Chapter 18: A Newcomer in the City

Chapter 18: A Newcomer in the City

When Alisar stepped outside, night had already fallen.

Damn… I forgot to ask about an inn, he cursed inwardly. Well, whatever. There must be plenty around. Although... it’s already nighttime.

The street was dimly lit. Not as bright as in his old world, but lanterns along the road gave off a warm, soft glow—enough to keep the darkness at bay. Shadows of buildings stretched across the cobblestones, and a few passersby wandered between shops and eateries. Laughter rang out somewhere nearby. Music and the clink of mugs filled the air.

Alisar walked down the street, looking around. There were many shops, bars, and taverns—but not a single inn in sight so far.

I really need to find a place to spend the night, he thought as he stopped at a crossroads. Being left without a roof over my head isn’t ideal. And prices might be higher at night…

He glanced around and approached a man passing by. The man looked to be about fifty, with stubble on his chin and an unsteady gait.

"Sir, do you know where I can find a good inn? Just for the night," Alisar asked politely.

The man stopped and stared at him with slightly clouded eyes.

"Over there," he rasped, waving vaguely in one direction. "Just go straight. See that sign? Great place. The drinks there are... mmm, excellent!"

From his slurred speech and wobbling steps, it was clear he had already drunk quite a bit.

"Thank you," Alisar nodded.

He headed the way the man had pointed. Indeed, there was a tavern with a sign hanging out front. The first floor was noisy, filled with the smell of food and alcohol. A bustling dining hall—wooden tables, a hum of voices, serving girls carrying trays, and shelves of bottles behind the bar.

Alisar walked up to the counter. The bartender—a man in his forties with neatly groomed mustache—looked up and examined him closely.

"Excuse me," Alisar said. "I need a room for the night."

The bartender gave a slight nod.

"One night—one silver," he replied.

"Alright," Alisar said calmly.

He took a silver coin and placed it on the counter. The bartender accepted the payment and handed him a key.

"Third floor. Room thirty-five."

Alisar glanced at the key. Third floor…

"Where’s the staircase?" he asked.

"That door," the bartender pointed toward the hall. "Go through it—you’ll find the stairs there."

"Got it."

Alisar turned and headed for the door.

I just want to rest already, he thought.

He was nearly at the staircase door when someone bumped into him unexpectedly. A drunken man holding a mug of beer crashed into him from the side, spilling the contents all over Alisar’s shirt.

The fabric instantly turned cold and sticky from the spilled drink.

The man was large, with a short beard and a brutish face. He wasn’t taller than Alisar, but his frame was bulkier—broad shoulders, muscular arms, and thick clothes stretched over a solid build.

It was clearly the drunk’s fault, but—as is often the case with such people—he saw it differently.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!" the man barked in a coarse voice. "You made me spill my beer!"

Alisar looked at him silently. He wasn’t surprised—he knew better than to argue with someone like this. Especially in a crowded tavern where no one was likely to take a stranger’s side.

"I’m sorry," he said calmly. "I’ll buy you a new mug of beer."

"What?! A new mug?!" the man snapped. "You’ll pay me in coin. For ruining my mood."

Drunk. And clearly looking for a fight, Alisar thought.

He took a deep breath. There was no point arguing.

"Fine," he said. "How much do you want? I’m willing to pay a little just to avoid trouble."

The man sneered and leaned closer, growling:

"Everything you’ve got."

"What?" Alisar asked coldly. "That’s not what a mug of beer is worth."

"I said—for ruining my mood," the man growled.

He was standing way too close. His breath reeked of alcohol, and his eyes gleamed with hostility.

"I’m sorry, but I’m not giving you all my money," Alisar said, his voice firm and expressionless.

He was too tired to pretend to be polite. A cold determination flickered in his eyes.

The drunk squinted and grinned.

"Oh, look at that… finally found your balls? Great. Let’s take this outside. I’ll show you what happens when someone messes with my mood."

He snorted and added:

"I don’t want your blood staining the floor of my favorite pub."

Alisar sighed. A long, heavy breath.

A typical tavern brawl. And a typical idiot. A drunk one.

He gave the man a quick once-over: the guy could barely stand, even if he looked threatening. Big, yes. But his movements were already sluggish.

I can handle him easily, Alisar thought.

"Fine," he said shortly. "Let’s go."

They left the tavern under a few curious glances and stepped into a narrow, dim alley beside the building. The street was poorly lit—a lone lantern cast a weak glow, stretching their shadows across the cobbles.

Silence. A light breeze. And tension in the air.

"Alright, kid," the man said. "You’ll regret not giving me your money. But that’s your choice."

