"Have you heard? That lunatic's back in town..." grumbled a middle-aged man with brown hair, green eyes, and a slightly hunched back. He spoke to his friend while the two nursed fresh pints of local ale inside an inn thick with the stench of filth and sweat—a favorite haunt of adventurers, the kind of folk who wielded magic to fight the monsters of this world.
"I did. And not just that—word is, he's found a new way to scam people. Claims his potatoes can now heal any injury short of death... bahaha!"
Ale sprayed from his lips as the bulky, long-haired man burst into laughter. His breath hitched, chest rising in sharp gasps as he choked on his drink, but the grin stretching across his face said it all—he was having the time of his life.
"You youngsters have no idea what he's truly capable of..."
Suddenly, an old man spoke from the shadowed corner of the inn. Dressed entirely in black, his face obscured by a wide straw hat, he radiated an aura that made more than a few patrons pause mid-drink. The once rowdy atmosphere shifted into silence, the air tightening with focus. Every ear turned toward him.
"What do you know about that lunatic with a few screws loose, you old fart? Haha!" The bulky man cackled, but no one laughed with him.
Instead, a wave of uneasy stares swept through the room. Angry, apologetic glares were tossed his way. He had no idea who he'd just insulted, and in this town, ignorance could cost your life.
Because the locals knew exactly who that old man was. And when he spoke, nobody dared question it.
Sometimes, it's better not to know which blade ends your story...
The man looked a little taken aback, his neck retreating into his collar like a turtle into its shell. He understood, far too late, that he'd spoken ill of someone he shouldn't have. And he wasn't a fool. That many stares didn't mean disapproval—they meant death was looming.
In this lawless continent, people killed for fun… or worse, fed you to monsters if you pissed them off.
"Hmph…" the old man snorted, unimpressed. He lifted his straw hat, revealing a jagged scar running from the corner of his lip all the way up to his hairline, slicing across one eye. Yet that eye… it was perfectly intact, untouched, as if the scar had somehow respected it. Or feared it.
"You see this?" the old man rasped. "Got it from a bastard in the south. You know who I'm talkin' about, right?"
He grinned, and it was vile. Half his teeth were black, the other half missing. But the pride in his expression made it… almost noble.
"You don't mean…? The Slasher of the South?!" The bulky man who had been laughing moments ago nearly fell off his chair, pale with realization.
"Right you are!" the old man shouted, practically giddy. "The very same! Ha! Nobody survives him. I was supposed to die... hell, I was dead. Bled out on the dirt like trash."
He leaned forward, voice dropping low. The whole tavern held its breath. "But then… someone approached." He paused for dramatic effect, and they hung on every word.
"He walked slow. Wore simple clothes. Carried a hoe in one hand… and a potato in the other. Bag slung over his shoulder. And on his back... the weight of a hundred realms."
The room was dead silent.
"When everything turned black… when I was supposed to take my last breath…" He paused again, and when the silence had ripened into something thick and golden, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "I tasted something unreal... A potato! Hot, soft, heavenly! And my power skyrocketed!"
His voice rose, manic now. "I was alive! Healed! Look at this—LOOK AT THIS EYE!" He lunged at the middle-aged man, grabbing his shoulders, their faces nearly touching. "It's back! My eye is back!! Isn't that a miracle?!"
He let go and twirled in place like a drunken prophet. "It's all thanks to him. The Potato Lord! The Wandering Farmer of the Gods! The one who gave me a second life!"
He stopped spinning, chest heaving, eyes wide with wild joy."And when I asked him his name…" He cackled, holding back tears. "He simply said… 'Call me Potato Man.' Bwahaha! Potato Man! How simple! How glorious!"
The old man was having the time of his life, completely unhinged. And not a single soul in the inn dared to interrupt. They just sat in silence, spellbound, listening to the tale of a man… who fed miracles with a smile and a sack of dirt.
The whispers spread like wildfire.
Potato Man.
The name echoed across the small inn, bouncing from mouth to mouth like the chant of a growing cult. A legend in the making… or perhaps one already etched into eternity.
Even the skeptic had to swallow hard. He didn't want to believe that a potato could save a life, but the old man in front of him was living proof. A living legend who had returned to tell the tale.
"And… where is this Potato Man now?" the man asked, voice trembling just enough to betray his nerves. His drinking partner had long since frozen in place, silent and pale, unable to intervene.
"Oh? Curious now, are you? HAH!" The old man's shout cracked through the air, making even the seasoned warriors flinch in their seats.
"Nobody knows," he growled. "He walks where he pleases… gives potatoes to those he pleases… and kills who he pleases."
The last part came in a whisper, but it hit like a blade across the neck. A shiver rippled through the room.
Then silence...
------
The moon hung heavy in the sky. The once-bustling street outside lay quiet, abandoned. A low wind whistled through the cracked windows. And in that silence, slow, deliberate footsteps echoed across the cobblestone, like fate itself had come knocking.
The doors creaked open, long and loud, the hinges groaning like they feared what was coming in. The innkeeper turned pale as he watched the figure enter: Hat pulled low. A hoe in one hand. A glowing potato in the other.
It couldn't be… He thought, limbs stiffening like he'd seen a ghost.
"Friend," the man said in a casual, almost cheerful voice. "You got any potato vodka? I'm thirsty."
He spoke too calmly. Not a shout, but just loud enough to make the innkeeper yelp and drop the glass he was cleaning, before diving behind the counter in a heartbeat.
"P-P-Potato Man!" he screamed, barely peeking over the edge.
The man just stood there, blinking. "…Why is this town filled with weirdos?" He walked slowly to the counter, leaned in, and peered over to see the innkeeper crouched below, trembling with fear. Then, calmly, he held out his hand.
"Hey, buddy. Have a potato, will you?" The spud shimmered in his palm, glowing with multicolored brilliance, like a rainbow compressed into a root.
"Trust me. It'll make you feel better."