling wind seeping through the crack, pulled Chapton back from his thoughts.

He instinctively looked up.

What met his eyes was a tall, slender young man with black hair.

His neat, short hair was slightly disheveled by the night wind outside; his lip line was thin and clear, and his long, narrow, pitch-black eyes seemed to come from the deep night beyond the door.

His features gave off an immediate sense of sharpness and coldness.

He appeared to have just returned from an adventure; the cracks on his leather armor were clearly visible, and even small bloodstains clung to the clothing around his arms.

He carried two weapons on his back—one long and one short. The long one revealed a hint of a iron-gray blade beneath its scabbard, while the short one was tightly wrapped in bandages, making its specific appearance impossible to discern.

"A dual-wielder?" Chapton thought to himself.

It was a bit strange.

Whether it was the current time or his attire, he clearly looked like someone who had just finished a mission.

Yet, the youth himself did not possess the fatigue or hardship one would expect from an adventurer after a long journey and countless battles.

On the contrary.

He was full of spirit and energy.

As if he had already been resting in town for many days.

"Did he rest during the day and rush through the night?"

"That shouldn't be possible. The Misty Forest is so dangerous; how could anyone dare to travel at night?"

After a moment of thought, finding no answer, Chapton stopped dwelling on it.

Having run a tavern for many years, he had seen all kinds of strange people.

And the countless stories circulating among the patrons had told him repeatedly: for those in the adventurer profession—

Do not be nosy.

However, just because he understood this principle did not mean everyone else did.

The black-haired youth had clearly attracted some attention.

No sooner had he walked into the tavern and approached the bar than a drunken figure, clutching a wine cup, stumbled toward him

"Kid, you new here?"

(End of Chapter)