I'm slumped in a creaky wooden chair in front of Liam's massive oak desk, still catching my breath from the colosseum beatdown that nearly turned me into an isekai pancake. The Guild Master's office feels cozier now, sunlight spilling through the crystal-clear windows, glinting off Solva's distant castle like a taunting reminder of my F-rank status. My cloak's torn, my shoulder's still stinging from that fireball graze, and my pride's taken a critical hit, but I'm alive, damn it.
Liam looms behind the desk, all scarred bulk and graying hair, his rune-etched sword now sheathed and propped against a bookshelf stuffed with tomes. His dark eyes study me, calm but unreadable, like he's deciding if I'm worth the paperwork. Over at the lounge, Masamato and Garrick are sprawled on the green-leather couches, chatting like old pals around that dented candelabra. I sneak a glance—Masamato's obsidian armor gleams faintly, and Garrick's nursing a fresh beer, his beard flecked with foam. Wait, don't tell me Garrick's buddies with Masamato too? Didn't they just meet? My otaku brain's screaming side-quest connections, but Liam's voice snaps me back.
"We'll start next month," he says, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled like a shonen mentor about to drop lore.
"What?!" I blurt, my voice cracking louder than a goblin's skull under a warhammer. My hype from surviving the duel—sword clashes, ice spikes, me not dying—crashes harder than my Sword of Absolute Death did in the dirt. I was ready to start swinging like a budget Kirito today, not wait a whole month!
Liam's brow twitches, a flicker of impatience.
"As a new student, you can't start now. You'll enter my school with the other newbies on the first day of next month. Clear?"
I slump deeper, disappointment sinking into my bones like a status debuff. All that adrenaline, all that main character energy from not getting skewered, gone to waste.
"Yeah, clear," I mumble, but inside I'm groaning. A month? What am I supposed to do, grind slimes for pocket change? My dreams of anime-style training montages—sweaty sparring, cool sword forms, maybe a wise-old-master speech—fade like a bad CG render.
"Great, You'll start on Zarnorak, the first day of next month," Liam adds, shuffling a scroll on his desk like he's already checked me off his to-do list.
"What did you say?" I blink, dumbfounded. Zarnorak? The hell is that? My brain lags, trying to parse if it's a place, a spell, or some cryptic guild code. I lean forward, maps crinkling in my lap from where I dropped them pre-duel.
"I mean, what's Zarnorak?"Liam's eyes narrow, and I swear he's two seconds from yeeting me back to the colosseum.
"Don't they have calendars in the village of Japan?" he says, voice dry as a desert dungeon. My jaw drops, heart lurching like I just aggro'd a raid boss. Japan?! How does he know?! My isekai secret's supposed to be locked tighter than a legendary loot chest
! "How—" I start, but Liam cuts me off, waving a hand like it's no big deal.
"Don't be so surprised. Masamato told me," he says, smirking faintly, like he enjoys watching me squirm.
"Oh, I see," I mutter, relief flooding me. Thank the goddess—wait, no, screw that old hag! I'm not thanking her for zapping me here with zero cheats. My brain's still reeling, but I latch onto the calendar thing to save face.
"Well, uh, my village uses a different calendar system."
Smooth, Kozuki. Totally not a clueless otherworlder. Liam nods, already done with me.
"I see. Ask Masamato about it. I'll see you next month." He gestures toward the lounge, dismissing me like an NPC who's overstayed their cutscene. I trudge to the lounge, my torn cloak swishing, the Sword of Absolute Death bumping my hip like it's sulking too. Masamato's leaning back, golden eyes glinting with amusement, while Garrick's mid-sip, beer sloshing dangerously. The cedar-and-wax scent of the office mixes with the faint whiff of ale, grounding me despite my crushed hype.
"So, what'd he say?" Garrick asks, wiping foam from his beard, his merchant grin ready for gossip.
"School starts next month," I say, flopping onto the couch, my maps crinkling under me.
"On something called Zarnorak."
"Well, that's great!" Masamato chimes in, clapping his hands like I just unlocked a quest.
"Gives you time to get used to Solva. Explore, maybe hunt some low-level beasts, rack up some coins."
