Reyn listened. From Zoltan's tavern yard came a male and female voice—the couple had evidently just finished their lovemaking and were now cooing tenderly. The male voice, with a pleasant rasp and quite recognizable, belonged to the Demon Hunter Roger.
His companion's voice turned out to be surprisingly pleasant: lazy tones mixed with light coquetry, creating an enchanting impression.
Reyn grunted. He had no intention of eavesdropping on others' secrets and mentally cut off the stream of sounds available to him thanks to the "Voice of All Things."
At that moment, one of the workers came out from the back of the tavern and addressed Zoltan,
"Boss, Master Roger asked for a jug of apple juice. And he said to tell you the evening card game is canceled."
"Damn it!"
Zoltan drained his mug of beer in annoyance and grumbled to Reyn,
"That guy... Last night he left, said he'd go torment a demon in some merchant's house. He didn't torment the demon, but he did take the merchant's mistress. Now he couldn't care less about cards."
Reyn smirked to himself. So that's what it was—Roger had a romantic adventure.
He took the jug of apple juice from the approaching worker.
"Let me," Reyn offered. "I need to see Master Roger anyway."
The worker glanced questioningly at Zoltan. The Dwarf waved his hand and said gloomily,
"Let him go."
Reyn passed through the common hall, went out to the inner courtyard of the tavern, and knocked on Roger's room door.
"Apple juice!" he announced loudly.
Roger's voice came from the room, and the door opened at once. On the threshold stood the half-dressed Demon Hunter.
He wore only short pants, and his powerful torso was almost entirely covered in scars—no living skin left. A deep bite mark on his shoulder, right by the neck, stood out especially. Judging by the scar, the fangs had gone right to the bone.
Reyn couldn't help but admire it. If scars were a man's rewards, then Roger was adorned with them more than generously.
This legendary Demon Hunter must have gone through countless battles to reach his current position.
Seeing Reyn, Roger froze for a moment.
"Reyn? What are you doing here?"
Before he could finish speaking, his gaze, sharp as a cat's, narrowed for a moment, then his pupils dilated again. He gave Reyn an appraising look and said in surprise,
"You've become a Superhuman! Not bad. Much faster than I expected."
"Yes," Reyn nodded and handed over the jug. "Here's your apple juice."
A mysterious smile touched Roger's lips. He took the juice and, glancing deep into the room, said,
"Wait for me outside. I'll be right out."
With that, he closed the door.
In that instant as the door shut, Reyn caught a glimpse of an elegant silhouette on the bed. Just a fleeting glance, but it left a deep impression: the lady was quite beautiful.
No wonder she'd managed to enchant the legendary Demon Hunter—he'd even skipped cards for her.
Reyn smirked and stepped back into the courtyard to wait.
Zoltan's courtyard was spacious, paved with stone. In the corner were huge, specially made iron ingots, vaguely resembling Earth dumbbells. They could be gripped and lifted, but they were much larger and heavier, rough workmanship in the characteristic Dwarven style—Zoltan evidently used them for strength training.
Seeing these weights, Reyn got interested and approached to try them.
The ingots were marked with their mass: the lightest weighed a hundred pounds sterling, each subsequent one heavier, and the pair of the most massive ones pulled a thousand pounds sterling each.
Reyn had a rough idea of his strength and immediately went for the thousand-pound ingot.
He gripped the handle and, straining slightly, lifted the heavy load. It felt surprisingly light to him, so he grabbed the second thousand-pounder with his left hand.
His shoulders sank under the weight, muscles throughout his body tensed. Standing in place, he did a few arm spreads to the sides.
"H-huh... h-huh... h-huh..."
Reyn just tried it, made a few movements, and stopped.
Two thousand pounds sterling—that wasn't yet the limit of his strength, but close. Perfect for training. He should get some like these for himself, to exercise regularly and get used to his current power faster.
Whichever Superhuman path he chose, fusing with the Demonic Soul was far from the end of all troubles.
Spellcasters needed constant magic practice and meditation to increase spiritual power. Close-combat fighters needed regular training even more: you couldn't neglect body development, you had to hone weapon mastery—any skill required diligence and practice to reach mastery.
Clap-clap-clap...
As soon as Reyn set the ingots down, he heard applause.
Roger entered the courtyard, lowering his hands.
"I wasn't going to ask, but now I'm curious: which path did you choose?"
He'd managed to put on a shirt, and his face had regained its usual calm, even a touch of coldness, but it couldn't hide the faint scent of women's perfume emanating from him.
Reyn paused for a few seconds and decided to answer honestly,
"Mage."
Roger's expression instantly became quite eloquent.
He'd just seen Reyn easily lift two thousand-pound ingots, and Reyn himself had grown noticeably taller and stronger. Roger had assumed he'd chosen the power path of a Superhuman—like a Berserker or Iron Guardian.
Because of that, Roger had even felt a slight regret, thinking maybe Reyn chose the power path because he lacked the talent to become a Demon Hunter.
And he hadn't expected to hear Reyn call himself a Mage.
"You're a Mage?" Roger eyed Reyn's figure, who looked even sturdier than himself. "What Mage can lift two thousand pounds sterling?"
Reyn nodded seriously.
"Of course."
"Show me at least one spell," Roger demanded skeptically.
Now Reyn felt a bit awkward.
He'd fused with the Gold-Devouring Ant's Demonic Soul, gaining three spiritual Elements, but annoyingly, none were secret magic Elements, so he couldn't cast any spell.
Seeing the embarrassment on Reyn's face, Roger couldn't hold back a laugh and was about to make a jab when a female voice sounded behind him,
"He really is a Mage. A Battle Mage."
They both turned. At the courtyard entrance, appearing out of nowhere, stood a woman in a long cloak.
She had black curly hair, pale skin, and a beautiful face with extraordinarily expressive dark eyes. About five foot seven tall, with voluptuous curves, she stood barefoot on the stone slabs. The black cloak draped over her shoulders revealed her smooth shoulders and seemed to be her only clothing, stirring the imagination.
Just glancing at her, Reyn thought one thing: this woman was incredibly beautiful.
Perhaps in pure beauty of features she yielded a bit to Viola, but she had a completely unique charm: her allure combined with an aura of mystery, mature and seductive. Any man looking at her would involuntarily recall the woman of his dreams.
In words from his past life—she was a real femme fatale!
Reyn suddenly envied Roger's luck. Any other man in his place definitely wouldn't want to leave this courtyard.
Roger approached the beauty, and his usual sternness, which he showed to outsiders, vanished instantly.
"Delaersha, why did you come out?" he asked softly.