Chapter Thirty-Nine: Tales from the Tavern

The night passed quietly, and Kevin spent it in the humble little hut. The local mercenaries had repeatedly warned him not to venture out after nightfall—it was dangerous. The three assassins seemed to be busy with something and had disappeared without a trace, only instructing Kevin to remain nearby so they could find him at any time.

Since they didn’t want Kevin and his companion to join the investigation, Kevin was happy to enjoy a rare moment of leisure. After a good night’s sleep, he and Jack went out for a stroll. He didn’t summon the parrot—according to the bird, the people here were quite uncivilized, always throwing stones at it. The parrot had already survived six or seven such attacks. Thankfully, it was still alive.

In the early morning, the weather was pleasant. Groups of mercenaries took advantage of the cool air to head out of the city on errands. There were also market stalls selling local specialty fruits and other goods. The commoners dressed simply; most men wore a tattered vest over their shoulders, with trousers cropped short, some in straw sandals and others barefoot. Women were rarely seen outside, and if they left home, it was always in groups.

Most of the houses were wooden, and the roads were just packed earth, littered with horse and cow dung. There didn’t appear to be any street sweepers. But soon, farmers would come and collect the dung. Asked what use they had for it, they replied they didn’t know, only that someone from the neighboring country of Bauler would buy it for a small sum.

Farmers only collected the dung and ignored everything else. The roads were bumpy, flooded in places, and overgrown with weeds, but no one cared. Their philosophy was that the more people walked a path, the more it would become a road. They never repaired the streets; even if rain turned the road into a river, it didn’t matter, since many people didn’t wear shoes anyway.

Thieves were rampant here, and they didn’t care what others thought. Their methods were crude, and no one intervened. Perhaps they began with stealth, but when discovered, they would simply resort to open robbery. Three or five would surround a target and steal from them, even with city guards nearby, who would just step aside.

At that moment, the victim had only two choices: either hand over their money quietly, or draw their sword and resist. Life and death were up to fate. Of course, thieves weren’t suicidal—if they sensed real resistance, they’d retreat. If anyone died or was injured, the guards would eventually come, toss the body into a mass grave, and leave the bloodstains where they fell.

Thus, there was never any talk of weapon bans in Libozir. Any commoner could carry any level of weapon. The motto here was “protect yourself, and if you die, it’s your own fault. If you want revenge, that’s your business.” The city guards served the king, not the people.

That said, should a commoner find a magical artifact by the river, someone would certainly covet it, find a pretext to kill him, and claim it for themselves. The people here had internalized the logic of banditry. Theft and even murder caused no guilt—they believed that being strong made something yours. If you resisted, they’d scoff: “You, so worthless, dare to desire wealth?”

Given this bandit mentality, the average life expectancy in Libozir was less than thirty years. There were almost no elders on the streets, only hot-blooded youth.

The literacy rate was only ten percent; pick any ten people and only one could write his own name. Mercenaries needed others to read their tasks aloud; otherwise, they’d have no idea what they were hired to do. Thus, the Mercenary Guild had created a unique profession: the Task Reader. Official announcements were read aloud for the illiterate, with a special announcer assigned nearby.

When Kevin lived here years ago, he sometimes asked commoners, “Why don’t you learn to read?”

They would retort, “Why should I learn?”

“At least you could understand the announcements yourself.”

“There’s someone to read them out loud. Why should I bother?”

Kevin was left speechless.

As Kevin and Jack wandered the streets, their clothing marked them as foreigners of a higher status, and most thieves didn’t dare provoke them. Kevin casually shared anecdotes from his previous visits, and Jack, coming from a different country, was amazed—few outsiders could comprehend this bandit logic.

“How does anyone survive in this chaos?” Jack asked in disbelief.

“Anyone attacking another takes a risk. Over time, people become cautious or seek mercenary protection,” Kevin replied. “Don’t underestimate the traps in every commoner’s home—some even have tunnels leading far away.”

“It’s still hard to understand,” Jack shook his head. “There are so few people, yet so many mercenaries. How are there enough jobs?”

“Many mercenaries work for foreign interests,” Kevin explained. “I’m not sure for which countries exactly.”

They walked without incident as the sun climbed higher and the heat intensified. The market dispersed, and the streets emptied. Sweating, Kevin and Jack found a grand-looking tavern to rest in.

Inside, the tavern was lively. The bartender served them two chilled mugs of wheat ale and led them to a breezy window seat, where a fresh wind kept them cool.

Both were pleased and gave the bartender two silver coins as a tip. The bartender was delighted and offered them the company of some attractive women upstairs in private rooms. The two quickly refused, with Kevin insisting he was a gentleman. The bartender seemed perplexed but let it go.

Enjoying the cool breeze and icy ale, their moods improved. Many in the tavern glanced curiously at them, intrigued by their foreign attire.

A moment later, the tavern door opened, and a man dressed as a bard entered. He scanned the room and, spotting Kevin’s attire, his expression changed.

Kevin ignored him, gazing out the window with an air of leisure.

Applause broke out for the bard, clearly a regular performer here. With so many simple-minded folk, it was easy to sway them with stories—though no bard liked another bard in the audience during a performance.

But now, with a cheering crowd, he had no choice but to proceed, however awkwardly. He forced a smile and addressed the patrons.

“What would you like to hear?” the bard asked.

The crowd debated until someone called out, “Tell us about international affairs! We mercenaries often deal with foreigners.”