"Yeah, I guess," I mutter, not feeling the enthusiasm. A month of what, dodging shady alley thugs and eating budget tavern slop? My F-rank card's burning a hole in my pocket, mocking me. Still, Masamato's got a point—Solva's a beast of a city, and I barely know its streets. Maybe I can level up my street smarts before Liam's boot camp.
"Well, let's go," I say, grabbing Kuilan's and Marco's maps from the antique table, their parchment edges worn from my death-grip during the duel. I stand, brushing dirt from my cloak, ready to limp back to the Hkou Inn and sleep off this disaster.
"Ok," Masamato says, rising with a stretch, his armor clanking softly. I glance at Garrick, who's kicking back like he owns the lounge.
"Btw, Garrick, you staying here?" I ask, half-curious if he's about to pitch Liam another enchanted hammer.
"Yeah, gonna hang for a bit," Garrick says, chuckling. "Try to sell Liam some stuff, hahahaha!"
His laugh booms, shaking the candelabra, and I can't help but smirk. Good luck, man—Liam doesn't seem the impulse-buy type. I'm halfway to the double doors, maps tucked under my arm, when Liam's voice stops me cold.
"Masamato, can you stay here for a bit?" His tone's sharp, like there's a side quest I'm not invited to. Masamato pauses, his golden eyes flicking to Liam, then to me. He nods slowly. "Kozuki, can you wait downstairs?"
"Sure, I guess," I say, shrugging, but my otaku senses tingle. Secret meeting? Plot hook? I push through the heavy oak doors, their hinges groaning, and leave Masamato, Garrick, and Liam behind, the office's warmth fading as I step into the guild's bustling hallway. What's that about? I wonder, but my legs are too sore to care. Downstairs it is—time to nurse my wounds and figure out what the hell Zarnorak is.
I trudged downstairs from the Guild Master's office, my boots echoing faintly on the marble steps, still sore from Liam's colosseum thrashing. The guild's library sprawled around me as I passed through, its towering walnut shelves packed with tomes and scrolls, the air heavy with ink and ozone. A wiry elf muttered over a map in one alcove, while a dwarf cursed at a tome thicker than my arm. The staff glided silently, shelving books with ninja precision, but I barely noticed, my mind stuck on Zarnorak and that cryptic meeting I wasn't invited to. What's Liam got Masamato staying for? Secret guild drama?
Downstairs, the guild hall was its usual chaotic self, a living beast of noise and grit, like the colosseum duel out back was just another Tuesday. Adventurers crowded the tables, their laughter and boasts drowning out the clink of tankards and the strum of a bard's lute in the corner. A burly guy with a braided beard roared about slaying a wyrm, his mates cheering, while a rogue in a sleek cloak haggled with a nervous recruit nearby. The bulletin board bristled with bounties—sketches of bandits and beasts fluttering as a warrior pinned a new flyer. The air was thick with sweat, ale, and oiled leather, the King's Statue looming over it all, its marble sword glinting like it was judging my F-rank existence. None of you saw me almost die out there, huh? Rude.
I spotted Jessie at the reception desk, raven hair gleaming, emerald eyes scanning a ledger with her usual S-tier waifu focus. She didn't look up, and I didn't bother waving—too busy nursing my bruises and my crushed hype. I wove through the crowd, dodging a mage's humming staff, and plopped into a chair at an empty table near the hearth. The wood creaked under me, and I dropped my crinkly maps—Kuilan's and Marco's—onto the table, their parchment edges curling like they were as tired as I was. My torn cloak smelled faintly of charred wool, and the Sword of Absolute Death bumped my hip, its red gem winking. Yeah, yeah, you didn't help much either.
A few minutes passed, my stomach grumbling as the scent of fresh bread wafted from somewhere. Then a voice chirped,
"What do you want to order, great adventurer?" I looked up to see a maid—yep, full-on frilly apron, white cap, the works—standing there with a tray and a smile that screamed customer service. Her auburn hair was tucked neatly under the cap, and her brown eyes sparkled with way more enthusiasm than I could muster.
