Lord of Mysteries: The Lord of Power

Chapter 10: Inside the Tavern

As Furen approached the tavern door with a mix of apprehension and curiosity, his actions betrayed none of his hesitation. With a firm motion, he pushed open what he imagined to be the gateway to a new world. Without pausing to observe his surroundings, Furen pretended to be a regular patron, casually stepping away from the entrance and wandering the tavern as though out of mere curiosity.

However, the moment he entered, the mystery he had anticipated quickly dissipated. The sense of disillusionment left Furen feeling slightly ridiculous for his earlier cautiousness and overthinking.

Furen couldn't help but chastise himself for his overly dramatic mindset and unnecessary concerns. Yet, given the strange and terrifying nature of this world, he quickly suppressed his shame and reminded himself once again: never let his guard down. Caution and prudence were the best strategies.

Despite his internal dialogue, Furen's sharp gaze was already scanning the tavern. It was unlike any bar he had been to before. Though the unpleasant smell of the slum district had already tested Furen's endurance, the stench inside the tavern was even worse. The air reeked of alcohol, sweat, unwashed bodies, and an unmistakable stench of urine. This stark reality clashed with his idealized image of his father's so-called "occult sanctuary."

Adding to the discomfort was the chaotic cacophony of the tavern—shouting, laughter, arguments, and slurred singing all melded into an indistinguishable roar. The dim lighting made everything seem even more oppressive. Furen felt dizzy and briefly closed his eyes, trying to shake off the discomfort and adapt to the environment.

The candles in the tavern were vastly inferior to the ones in his home. Their dim light barely illuminated the room, and they emitted an unpleasant smell of burning animal fat.

Reflecting on the contrast between modern life and the current era, Furen couldn't help but lament. In his previous life, even the living conditions of commoners far surpassed the luxuries of the nobility in this world. Access to light at all hours, diverse entertainment, and convenient lifestyles were unimaginable here. That said, the wealthy merchants and nobles of this era still enjoyed comforts that modern commoners could only dream of.

As for the commoners in this world, Furen had previously harbored a detached, "why not eat cake?" attitude toward their hardships. But now, standing amidst this reality, he fully grasped the despair described in the book Trier Travel Memoir. Its author, Isais Beru, wrote with a detached tone about scenes even more harrowing than those in this tavern, a stark realism that earned the book widespread acclaim.

"Every disparity feels like a journey to another world. Even within Trier, the differences are staggering. If I could travel beyond, what other landscapes might I witness?" Furen's curiosity about the wider world grew as he overcame his initial discomfort.

With his bearings somewhat restored, Furen adopted the detached demeanor of an observer, taking in the scene around him.

Suddenly, his spiritual senses seemed to stir. Furen paused, then smiled to himself, realizing that his act of blending in was yielding results. He resolved to explore this further, though he wasn't entirely sure of the rules for this role he was playing.

The tavern was vast, far larger than any room Furen had entered except the Trier National Library. Its size was emphasized by its lack of subdivisions; where other buildings might divide space into bedrooms, parlors, and washrooms, this tavern was one open expanse.

In one corner, a fenced-off area caught his attention. Around it, people crowded, some holding drinks, others waving wooden slips. The air was filled with feverish cheers, angry curses, and frenzied energy. The crowd was so thick that it completely obscured Furen's view of what lay within.

Then, as if on cue, a sharp cry pierced the din. The corner fell silent for a moment before erupting into even louder cheers and jeers. The crowd began to disperse, revealing glimpses of what had transpired.

Curious, Furen made his way toward the now-thinning throng. Inside the fenced area, the ground was stained with blood. A man, his face smeared with crimson, stood triumphantly, shouting in a frenzy. Outside the fence, onlookers either cheered and toasted with flushed faces or angrily spat at the unconscious, battered man being carried away on a stretcher.

It dawned on Furen that this tavern also hosted bloody fighting matches, a popular form of gambling and entertainment for mercenaries. It wasn't surprising; after all, taverns were their favorite haunts.

Apart from the fighting pit, the tavern featured numerous tables crowded with patrons, as well as another corner dedicated to gambling. From there came intermittent cries of anguish and joy, the chaos of human emotions laid bare.

Furen didn't delve deeper into the fighting or gambling corners. Instead, he turned his attention to the heart of the tavern: the bar.

The bar was easy to locate—it was the centerpiece of the room, surrounded by smaller, secondary counters like stars encircling a moon. Each counter was crowded with patrons.

Above each counter hung a price list, and upon closer inspection, Furen noticed that the smaller bars specialized in specific types of alcohol. Some offered cheap drinks affordable even to lowly mercenaries, while others served beverages so expensive that a single glass could cost a mercenary an entire mission's earnings. The central bar, however, offered a wide selection, encompassing both the cheapest and the most luxurious options.

Without lingering, Furen approached the central bar. Unlike the smaller counters, this one wasn't overly crowded, and the number of bartenders stationed there was remarkable. Some patrons, after receiving their drinks, left the bar to find a quiet spot to enjoy their beverages.

At the center of the main bar stood a man who seemed to be in charge. He wasn't busy like the bartenders around him but instead observed the tavern with a leisurely air. His face was lined with wrinkles, his sparse hair streaked with gray and white. Though his muscles bulged with veins, his potbelly betrayed his middle-aged decline. The tired expression on his face reflected a man who had weathered the storms of life.

This was the owner of the tavern, silently surveying his domain.