Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 39: The Scent Of Ancient Magic
“Mate, get me a room. I’ll be staying here a day.”
“Yes, sir. One Oren. Includes supper and breakfast.”
“ ... An Oren? One night here costs an Oren?!”
At the counter of the Silver Heron, a hooded man seemed to choke on the words. He tilted his head toward the barkeep, making sure he had heard correctly.
The barkeep, a towel slung over one shoulder, looked long since accustomed to such reactions.
His tone never shifted in the slightest.
“Sir, this is the Silver Heron. Finest establishment in all Gors Velen. Sorcerers themselves stay here from time to time. And you know how it is, no sorcerer carries loose coin in a purse. They only carry Orens.”
The barkeep could not see the upper half of the guest’s face, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth was very obvious.
“Oho~” Mentos’ voice dragged out meaningfully inside Lannor’s head. “Hosting archmages, are they? Then, sir, the price truly is reasonable. Perhaps we should find another inn?”
Mentos had been dissatisfied with the witcher profession for a very long time. Whenever the chance arose, it would sarcastically compare witchers to archmages, fellow wielders of supernatural systems.
Truth be told, Lannor wanted to become an archmage too. Otherwise he would not have developed the Sign Support Module so skillfully.
Who would not want to stand before ten thousand enemies, flick a finger, rain meteors from the sky, and walk away from the battlefield without so much as a mud stain on their clothes?
Melee fighters rolling in the dirt was simply normal.
... The problem was that he could not do it.
When Lannor finally pressed that shining golden Oren onto the counter, the barkeep saw the young man’s knuckles turn white from how hard he squeezed it.
“Ah, look at you. If it pains you that much, we can always change inns.”
Mentos was still mocking him.
Lannor ground his teeth.
I want to change inns too, but ... what do you take me for? One of those madmen who washes his hair at a barber’s, hears the price afterward, and just walks out?!
Damn this cursed pride of mine!
“Mentos, shut up!”
“Then you promise not to sing on the road anymore!”
The conversation ended there abruptly.
Lannor swiftly took his dinner tray from the barkeep and walked toward the tavern tables without another word.
As though nothing had happened.
Just sarcasm. He could endure sarcasm.
...
The Silver Heron’s supper truly deserved its reputation in Gors Velen.
A mug of beer. Fresh fried sea fish with seasoned mashed potatoes. Cream soup with oysters and mushrooms. A thick slab of bread as the main staple.
This city was Velen’s trade hub and largest market.
Naturally, every sort of produce and recipe in Velen gathered here.
It was, without question, the best meal Lannor had eaten since arriving in this world.
At last, he was truly tasting the local cuisine.
While chewing slowly, he kept one ear open, collecting every conversation in the tavern.
That was how novels always described taverns, wasn’t it? Places where information flowed freely.
What Lannor had not expected was that this half-joking attempt would actually yield something useful.
At the table behind him sat two well-dressed merchants facing one another, each holding a drink.
One had a somewhat shrill voice. The other sounded as though he had phlegm caught permanently in his throat.
They seemed to be playing cards. Lannor could hear stiff paper slapping against the tabletop.
The shrill voice laughed.
“Aha! One Raining card and all your siege engines collapse. Seven points left total.”
The phlegmy voice groaned.
“Fine, fine. How was I supposed to know you packed that many weather cards in your hand?”
As soon as the words fell, the sound of coins sliding across solid oak followed.
Halfway through his meal, Lannor bit viciously into his bread.
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