"Umm, thanks, but I'm just here to wait for someone," I said, scratching my neck, feeling like a total noob for turning down food in a fantasy tavern.
"Ok, sir," she said, bowing her head slightly before gliding off, her skirt swishing as she vanished into the crowd. Great adventurer? Lady, I'm F-rank. Save that for someone with actual stats.
I leaned back, arms crossed, staring at the maps like they'd tell me what Zarnorak was. Minutes dragged on, feeling like hours, my foot tapping a restless rhythm on the scuffed floor. Where the hell is Masamato? I thought, glancing at the grand staircase every few seconds. The guild's noise buzzed around me—adventurers arguing over loot splits, a dwarf cursing his dice luck in the corner—but it just made me antsier. Come on, man, I'm not built for suspense.
Finally, Masamato appeared, striding through the crowd like a shonen hero, his obsidian armor catching the chandelier light. He held a thick book in one hand and a small leather bag in the other, his golden eyes locking onto me with a grin.
"There you are," he said, dropping into the chair across from me with a clank.
"I've been looking for you."
"So, what'd Liam say?" I asked, leaning forward, curiosity burning hotter than Liam's fireballs. Spill the plot hook, dude.
"Nothing much, just some random stuff, haha," Masamato said, waving it off with a laugh that felt way too casual. Random stuff? Sure, and I'm an S-rank in disguise. I narrowed my eyes but let it slide—pushing him now wouldn't crack that protagonist charm.
Instead, he slid the book across the table, its cover a faded burgundy leather stamped with gold glyphs that shimmered faintly. It was thick—like, dictionary-thick, the kind of tome you'd use to bludgeon a goblin. "Here," he said. "This book's got everything you need to know about this world. Since your village has no info on the outside, it'll help. I borrowed it from the library for three months."
I stared at it, my inner slacker screaming, I ain't reading all that! But wait Three months!? Back home, my library wouldn't let you keep a paperback for two weeks. Guess adventuring comes with perks. I forced a grin, taking the book, its weight making my arm dip. "Umm, thanks. I'll read it thoroughly," I lied, already planning to skim the monster section and call it a day.
Masamato wasn't done. He handed me the small bag, a sturdy leather pouch with a drawstring, just big enough for my maps. "Also, here. Figured you don't wanna carry those maps by hand forever."
"Thanks," I said, genuinely grateful. I stuffed Kuilan's and Marco's maps into the bag, their crinkling muffled as I tied it shut and slung it over my wrist. The weight was light but reassuring, like I'd finally upgraded from noob inventory to slightly less noob. My Sword of Absolute Death clinked against it, and for a second, I felt almost like a real adventurer. Almost.
"So, let's get you back to the inn," Masamato said, standing with a stretch, his armor glinting.
"Ok," I nodded, rising and tucking the monster book under my arm. It was heavier than my sword, and I silently cursed my lazy ass for the reading ahead.
We stepped out of the guild, the double doors groaning behind us, and hit Solva's afternoon streets. The sun hung lower, painting the cobblestones in warm gold, but the city was still alive—vendors hawking skewers of sizzling meat, kids darting through alleys, a guard eyeing a shady cloaked figure. The air carried river mist and fresh bread, a sharp contrast to the guild's sweaty chaos. My torn cloak fluttered, and the bag swung lightly at my wrist, the book a heavy reminder of my homework. I thought, glancing at Masamato's back as he led the way to the cart. A month to kill, a world to learn, and an F-rank grind ahead. Let's not die before training starts, Kozuki.
The long staircase down from the Adventurer's Guild felt like a final boss all its own, each marble step mocking my aching legs as I trailed Masamato. Why did the staircase exits!!!
My torn sport suit fluttered, still smelling faintly of charred wool from Liam's fireballs, and the thick book he'd given me weighed down my arm like a cursed artifact. The small leather bag with my maps swung lightly at my wrist, clinking against the Sword of Absolute Death, which seemed to sulk as much as I did. We hit the bottom, and Masamato's weathered cart waited curbside, the horse snorting clouds of mist into the afternoon air. I clambered up beside him, the wooden bench creaking under my weight, and he flicked the reins. The cart lurched forward, wheels rattling over Solva's cobblestones, and we rolled into the city's bustling heart.
