Chapter Two: Kevin, Lacking Inspiration

In the year 1339 of the Common Era, it had been nearly four centuries since the various races of the continent last waged war. Of course, minor skirmishes were unavoidable now and then—every decade or so, the beastmen from the savage western wilds would storm the borders of human lands, bellowing their eternal motto, “Beastmen will never be slaves!” Yet in truth, to serve as a slave in a human noble’s household was a life of far higher quality than that of most impoverished beastmen in their native lands.

The civil war among the elves, too, had yet to fully subside; the light and dark elves remained ever at odds. Even among the human nations, open hostilities broke out from time to time—not only between countries but also among the great lords within a single realm, their disputes over fiefs an endless source of strife. Still, these were but petty quarrels. At times, the size of the armies might appear daunting, but in reality, few battles were truly fought. The kind of calamitous war that left thousands of commoners homeless and battlefields strewn with the dead had not occurred in nearly four hundred years.

Prolonged peace, after all, is the cradle of cultural prosperity. The nobility grew ever richer, their bellies always full; the common folk, with diligent labor, could at least earn enough to eat their fill. Each person might pursue their own talents—commerce, magical research, adventuring, the arts—success could be found in many fields. It was no longer an age where martial prowess alone reigned supreme.

In the Church of Light, many cardinals possessed not a shred of martial skill. There was even a tale of a bishop who, while proselytizing, was beaten to the ground by a mere farmer. Yet these bishops, with their silver tongues, were far more effective at spreading the faith than the sword-wielding paladins. The Church of Light’s dominion across the continent was not earned at the edge of a blade.

The Royal Academy had produced six Sword Saints and three Grand Magisters, earning its reputation as one of the continent’s premier institutions. Its headmaster, Anthony, was a master of spatial magic, having even developed the advanced technology of constructing teleportation gates throughout the realm to shorten journeys—a monumental contribution to the world, for which he was hailed as the Father of Teleportation. Yet in magical duels, he was still outmatched by his deputy, Gandalf.

Another vice principal, Luke, after tireless research, finally solved the problem of male impotence with magic. For this, he was revered by the nobility as the Father of Virility. Lacking the least bit of martial ability—he would fare poorly against a peasant in a fight—he was nonetheless received as an honored guest by nearly every noble and even kings.

It seemed that only in the songs of bards did the world remain one where strength was supreme. Their protagonists were often the scions of fallen noble houses, bullied by other nobles or spurned by noblewomen—until, one day, stumbling upon a chamber pot by the riverside. Bringing it home and relieving himself within, he would unwittingly summon an ancient god, who, undisturbed by his disrespect, insisted it was fate. Thereafter, with the god’s aid, this disgraced youth would overturn the entire continent, ascend to the divine realm, then topple the gods themselves, then the gods of the gods, and so forth, ad infinitum…

At some point, such tales became the mainstream among bards. Most protagonists were young nobles, for the principal readers of such escapist stories were young nobles themselves. As literacy spread among commoners, some stories shifted their focus from fallen nobles to ordinary folk. With the rising status of women, works catering to female readers also appeared.

Every great nation had laws forbidding bards from insulting their kings or nobles. As a result, many bards’ heroes, though powerful enough to slap down the sun itself, still bowed respectfully to the king—a laughable contradiction. Soon, bards avoided such scenarios by writing tales set in other worlds, where their imaginations could fashion familiar yet distinct realms and once again, let heroes find chamber pots by the riverside…

Yet even with such repetitive plots, these stories found immense popularity among the nobility and spread even to the common folk. Bards made handsome profits—an undeniable success. With ever more teleportation gates established, the flow of information between regions quickened, and future tales would grow longer still—perhaps ascending even more “godly” realms.

Of course, not every bard could succeed. Beneath the exalted ranks of the most renowned bards was a sea of struggling poets. Few read their works; lacking noteworthy talent, they could only roam taverns, seeking a prominent spot during the evening rush to sing, tell tales, or display some other skill. If their performance drew crowds, the tavern might hire them on, ensuring at least a living wage.

But not every tavern enjoyed the presence of a bard. Remote mountain villages offered little profit, their simplefolk uncultured and difficult to understand with their heavy accents. Even the most eloquent poet, after a whole evening’s effort, might earn only a couple of black loaves of bread—hardly worth the trouble compared to begging at a noble’s door.

Still, exceptions occurred. Today, the mountain hamlet of Samms received its first bard.

The village counted barely twenty households, a remote and impoverished place at least three mountains’ journey on foot from the nearest town—a trek of three days. The villagers lived by hunting and farming; the surrounding mountains harbored no magical beasts, no ancient ruins, nothing to tempt adventurers. It was an unremarkable little village, one of thousands scattered across the land.

At the village entrance stood a small tavern, run by the village elder—the sole source of entertainment for the community. It was now May, spring in full bloom, and after enduring the winter’s chill, people were lively once more. By evening, the tavern was filled; after a day’s work, the men gathered here to relax, listening intently as the bard in their midst spun tales, punctuating the story with sips of ale and excited glances, their eyes alight with anticipation.

“Miss Rezia now sat quietly in her chamber. The flowers in the room released a gentle fragrance, and the jewels upon her person shimmered in the candlelight. Her skin was exquisitely smooth, her hands soft as silk, and her bosom—why, at least this grand!” The bard gestured passionately before his chest, as if cradling two great pineapples.

A low, appreciative growl arose from the crowd. The men drank, trading knowing looks, the air growing ever more heated.

