They Wanted a Hero. They Made a Monster: Born at the Bottom
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 18: Five Bags of Hope
Hushwind was a remote town at the southern edge of the Kingdom of Concord. Its proximity to the Amethyst Deep drew adventurers and traveling merchants in such numbers that its prosperity rivaled some midsized cities.
The Adventurers’ Guild had even established a regional branch there.
The dungeon supplied the town with many distinctive products. Yet Hushwind’s most recognizable attraction was neither its valuable high-purity Mana Crystals nor its endless varieties of monster materials.
It was the signature brew of the Bent Willow Tavern, a cloudy liquid notorious throughout the adventuring world.
Even adventurers who had never visited Hushwind had heard of the rancid, mold-scented liquor. According to rumor, splashing it on a walking mushroom was enough to kill the creature.
Despite that quality, the owner diluted it with more water than wine.
At one copper coin a cup, however, it remained irreplaceable to adventurers at the bottom of the trade.
The Bent Willow naturally became their gathering place.
A person selected at random in Hushwind might not know where to find the Adventurers’ Guild office, but everyone knew the Bent Willow.
Today, as always, the tavern was packed with patrons of every description. They swallowed terrible liquor in great gulps and traded the latest gossip at great volume.
They talked about the Veiled Empire’s increasingly frequent maneuvers along the border.
They talked about Silverthorn Company, which had entered the Deep Strata three months earlier, rescued the duke’s daughter, and earned an unimaginably rare reward: an entire city.
The name Silverthorn Company had become a legend among adventurers. Every drinker who raised a cup to them had ambition burning beneath the admiration, a hunger for fame and fortune of their own.
No one gave the exhausted, stubble-faced man a second look when he opened the wooden door. Figures like his filled the tavern.
He scanned the room and walked straight toward Big Al, who sat alone in one corner. Al sipped from a wooden cup, savoring the cloudy swill as if it were fine wine.
He recognized the man who sat across from him.
“Dylan. It’s been years. I thought you retired. What do you want?
“Don’t tell me you missed your old friend. I’ll be sick.”
“Big Al, are you still in that business?”
Big Al’s nickname was simply Big Al. Dylan saw no need for pretense and stated his purpose directly.
The other man’s eyelid jumped. He hurriedly surveyed the room, then lowered his voice when he saw no one paying attention to their corner.
“What are you doing? You may as well have said the word aloud. Are you trying to get me killed?”
Big Al’s anger encouraged Dylan.
“So you are still doing it. Quickly, give me three portions.”
He took a purse from inside his coat and pushed it across the table. It held 27 silver coins.
Big Al narrowed his eyes. He did not touch the money. Instead, he studied the man before him.
Dylan had aged greatly in seven years. He was no longer as strong, and the calluses on his hands had almost vanished.
“I’m sorry, Dylan. I can’t sell it to you.
“Judging by your condition, you abandoned the skills that once kept you alive. We have too much history for me to watch you walk to your death.”
Dylan seized Big Al by the collar. Bloodshot eyes held the frenzy of a man driven to the end of every road.
Big Al only stared back.
After a long silence, Dylan released him and sagged in his seat.
“Big Al, please. My daughter contracted Bloodblight on a border mission.
“I need money. A great deal of it.
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