Solva's streets thrummed with life, a chaotic pulse that never seemed to slow. The cobblestones, uneven and polished by years of boots and hooves, glinted in the slanting afternoon sun, their edges worn smooth in high-traffic patches. Stone buildings loomed on either side, their facades a mix of gray granite streaked with moss and colorful plaster—ochre, faded blue, some peeling to reveal older layers beneath. Balconies jutted out, draped with drying laundry or strung with banners that snapped in the breeze, their embroidered crests faded but proud. Street vendors crowded the corners, their wooden stalls sagging under piles of glistening fruit, skewers of sizzling meat, and trays of polished trinkets that caught the light. Their shouts—"Fresh plums, two coppers!"
"Knives sharper than a wyrm's fang!"—blended with the clop of hooves, the chatter of passersby, and the occasional bark of a stray dog darting through the crowd. A merchant in a gaudy crimson cloak haggled with a customer, gesturing wildly, while a pair of kids in patched tunics wove through gaps, chasing a rolling apple. The air was a lively tangle of scents: warm bread from a bakery's open window, the earthy tang of horse dung, and a faint, briny mist drifting from the nearby river. Overhead, gulls wheeled, their cries sharp against the hum of the city, and a distant bell tolled, marking the hour. Solva felt alive, unapologetic, its energy both thrilling and overwhelming for an F-rank like me.
We rode in silence for a bit, the cart's rhythmic creaks filling the gap. Masamato's golden eyes stayed on the road, guiding the horse around a fruit cart that wobbled precariously. Finally, he broke the quiet.
"So, what do you think about Liam?"I shifted, the book digging into my ribs.
"Well, just as you said, he looks tough on the outside but soft on the inside." Yeah, right. Soft like a dragon's claw, maybe. The guy nearly turned me into a Kozuki kebab.
"Glad to hear he didn't put a bad impression on you," Masamato said, his grin warm but oblivious. Bad impression? I snorted inwardly. Liam's first impression was a sword swing and a fireball barrage. "Haha, yeah," I said, forcing a laugh to keep things chill. Let's not relive the colosseum trauma.
The cart rattled on, and we reached the Súká Fountain, its marble basin gleaming in a small plaza. Water sparkled as it cascaded from a serpent-shaped spout, misting the air with a cool, clean scent. A boy, maybe twelve, stood on the fountain's edge, playing a flute with a melody so hauntingly good it cut through the street's din. His notes danced, bright and wistful, like an anime OST for a quiet village scene. A small crowd—merchants, a guard off-duty, a woman with a basket of bread—gathered around, tossing copper coins into a tin cup at his feet, the metal clinking softly. I watched, half-mesmerized, until I remembered my burning question.
"Btw, can you tell me what Zarnorak is?" I asked, leaning toward Masamato, hoping for a quick answer. He smirked, not taking his eyes off the road. "You can find it all in the book I gave you."
Stingy, huh? I groaned inwardly. Why make me slog through that dictionary-sized tome for one word? "Oh, ok," I said, slumping back, already dreading the homework. Thanks for nothing, sensei.
We rolled on, passing the Bromùēt, which was even busier than yesterday. The tavern's sign swung in the breeze, and its open doors spilled out laughter, the clink of mugs, and the rich aroma of roasted meat. Patrons crowded the outdoor tables, adventurers and merchants alike, their voices a loud hum as servers darted between them with trays. A bard strummed a lute outside, competing with the flute kid's echo in my head. The street narrowed here, forcing Masamato to nudge the cart around a cluster of cloaked figures haggling over a crate of shimmering vials—potions, maybe. I clutched the book tighter, feeling like a noob in a high-level zone.
Finally, the Hoku Inn's weathered sign creaked into view, its faded letters barely legible against the peeling paint. The cart slowed, and Masamato pulled the reins taut.
"Well, here we are," he said, turning to me. "Btw, Kozuki, I won't be able to see you for a while, but I will make sure to tell the others especially Lance your rank"
"Ok, btw why aren't you seeing me" I asked, hopping off the cart, my boots thudding on the cobblestones. A pang hit me—Is he tired of babysitting a random stranger he just met?