“Certainly,” the bard said, glancing warily at Kevin, who was still looking outside. “There haven’t been many changes lately, but I do have some interesting news. Did you hear about the commander of a mercenary company in Bauler who was…violated?”

The audience was instantly drawn in by this sensational headline.

The bard grinned. “This happened just a few days ago. It started when a rookie from an opposing legion was ambushed. The attackers were masked, but Bauler suspected the mercenary company. In Bauler, they take such things very seriously—even the death of a single soldier is a major incident, much more so than here. Since they suspected the company, they summoned the commander for questioning. Of course, he denied everything.”

“So what did they do? They resorted to torture. They found a degenerate, stripped the commander, and…well, you can imagine. ‘Will you talk now?’ they asked with each assault. The commander kept shaking his head, so they repeated the process. It was…beyond words.”

The tavern fell silent, everyone stunned by the story.

Kevin froze, staring blankly into his mug.

Jack, equally dumbfounded, glanced at Kevin, remembering his own experiences with such embarrassing situations.

“What happened after that?” someone in the tavern asked.

“What else could happen?” the bard replied. “They never got a confession. After the commander, the rest of the company suffered the same fate. Eventually, the torturer was too exhausted and switched to other punishments. The search goes on, but they probably won’t find anyone. Alas.”

Kevin snapped out of his stupor and took a sip from his mug.

Many in the tavern shook their heads. “How can that commander ever show his face again? Who would listen to him now?”

“It doesn’t matter—they all suffered the same fate,” the bard replied. “That’s Bauler for you—no human rights, pure tyranny. Not like our country! Here, we can carry swords and magical weapons openly—if you’ve got the money, you can buy anything.”

“Over there, even the nobles are restricted by rank when it comes to weapons,” the bard continued. “A mercenary company there can only have three hundred members—by law! Here, you can have as many as you like.”

He grew more animated. “If our mercenary companies faced theirs, any of ours could wipe out their strongest. Our fighters are on another level—always in combat, always sparring with regular armies. But their mercenaries? They haul rocks, catch chickens, even clean latrines—slave work! They think carrying a sword makes them soldiers? What a joke. No wonder their commander was humiliated like that.”

The audience, mostly mercenaries, nodded with pride. Yet some remained skeptical.

“I’ve met a few Bauler mercenaries who seemed quite capable,” one person ventured.

The bard shook his head in exasperation, as if the man’s stupidity was beyond words. “You’ve met a few? Of course, in a big country, there’ll be a few strong ones. But do you know the ratio? You see one strong man and think they’re all like that?”

“Exactly,” others chimed in. “What do you know? How many places have you been? Sit down, you fool!”

The man sat, a bit embarrassed, as the bard carried on. “Think about it—why aren’t our commanders ever subjected to such humiliation? Would our regular army allow it? What does that tell you? Use your heads!”

“Don’t be fooled by Bauler’s size. Internally, it’s a mess. The king lowered the requirements for commoners to become nobles, so now there are nobles everywhere. That’s trouble for both commoners and nobles. The economy is bound to collapse eventually, no matter how much business they have,” the bard declared.

“And don’t be impressed by their city walls—they didn’t even build them. There happened to be a mountain there, so they just leveled the top and dug a gate at the base. Over two hundred died during construction. Do you think anyone built a wall over twenty meters high brick by brick? Impossible. They just flattened the mountain and called it a wall.”

“Bauler is essentially an evil nation. Every necromancer in human history was from there. Both world wars were fought against necromancers. Rivers of blood, mountains of corpses—we must never forget. Our freedom today was hard-won.”

“Remember, everyone: don’t deal with people from Bauler. They’re arrogant, petty, stupid, ugly, and—well, let’s just say they’re lacking in other respects, too.”

The tavern nodded in agreement, pleased by the flattery. Kevin simply continued enjoying his drink and the cool breeze.

The bard, noticing Kevin’s silence, tried to provoke him. “What does our esteemed bard here think of my remarks?”

Kevin smiled. “As long as you’re happy.”

“So you agree with me,” the bard said, relieved, and launched into further slanderous tales about Bauler. Jack, at first able to tolerate it, soon grew more and more annoyed.

“Aren’t you going to argue with him?” Jack finally asked Kevin.

Kevin shook his head. “A few years ago, I might have cared. Now? On a hot day like this, I can’t be bothered.” Even the most eloquent debater doesn’t always want to argue. In recent years, foreign agents had paid many bards to spread rumors and twist the truth. Kevin had once debated them fiercely, able to recite the counterarguments by heart.

Now, back abroad and faced with the same old topics, he found them hardly worth debating. With the heat so oppressive, all he wanted to say was, “As long as you’re happy.”

With a creak, the door opened. Everyone turned to look as Little Spoon entered. She had changed into a bright green dress, the hem above her knees, revealing smooth, fair legs. The local mercenaries had never seen such a beauty—local women dressed very conservatively—and many stood up in excitement. The whole tavern erupted in howls.

The bard tried to approach her with a smile. “Miss, are you alone?”

“Get lost,” Little Spoon replied, expressionless, brushing past him.

The bard, embarrassed, tried to explain, “Don’t misunderstand, miss. We bards are all upright gentlemen.”

Little Spoon turned back with the same blank face. “I’m from Bauler. I’m arrogant, petty, stupid, ugly, and all the rest.”

The bard was speechless.

Little Spoon waved to Kevin and Jack. “Let’s go. I need to talk to you.”

The two followed her out, leaving behind a tavern full of drooling men and one very awkward bard.