These rustic villagers cared nothing for flowery language; gestures spoke louder than words. The bard clearly understood his audience. The wear on his shoes and trouser hems showed he was a seasoned traveler, but his attire was spotlessly clean—a white robe that hardly fit in this smoky tavern.

Around his neck hung a badge, proof of his certification by the Bardic Guild. It bore his name: Kevin Induquisting.

The tale Kevin told was one everyone on the continent had heard a dozen times over. Miss Rezia had truly existed, a noblewoman some two centuries prior, famed for eloping with one of her own guards. A certain bard had once sought to write a touching love story about her, but for reasons lost to history, it had become a bawdy joke instead.

The truth of the matter was now impossible to verify, and the noble house long since fallen. Yet the dirty joke about her had spread across the continent, retold in countless versions by bards far and wide, making her infamous as perhaps the world’s most notorious wanton woman.

“Miss Rezia’s family was exceedingly wealthy,” Kevin continued, “their estate so vast they could fill this room with steaks alone. They could open a tavern ten times this size and drink themselves silly all year without running dry.”

Another round of eager exclamations.

“And just then, someone knocked at her door!” Kevin rapped lightly on the table, mimicking a knock. “The lady called out, ‘Who is it?’”

“From outside came the guard’s voice: ‘Miss, are you asleep?’” Kevin imitated the exchange. “‘No, I’m not. What is it, so late at night?’”

“‘Miss, I... I was hoping we might take a walk together,’ the guard stammered.”

“‘At this hour, whatever for?’ the lady replied.”

“‘Let’s go work in the fields together?’ the guard pleaded, his tone earnest.”

These country folk could hardly imagine a noblewoman’s life; no amount of explanation could change that. To them, even the king probably spent his days farming with a golden hoe. Thus, Kevin adapted the old joke, recasting it in terms the villagers could understand.

“‘But I’m afraid,’ the lady hesitated.”

“Bang! The guard could restrain himself no longer. ‘Miss, it’s all right—that way lies the sorghum fields. The stalks are high, no one will see us. We can happily... farm together.’”

The lady wavered, but the guard seized her, stooping to scoop her into his arms. Savoring the scent of her, he felt a surge of strength, his breath growing rapid with anticipation, and he hurried out the door, bearing her toward the tall sorghum.

Amid the whisper of grass, the guard gently set her down, and they gazed into each other's eyes. He leaned closer, and closer, until he softly kissed her lips—the taste intoxicating. His right hand cupped her neck, then slid downward, skillfully unfastening the buttons at her collar—one, two—his fingertips tracing her delicate skin, the sensation...

“Ahem. That’s all for tonight. The rest will have to wait for tomorrow!” Kevin suddenly glanced toward the window, then flashed a smile at his audience.

“Oh, come on!” “Not now!” “Can’t you finish the story?” The tavern erupted in disappointed protest, but dusk had indeed fallen and the hour was late. Besides, the tale belonged to the teller. Still, everyone was clearly eager for the next installment, and after a moment’s complaint, the farmers began inventing their own continuations.

These men, though uneducated, were mostly in their middle years or older, and having drunk their fill, many began to recount their own domestic escapades, unconsciously casting themselves as the guard, continuing the story with Miss Rezia. Kevin never described the male protagonist’s features in detail—so anyone could imagine himself in the role.

Kevin calmly approached the bar, where the innkeeper—also the village elder—served as bartender. In this small village, he and his wife took turns running the place. As agreed, the elder handed over five black loaves and three copper coins as payment for the evening’s entertainment.

“Thank you,” Kevin accepted the payment with composure, wrapping the bread and tucking it into his pack.

“It was an excellent tale—I was getting excited myself,” the elder said, a hint of regret on his face. “A pity it was only half-finished! If you’d just finished it tonight, it would have been perfect!”

Kevin merely smiled in reply.

The elder went on. “I’ll have my wife come listen with me tomorrow.”

“Ah... That won’t be necessary,” Kevin replied, visibly hesitant.

“What’s this? Are you looking down on my wife?” The elder’s expression darkened.

“No, you misunderstand,” Kevin explained. “If there are ladies present, I’ll tell of the continent’s history, of the wars of gods and demons, or perhaps the doctrines of the Church of Light. I might share the love story of Tryndamere and Ashe. But I will not tell bawdy tales!”

“Why not?” The elder seemed perplexed.

“To tell such tales before a lady is to openly insult and mock her,” Kevin replied.

“I don’t see the problem,” the elder said, his values clearly at odds.

“No! I am a gentleman!” Kevin insisted. “I have my own code of conduct.”

The elder was speechless.

“If ladies come tomorrow, I’ll be delighted,” Kevin continued. “I’ll tell everyone about the wide world beyond, about our nation’s long history and its endless heroes—stories far more interesting than bawdy jokes. Of course, if no women come, I’ll finish Miss Rezia’s story. How does that sound?”

The elder considered, glanced at the satisfied faces of his patrons, and finally nodded.

“Very well, that’s all for tonight. See you tomorrow, Elder.” Kevin turned to leave.

“See you tomorrow, good sir,” the elder replied courteously, watching as Kevin departed.

A few curious farmers sidled over. “Elder, what does ‘gentleman’ mean?”

The elder, more worldly than the others thanks to his trips to town, knew the word but not quite how to explain it. After a moment’s awkwardness, he replied, “A gentleman? That’s him! The way he is—that’s a gentleman!”

The farmers returned to their tables, puzzled, and began debating the meaning of “gentleman.” Soon, they reached a consensus: “A gentleman must be someone who tells bawdy tales—and tells them well. Ordinary folks aren’t fit to be gentlemen!”