"Well, I have work to do," he said, his tone steady but vague.
"But I'll make sure to come see you next month for your school."
"Ok," I said, nodding, though my gut twisted a bit. Work, huh? Sounds like a plot hook I'm not privy to.
"Thank you for understanding," Masamato said, flashing that protagonist smile. He waved, and I waved back, watching the cart rattle off into Solva's bustle, his armor glinting until he turned a corner.I pushed open the Hoku Inn's oak door, the hinges groaning, and stepped inside.
The lobby was quieter than usual, a stark shift from its usual rowdy buzz. The air felt cooler, laced with the faint scent of woodsmoke from the low-burning hearth, its embers glowing faintly in the dim light. The wooden floor, scuffed and polished by years of boots, stretched across the room, reflecting the soft glow of two lanterns hanging from iron hooks on the beamed ceiling. Their light cast long shadows, pooling in the corners where the day's bustle hadn't reached. A long oak counter ran along the back wall, its surface scarred with knife marks and stained with old ale rings, a ledger and an inkpot tucked neatly to one side. Behind it stood the grizzled old man, his graying mop of hair falling over his brow as he polished the counter with that ancient rag—Wait, he's not buffing a glass? The cloth moved in slow, hypnotic circles, the wood gleaming faintly under his relentless attention. His faded brown shirt and leather apron were as worn as ever, the apron's stains a map of spills and burns.
The rest of the lobby was sparse. A few tables, sturdy but nicked, sat scattered around, their chairs empty save for one where a lone traveler in a dusty cloak sipped a mug of something dark, their hood pulled low. The trio of leather-clad adventurers who usually hogged a table were gone, leaving only faint ale rings as evidence of their chaos. A single barmaid swept the floor near the hearth, her broom scratching softly, her auburn braid swinging with each motion. The quiet felt eerie, like the inn was holding its breath, the usual clamor replaced by a stillness that made my footsteps sound too loud. I headed for the stairs, eager to collapse in my room, but as I fumbled for the key, an invisible force yanked me backward, like a tractor beam in a sci-fi flick.
My boots skidded across the floor, and I flailed, nearly dropping the book. "What the—?!" I started, but the old man's voice cut me off, dry and gruff.
"You didn't pay yet," he said, not looking up from the counter, his rag still gliding."What is?" I asked, heart racing, trying to process the magic that just manhandled me.
"The room you rented yesterday," he said, finally glancing up, his pale gray eyes glinting like dulled steel.Oh, right Masamato rented it for my yesterdat, well I couldn't ask him to pay for me again. My face flushed—rookie mistake. But dragging me with magic? Overkill much?
"So, one copper coin a day, right?" I said, straightening, trying to play it cool.
"Yes," he replied, his gaze unwavering, rag paused mid-swipe. Wasn't he just polishing a second ago? Creepy multitasking.
"So, can I rent the room for thirty days?" I asked, hoping that made sense. Is a month even thirty days here? My Earth brain was grasping at straws.
"Sure," he said, flat as ever.
"Sweet, I'll just—" I reached into the small bag Masamato gave me, fishing for coins, then froze. Shit. All I had were the gold coins from Masamato, each one worth a fortune, but I had no clue how much. Garrick nearly lost his mind over one; this guy might faint.
"Umm, do you have change?" I asked, pulling out a single gold coin, its weight heavy in my palm. The old man's eyes flicked to the coin, but unlike Garrick's kid-in-a-candy-store reaction, he stayed calm, almost bored. He plucked it from my hand with calloused fingers.
"Yes, wait a minute, sir," he said, then vanished into a room behind the counter, the door creaking shut.
Don't tell me he's gonna scam me. I smirked, planting myself by the counter. Not happening, old man. I'm staying right here. Minutes ticked by, the barmaid's broom the only sound, until he reemerged, lugging a sack the size of my palm. He dropped it on the counter with a heavy thud, coins clinking inside.
"Ninety-nine silver coins and seventy copper coins. Your change," he said, pushing the sack toward me.I blinked, stunned. He actually gave me change? I'd half-expected him to bolt with my gold.
