Two hours after nightfall was the busiest golden hour of the town.
Inside a two-story stone tavern with smoke curling from its chimney, the place was packed. The wooden door constantly creaked open and slammed shut as people came and went, carrying the din of the tavern into the streets.
"You should've seen it! My weapon may've slipped, but I slapped that kobold's head clean off with my bare hand!" a burly beastman warrior boasted, slapping the table as frothy spittle flew under the oil lamp light.
Amid the tavern's rowdy atmosphere were clattering mugs, drunken shouts, rough dice games, waiters yelling for people to move, and a swirling mess of whispered plots, off-key songs, drunken rambles, and heated arguments.
In one corner, a bard strummed his lute stubbornly, trying to be heard over the chaos.
The pungent scent of fermented beer hung thick in the air, mixing with the aroma of grilled sausages and roast meat. It stirred up both hunger and a tipsy warmth among the crowd.
The Night Owl party sat gathered at a table, oil-lamp light casting a warm glow across their relaxed faces. They leaned back in wooden chairs, soaking in the atmosphere.
For new adventurers, taverns could feel overwhelming at first—but after a few visits, the raw, chaotic energy became oddly comforting.
They weren't elegant or refined—just rough-edged adventurers numbing their fatigue with food and alcohol. But there was a kind of wild, resilient vitality among them—like weeds that refused to die.
"This is actually our first team dinner since Gauss joined us," Laevin said, raising his mug of frothy beer.
Gauss thought for a moment—he was right. It had already been nearly a month since he'd joined the party, but after each mission, everyone was usually too tired and dirty to think about celebrating.
This time, the goblin extermination had been quick and easy, and the mission site was close by. After a good bath, everyone was in decent spirits—making it a perfect time to gather.
"Gauss, want some beer?" Laevin asked, noticing his empty cup.
Gauss almost reflexively declined, but seeing even the girls had their mugs full of ale, he swallowed his words and nodded.
"Sure, I'll try a bit." He wasn't a strict non-drinker. Back in his old world, he'd occasionally have red wine before bed.
But the local ale here? He hadn't tried it before. Every time he caught a whiff of it, it smelled sour and strange—but everyone else drank it with gusto, so maybe that was just how it was supposed to be.
Laevin poured him half a mug.
Gauss sniffed it—the sharp sour scent of fermented grain hit his nose like spoiled oatmeal or soggy cereal.
No malt aroma, just raw, unfiltered fermentation.
He took a careful sip.
"Sour!"
A sharp tang hit his tongue like a slap. Then came a jarring alcohol burn and an aftertaste that clung to his throat like moldy socks.
People actually like this stuff?
"Cough, cough!" Gauss choked and flushed red.
The others at the table burst out laughing.
Seeing the usually calm, deadly Gauss make such a grimace was too amusing. They were used to seeing him slice through enemies like a machine—this was a rare, human moment.
"I knew it!" Daphne grinned, chugging her own ale. "Laevin, I told you Gauss couldn't handle his booze!"
"You sure you're even normal?" Doyle guffawed. "I've been drinking since I was a kid!"
"I can drink. I'm just not used to this kind of alcohol," Gauss defended himself.
"What do you mean 'this kind'? This is the most basic drink in the whole region," Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure your background isn't made up? You act like you've never had ale before."
"..."
Gauss stayed quiet. He really had no good way to explain.
In this world, drinking was common—even children sometimes drank watered-down alcohol. Cheap ale like this was practically a staple for most townsfolk.
Except for Gauss.
Seeing his silence, the others backed off with knowing grins, assuming it was a sore subject. Maybe something to do with his past. They kindly changed the topic.
After all, if someone like Gauss—clearly not a commoner—was adventuring with a bunch of grunts like them, something big must have happened in his life.
The next morning, Gauss woke on his familiar straw mattress with a groggy head.
Last night got a little wild.
They'd eaten and drunk late into the night. And on their way out, Doyle had picked a fight with someone harassing Daphne.
The Night Owl party didn't hold back—they jumped in, knocked the guy out, and bolted just before the guards arrived.
In the end, Gauss was the one who dragged a totally wasted Doyle back home.
He smiled.
He really was getting used to this world.
His first wilderness mission.
His first kill.
His first quest.
His first party.
His first taste of awful beer.
His first bar brawl…
He didn't hate these experiences. In fact, each new "first" gave him a vivid sense of truly living.
"Need some hangover soup?"
Coming down to the inn's main room, Gauss was greeted by Sophia, who had just finished serving breakfast to a customer.
"It's not free, though," she added with a playful wink.
"Come on, Sophia, cut me a break. We're practically family now."
"Nope! I had to pay for the ingredients, you know. Business is business." She disappeared into the kitchen to get the soup.
Gauss smirked. He knew she'd probably made it specifically because of how much he reeked last night.
After drinking the soup, he felt much better.
Sitting at the counter and watching the other guests eat, he fell into thought.
Last night had been fun—but in the middle of their conversation, he'd picked up on the real reason Laevin had called the gathering.
Laevin hadn't said it outright, but Gauss wasn't dense.
Because of his overwhelming contributions lately… the others weren't getting any real experience from their missions.
If they were just a bunch of older, grizzled mercenaries grinding coins, they might not care.
But they weren't. Not at all.