Chapter 45: Chapton

The nights on the Ephara Continent, for most humans living upon it, were tranquil yet dangerous.

Except for a few large cities with sufficient defenses and fortifications, “Noisy” and “Bustling” were rarely associated with human settlements under the cover of night.

After all, no one could guarantee that the ravenous, nocturnal magical creatures prowling the wilds wouldn’t be drawn to the lights of your home.

Of course, for River Valley Town, particularly the street where the Adventurer’s Guild stood, it was a different scene altogether.

“Wow… hahaha!”

“Another round! Another round!”

“Where’s my rat meat platter? Why isn’t it here yet?”

The warm, bright lights seemed to blur faintly under the haze of alcohol and food aromas in the air.

The glistening liquor splashing from cups, the orange-red flames curling in the fireplace, and even the sweaty, inexperienced waiter weaving through the patrons…

The White Sparrow Tavern at night was practically another world.

Thud—

A wooden chair toppled as a bare-chested, burly barbarian with a full beard, his body rippling with lean muscle, leapt onto a table.

Ignoring the food and drink staining his boots, he clutched a wooden mug, awkwardly swaying his scarred body to the cheers of the crowd, performing a traditional tribal dance.

Nearby, an equally enthusiastic bard leaned back, legs crossed, strumming a lyre with flair to accompany him.

At the next table, a dwarf with a reddish-brown braided beard gritted his teeth, his iron-like arm bulging as he arm-wrestled a sturdy human.

The onlookers behind them jeered and shouted, making both competitors flush red, desperate not to lose face in front of the rowdy, thrill-seeking crowd.

In the tavern’s main hall, behind the bar,

Chapton focused intently on polishing a wine glass.

His fingertips pressed a soft cloth from the base along the curve of the glass, meticulously scraping off stains and fingerprints; then he reached inside, using wrist movements to clean every corner of the interior.

Amid the clamor beyond the bar, he didn’t look up, his attention meticulous, as if caressing a lover’s hand.

Only when the barbarian’s boots stomped heavily on the table or the dwarf, victorious in the arm-wrestling match, slammed his broad hand on the wood in excitement,

did his handlebar mustache tremble faintly, almost imperceptibly.

This scene played out nearly every night since the White Sparrow Tavern was established.

As the tavern’s owner, Chapton knew it well and had long grown accustomed.

Running a tavern wasn’t exactly simple, but it wasn’t overly complex either.

First, you needed to research the local competition, the clientele’s identities, and their spending power, then choose a prime location.

On this, Chapton felt he’d done well.

The White Sparrow Tavern’s prime spot next to the Adventurer’s Guild, coupled with its range of offerings—from pricey “status-symbol” items to affordable “value-for-money” drinks and food—

ensured that whether it was professionals with equipment worth a year of his income or bottom-tier adventurers scraping by hunting goblins, all could spend a relatively pleasant night in the tavern.

Second, you had to build good relations with those tied to the tavern’s operations.

From town sheriffs and high-level adventurers to the garbage collectors.

Gold coins paved the way, invincible.

Otherwise, who knew when a poisonous creature’s corpse might appear in your kitchen or a drunken adventurer might wreck your tavern.

Lastly, and most importantly, the one thing Chapton wished every aspiring tavern owner knew—

never spoil the mood when adventurers, fresh from a day of dangerous and grueling tasks, needed alcohol and socializing to blow off steam.

Otherwise… mounting losses and hefty healing potion bills would teach you why.

Of course, for overly rowdy behavior that spiraled out of control, his annual “management fee” in the triple digits wasn’t paid for nothing.

Someone would handle it for him.

He gently placed the polished wine glass back in the wooden cabinet.

Ignoring the increasingly loud racket in the hall,

Chapton took a fresh cloth, wiping the bar counter, musing:

“Ms. Edwina from ‘Green Grass Crucible’ seems to have new potions coming out soon. I could send over a couple bottles of ‘Lava Sigh’ another day.”

“Mr. Fran’s son has a birthday next month. I heard he’s hired a professional for special training. A finely crafted single-handed sword would make a good gift.”

Creak—

The grating sound of wooden door hinges, accompanied by a chill seeping through the gap, snapped Chapton from his thoughts.

He instinctively looked up.

Before him stood a tall, lean young man with black hair.

His neat, short hair was slightly tousled by the night breeze, his lips thin and sharp, his narrow yet striking black eyes like the deep night beyond the door.

His features, at a glance, exuded a sharp, cold aura.

He seemed fresh from an adventure, with visible cracks in his leather armor and faint bloodstains on his arm’s clothing.

On his back were two weapons—one long, with an iron-gray blade peeking from its sheath, and one short, tightly wrapped in bandages, its form obscured.

“Dual-wielder?”

Chapton mused inwardly.

Something felt odd.

The time of night and the young man’s attire clearly suggested he’d just finished a mission.

Yet he didn’t carry the exhaustion and weariness Chapton associated with adventurers after long journeys and countless battles.

On the contrary,

he was brimming with energy, in top form.

As if he’d already rested in town for days.

“Did he rest during the day and travel at night?”

“No way. The Mist Forest is so dangerous—who’d dare travel at night?”

Pondering briefly, unable to make sense of it,

Chapton let it go.

Years of running a tavern had shown him all sorts of odd characters.

And the stories circulating among the patrons had taught him one thing about adventurers—

don’t pry.

But while he understood this, not everyone did.

The black-haired youth, clearly catching some attention, had just walked into the tavern and reached the bar

when a drunken figure, clutching a mug, staggered over:

“Kid, new around here?”

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