"Thanks," I said, grabbing the sack and stuffing it into the small bag, the weight stretching the leather to its limit. The maps and coins barely fit, and I had to shove hard to tie it shut.I turned to leave, then curiosity got me.
"Umm, what was that magic you used to drag me?" I asked, leaning on the counter, my otaku senses tingling for lore.
"It's Arcane Invoice," he said, already back to polishing the counter, his rag resuming its slow dance.
"The magic's woven into every key here at the inn. If you don't pay, it won't let you in."
"I see!" I said, genuinely impressed. Magic for unpaid bills? That's next-level. "Thanks." He didn't reply, just kept buffing the counter like it was his life's mission. Okay, Table Polisher, level 99.
I climbed the stairs, the steps groaning under my boots, and reached my room. The key turned smoothly this time—no magical yoink, thank the non-goddess. The door creaked open, revealing my starter room, the classic isekai MC hub. It was small but cozy, barely fifteen feet across, with a single window of rippled glass letting in soft afternoon light that painted the wooden floorboards in warm patches. The boards were scuffed, their varnish worn, but clean, creaking faintly as I stepped inside. A round table sat in the center, its oak surface nicked and stained, sturdy enough for my meager gear.
The bed, tucked against one wall, was narrow but plush, its coarse blanket neatly tucked, promising a nap I desperately needed. A single lantern hung on a hook by the door, unlit but ready, its brass frame tarnished. The air smelled faintly of wax and cedar, with a hint of dust from the beams overhead, their knots staring down like watchful eyes. No decorations, no frills—just a bare-bones adventurer's crash pad, perfect for a noob like me.
I dumped my haul on the table: the Sword of Absolute Death, its red gem winking; the monstrous book, its glyphs glinting faintly; and the overstuffed bag, coins clinking inside. The weight of the day—Liam's duel, Zarnorak, Masamato's vague "work"—hit me like a debuff. Nap first, world later, I thought, eyeing the bed.
I flopped onto the bed, the mattress yielding with a soft whump as I sank into its plush embrace. The coarse blanket scratched my cheek, but I was too beat to care. My torn sports suit—my only clothes from Earth, the last shred of my old life—clung to me, singed and ripped from Liam's colosseum beatdown. Damn it, I thought, staring at the ceiling's knotted beams. This thing's trashed. Gotta get it fixed. Maybe hit a clothing store. I pictured Garrick's shop, but nah, he's all about armor and potions, not hoodies. I'll ask the old man downstairs about a tailor. Dude probably knows every shop in Solva, polishing tables all day. My eyelids drooped, the weight of the day—fireballs, ice spikes, Zarnorak—pressing me down. Gonna read that book and check the maps after I wake up. So… tired. With a yawn, I let sleep drag me under, the room's cedar-and-wax scent fading as I drifted off.
Hours later, I jolted awake, the window's rippled glass framing a star-flecked night sky. My stomach growled like a pissed-off direwolf, loud enough to echo in the quiet room. Oh, right. Haven't eaten since breakfast. The memory of that meh omelet at the Hoku Inn felt like a lifetime ago. I rubbed my eyes, swung my legs off the bed, and stood, the floorboards creaking under my boots. Food first, then plans. I grabbed the small leather bag from the table—coins clinking inside, maps tucked neatly—and slung it over my wrist. The Sword of Absolute Death stayed put, its red gem glinting in the dim lantern light like it was daring me to take it out at night. Nope, not tempting fate.
I trudged downstairs, the steps groaning, and pushed into the Hoku Inn's lobby. The quiet from earlier was gone, replaced by a lively buzz that hit like a tavern cutscene. The hearth crackled, its flames licking higher now, casting a warm glow across the scuffed wooden floor and the scarred oak tables. The air was thick with the rich scent of roasted meat, spilled ale, and a faint whiff of woodsmoke, the lanterns overhead swaying gently, their light dancing on the beamed ceiling. The trio of leather-clad adventurers was back, sprawled at their usual table, their laughter booming like a critical hit. The grizzled loudmouth slammed a tankard down, sloshing foam, while his buddies roared, their scuffed armor clinking as they leaned in for his story. A few other patrons dotted the room: a hooded figure nursing a mug by the bar, a merchant scribbling in a ledger, his quill scratching loudly. The old man stood behind the counter, his graying mop falling over his brow, polishing a table with that ancient rag, its slow circles almost hypnotic. Table, glass, what's next, the walls?