His voice changed. Gone was the drunken slur and hesitation. Now it was cold, clear, and filled with malice.

He was faking? Alisar frowned. He’s not as drunk as he seemed...

He tensed—but not fast enough.

The man lunged with surprising speed for someone his size and aimed a punch right at Alisar’s face. Alisar barely managed to raise his arm in defense. The impact was strong—his arm went numb—but he kept his footing.

He was about to retaliate, but then something heavy slammed into the back of his head.

The world spun.

Pain tore through his skull. His legs gave out. He collapsed onto his back, confused and dazed.

A heavy weight fell on him. The man straddled him and began pounding his face. One punch. Then another. And another.

Pain.

Cracking.

His mind dimmed. His face burned with agony. Each blow echoed in his skull. Jaw—broken. Something inside—damaged. His vision blurred. All he saw were vague shadows above him.

“Damn, what a catch!” came a cheerful voice.

“Yeah. I spotted him right away. Some country bumpkin. Came to the city and fell for it instantly. Followed a stranger into an alley. Idiot. His own fault,” another replied.

“Ooh, look—gold coins!” said a third voice, full of greedy delight.

“We’re gonna party tonight!” one of them laughed, already walking away.

Footsteps receded. And then...

Darkness.

---

A Different Perspective

Rem and Sherial exited the report room. Their debriefing had taken much longer than expected.

“Ugh…” Sherial groaned, rubbing her shoulder. “That was exhausting. Paperwork is worse than the dungeon itself.”

“Agreed,” Rem nodded. “Especially when you have to rewrite the same thing three times.”

“I just want to get to the inn already. A warm bath… and sleep. In a soft, cozy bed,” Sherial said dreamily.

“We’ll be there soon,” Rem replied.

They went down to the first floor of the guild. The hall was much quieter now—most people had left. Rem scanned the room.

“Where’s Alisar?” she asked with a frown.

She looked around again.

“That idiot. He didn’t wait for us.”

“We never told him when we’d be back,” Sherial reminded her. “He might’ve thought we already left.”

“Maybe…” Rem muttered. “Now we’ll have to search for him in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, come on. Let’s look tomorrow. He’s an adventurer. He’ll show up at the guild eventually. If not tomorrow, then soon.”

Rem looked toward the exit, paused for a moment, and nodded:

“Alright.”

They headed toward their usual inn—cozy, reasonably priced, great service, and most importantly: hot baths and delicious food.

“Can’t wait to lie down,” Sherial sighed. “I’m so tired…”

As they walked, three men emerged from a nearby dark alley, laughing and chatting. One of them clutched a pouch—clearly full of coins.

“With this kind of money, we can party for days!” one of them laughed.

Rem and Sherial exchanged glances.

“Ah, the night city…” Sherial murmured. “Looks like someone got mugged. And where are the city guards, huh? …Not our business,” she added quickly, clearly not wanting to get involved.

But Rem didn’t stop.

“I’m going to check. Someone might need help.”

“Hey, wait,” Sherial frowned. “This isn’t our problem, you know. So they got robbed. At least they weren’t killed.”

“Don’t be like that. What if someone’s seriously hurt?” Rem called back, turning into the same dark alley.

Sherial rolled her eyes.

“Fine… but make it quick.”

They stepped into the narrow passage. A few steps—and both stopped dead in their tracks.

A man lay on the ground. His face was covered in blood, features unrecognizable. He wasn’t moving.

“Shit,” Sherial whispered. “They might’ve killed him… Just what we needed. Now we’ll have to call the city guard.”

Rem said nothing. She stepped closer and frowned.

“Wait… don’t you think his clothes look… familiar?”

“Nah. Just some village rags. Half the city wears that stuff,” Sherial dismissed.

But Rem didn’t move.

“I think I recognize him. Look at the backpack.”

Sherial leaned in and squinted.

“…No way. Wait. You’re saying…”

“We found him faster than expected,” Rem said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Sherial exclaimed. “We just left the guild, and he already got himself into this mess?! I don’t believe it!”

Without a word, Rem took out a third-rank healing potion from her storage. She knelt beside the bloodied body, opened his mouth slightly, and gently poured the potion in.

“That guy really is an idiot,” she muttered as the last drops disappeared down his throat.

Alisar coughed. A weak, hoarse sound escaped his lips, and some potion dribbled out. But even that was enough to take effect.

The wounds on his face began to vanish rapidly. Skin tightened, bruises faded, bloodstains vanished. There were faint cracks—his broken bones snapping back into place.

Within seconds, Alisar’s face was whole again. No sign of the beating. Not a single scratch.