Chapter 22: Fucking Hangover
I sat there in the tavern, back slightly slouched against the wooden chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest and the other wrapped around a cold mug of whatever brew they were serving here. I didn't ask what it was, it burned going down, kicked like a pissed-off mule, and that was good enough for me.
For the first time since waking up in that godforsaken goblin sex dungeon, I was relaxed. Like actually relaxed. No screaming, no running, no green dicks flopping in a poorly lit cave, and no people begging me to save them. Just the buzz of idle conversation around the tavern, the occasional clink of mugs, and this weirdly satisfying hum of life that came from being surrounded by strangers with no expectations of me.
God, it felt good.
I leaned back and took another long gulp. The warmth spread through my stomach, that slow, creeping kind of warmth that eventually curled up into your brain and patted your thoughts on the back like, "Hey buddy, take a break. You've earned it." And maybe I had. At least enough to sit here like a half-broke adventurer soaking up the normalcy of city life.
There were adventurers nearby, loud ones, quiet ones, beastkin, humans, a few demi-humans with those distinctive tails or ears. But still, no elves. Not a single one. Strange. You'd think a massive city like Torak would have at least one or two pointy-eared people walking around, but so far—zip.
Anyway, that wasn't my problem.
After a while and a few more sips of this cheap, burning liquor, I started to feel it. That kind of warm, heady buzz that starts behind your eyes and makes the wood of the table feel smoother than it really is. I closed my eyes for a second, exhaled slow through my nose, and let my head loll back slightly.
It hit me, I didn't have to fight anything tonight. Nobody was going to scream my name in desperation. No blood, no gore, no countdown timer, no system voices nagging me about "Mission Objectives." It was just me, a drink, and this rickety tavern.
"Yeah…" I murmured, mostly to myself. "I could get used to this."
Eventually, I pushed back from the table, stretching my arms overhead until I heard something pop in my shoulder. Damn, I was still sore from everything. I wasn't even sure which bruises were from the goblin chief and which ones were from that damn tree I slept in. Whatever. Didn't matter now.
I made my way up the creaking stairs, one slow, heavy step at a time. My room wasn't much, modest, a little too clean to be cheap but a little too bland to be fancy. The wooden floor creaked under my feet, the bed was still made (bless whoever did that), and the cool night air wafted through a small window just above the desk. I peeled off my shirt, tossed it carelessly onto the chair, and flopped onto the mattress face-first.
I sank into it. No blood, no goblins, no magic beasts.
Just... blessed, glorious quiet.
---
I woke up to the thunderous sound of pain stomping through my skull.
"Uuugh… what the actual fuuuu…"
Words didn't finish. They couldn't. My tongue felt like it had been rolled in sandpaper, my eyes throbbed against the daylight bleeding through the curtains, and my head… oh gods, my head was its own percussion section pounding out a war rhythm with no mercy.
I tried to sit up. Bad idea. My stomach did this weird swirl and I flopped right back down like a ragdoll thrown by an emotionally repressed child.
"Okay…" I croaked. "Lesson learned. Maybe… maybe don't drink like you've got liver insurance in a fantasy world."
This was the kind of hangover that made you consider permanent sobriety… or death. Whichever came first.
Eventually, I peeled myself off the bed like a slice of sad bacon and dragged my aching carcass to the washbasin. Cold water helped a bit. Not much, but enough to open my eyes fully and stop squinting like I was trying to see through a solar eclipse.
Right. No training today. Not even going to pretend I was that guy. I wasn't Rocky Balboa. I wasn't going to punch frozen beef while half-dead. No ki, no mental focus, no sweet, glowing progress bar. Today was going to be a different kind of productive.
Today was for capitalism.
I needed to sell those orbs, unload the armor, get some coin in my pocket, and maybe buy some actual gear that didn't reek of goblin sex pits. After that, I'd hit up a library or bookstore—whatever passed for one in this city. There were too many blank spots in my brain when it came to the world of Artaros. Geography, history, magic systems, politics, economics, calendars... hell, even knowing how long a day was would be helpful. I wasn't going to keep bluffing forever.
But first… godsdamn it, this hangover.
I staggered around the room, pulled on my clothes, which smelled slightly better than death and strapped the loot into a makeshift carrying rig I'd fashioned from scavenged goblin belts. The orbs were still intact: two red, two blue, and one green. Magic-infused, obviously. Hopefully valuable.
The armor was still mostly crap, but intact crap. Some of the pieces still had dried blood on them. It added character.
Sword? Still there. Still heavy as hell. Still Dux, my black beauty of a ki-fed murder machine. He was resting quietly in his scabbard back with the System Admin.
Once I was geared up, I trudged down the stairs like a hungover zombie in search of brains or at least a healing potion that didn't taste like dog piss.
The innkeeper, tall and rail-thin as ever, gave me a side glance as I passed the counter.
"You look like a war crime, son," he squeaked in that high-pitched voice that absolutely didn't match his terrifying height.
"Thanks, I feel like one," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Hey, I'm going out. If I don't come back, assume I've sold myself to a shady pawnshop and drank myself into another oblivion."
"I'll keep your room unlocked," he said cheerfully.
What a guy.