I smirked, shaking my head. I plopped into a chair at an empty table near the hearth, the wood creaking, and a barmaid—same auburn braid, frilly apron—swept over with a tray. "What'll it be, adventurer?" she asked, her smile bright despite the late hour.
"Roast beef," I said, my stomach growling on cue. She nodded and darted off, leaving me to soak in the lobby's vibe. The adventurers' laughter, the fire's crackle, the old man's rag squeaking—it was cozy, chaotic, pure isekai fuel. Minutes later, the barmaid returned, sliding a steaming plate of roast beef in front of me, the meat glistening, herbs flecked across its surface, a side of crusty bread soaking up the juices. I dug in, the flavor exploding—savory, tender, way better than the Bromùēt's overpriced spread. For two copper coins, it was a steal. I wolfed it down, mopping up the last bits with the bread, my mood lifting with every bite.
I leaned back, patting my stomach, and glanced out the window. The street was dark, shadows pooling in alleys, the occasional lantern casting eerie flickers. Tailor shop now? I thought, then laughed. Nuh-uh. People in horror movies die 'cause they can't wait 'til morning'. Not me. I'd learned my lesson from Solva's creepy night vibes—passerby warnings and all. Tomorrow it is.
I tossed two coppers on the table, stood, and headed upstairs, the lobby's noise fading as I climbed. Back in my room, the lantern's dim glow bathed the small space in a soft amber haze. The round table held my gear: the Sword of Absolute Death, the thick book, the stuffed bag. I locked the door, the key clicking smoothly—no Arcane Invoice this time—and flopped onto the bed, staring at my haul. Book or maps first? The book loomed like a final exam, but the maps? Quick, visual, my kind of lazy. Maps it is.
I grabbed the bag, pulled out Kuilan's map first, and unrolled it on the table, the parchment crinkling under my fingers. The ink was sharp, detailing kingdoms, forests, and dungeons with jagged names. There is also an abyss near kingdom Elven? But I wasn't interested in that but My eyes snagged on The Great Nazzrick in the Kingdom of Eleven, scrawled in bold script. Nazzrick, I will get to you one day, but the map gave no details—just a marker and a vibe that screamed "endgame zone." I grinned, geeking out, then set it aside and unrolled Marco's map. This one was plainer, all business: trade routes snaking between major cities, dotted lines for weather patterns, and clusters of small villages with names like "Thryme" and "Vaelwick." No dungeons, no flair, just a merchant's guide to not getting lost or rained on. Useful, but boring, I thought, rolling it back up and stuffing both maps into the bag.
My gaze fell on the book, its burgundy leather cover staring me down, gold glyphs glinting like they knew I was avoiding it. Fine, you win. I hauled it onto my lap, the weight making the bed creak, and cracked it open.
The first page hit me with "The Elarian Calendar" in ornate script, and I groaned. Really? Straight into lore? But curiosity won out, and I skimmed the opening lines, expecting a snooze-fest. Instead, it hooked me:
a tale of the God of Time gifting humans a calendar to tame the chaos of existence. Twelve months, thirty days each, six days a week—Venarith, Zarnorak, Elyndar, Thurxan, Kaelorith, Myrrheign. Zarnorak was the second day, their Tuesday. The months had epic names—Vaerelun, Xal'tharion, and ten more, each with a poetic tag like "The Dawn Bleeds" or "Whispers of Stone." It was year 1068, counted from the calendar's divine drop.
"So their calendar's like ours, just with six-day weeks," I muttered, leaning back. Zarnorak's just Tuesday. Easy. I closed the book, my brain already fried from ten seconds of reading. That's enough scholar Kozuki for one night.I set the book on the table, the bag beside it, and glanced at the sword, its gem winking in the dark. Tomorrow: tailor, maybe some exploring.