Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 39
“Mate, a room. I’ll be staying a night.”
“Of course, sir. One Oren. That includes supper and breakfast.”
“ ... Oren? You charge Orens for a single night here?”
At the counter of the Silver Heron, a man in a hooded cloak seemed to choke on the words, then tilted his head, making sure he had not misheard.
The barkeep, a towel slung over his shoulder, looked entirely unbothered. He had clearly seen this before.
“Sir, this is the Silver Heron. The best in all of Gors Velen. Sorcerers lodge here from time to time. You understand, no sorcerer carries loose coin. They deal in Orens.”
The barkeep could not see the upper half of the man’s face, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth was obvious.
“Oh?” a drawn-out voice sounded in Lannor’s mind, thick with meaning. “Entertaining archmages, are we? Then the price is perfectly reasonable, sir. Perhaps we should find another place?”
Mentos had long taken issue with the Witcher’s profession, and never missed a chance to take sly digs at archmages, fellow denizens of the supernatural system.
Truth be told, Lannor would have liked to be an archmage himself. That was why his Sign Support Functions were so well developed.
Who would not want to face an army, flick a finger, call down fire and meteors, and walk away with not a speck of mud on their clothes?
Melee fighters, on the other hand, spent their days rolling in the dirt.
... The problem was, he could not do it.
When Lannor pressed a gleaming Oren onto the counter, the barkeep saw his knuckles go pale from the force.
“Look at you, hurting already. We could still change places, you know.”
Mentos kept needling him.
Lannor clenched his teeth.
I want to change, sure, but ... do I look like the sort who gets a wash at the barber, hears the price, and just walks out?
Damn it. This cursed pride of mine.
“Mentos, shut up.”
“Then you promise not to sing on the road anymore!”
The exchange ended there.
Lannor swiftly took his supper from the barkeep and walked to a table in the common room without another word.
As if nothing had happened.
A bit of needling, nothing he could not endure.
...
The Silver Heron’s supper was indeed worthy of its reputation in Gors Velen.
A mug of beer, freshly pan-fried sea fish, seasoned mashed potatoes, oyster and mushroom cream stew, and a large loaf of bread.
This city was the trade hub of all Velen, the largest market as well.
Naturally, it gathered produce and recipes from across the region.
For Lannor, it was the best meal he had eaten since coming to this world.
At last, a taste of local cuisine.
As he ate slowly, he kept one ear open, letting the conversations of the tavern drift into him.
That was how it went in stories, taverns were where news gathered, were they not?
But Lannor had not expected that this idle habit would actually yield something.
At the table behind him, two well-dressed merchants sat facing each other, each with a drink in hand.
One spoke with a slightly sharp voice, the other sounded as if phlegm clogged his throat.
Cards slapped against the tabletop between them.
The sharp voice said, “Ha. With this Raining card, your siege engines are useless. Seven points left in total.”
The phlegmy voice replied, “All right, all right. Who knew you’d pack so many weather cards into your hand?”