Lennox's heart leaped into his throat as the three figures cornered him. The narrow alley seemed to shrink around him, its stone walls pressing in like the jaws of a trap.
His eyes darted left and right, desperate for an escape, but the thugs closed in, their crooked grins tightening like nooses.
He opened his mouth to shout, but the second thug, a wiry man with piercing eyes, hissed, "Scream, and we'll slit your throat right here."
The words hit Lennox like a punch to the gut, and his throat went dry. His hands clenched involuntarily, his mind racing for a way out. But what could he do? He wasn't a fighter, didn't have magic, and certainly didn't have the strength to overpower three armed men.
He backed up until his shoulders brushed the cold stone wall of the alley. The world felt like it was closing in, his breaths coming faster and shallower.
This world is dangerous. I could die here. Over a few coins and a glowing rock.
The wiry man stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Smart kid. Now, hand over—"
But just then, a faint whistle sliced through the air.
Lennox flinched as the sound registered—high and swift, like a bird's cry. Before he could process what was happening, the wiry man stumbled backward, his sneer freezing in place. An arrow jutted from his chest, its shaft quivering.
"What the—" the second thug barely managed to stammer before another arrow found its mark, piercing his throat. He fell in a choking gurgle. Then silence.
The third thug didn't wait to find out what was happening. He turned to flee, but a final whistle ended his retreat. The arrow thudded into his back, and he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
The alley was silent again, save for Lennox's ragged breathing. He stared at the three bodies sprawled on the cobblestones, their lifeless eyes reflecting the midday sun. The coppery scent of blood stung his nose, and his stomach churned. He fought the urge to retch, gripping the wall to steady himself.
Suddenly, from the far end of the alley, heavy footsteps echoed, deliberate and unhurried. Lennox whipped his head toward the sound, every nerve in his body screaming to run—except his legs refused to obey.
Out of the shadows came a familiar hulking figure with an oversized bow slung across his back. His one good eye glinted with sharp awareness, his expression caught between a smirk and a scowl.
It was One-Eyed George.
"Well, that was messy," George said, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. He stepped over the nearest body, nudging it with his boot. "These rats've been crawling around Greywater for weeks. Figured it was time to take out the trash."
Lennox gawked at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Y-You…"
"Killed them?" George finished, raising an eyebrow. "Sure did. Unless you'd rather they killed you first." He let out a bark of laughter, then leaned on his bow. "You alright, kid? You look like you've just seen a ghost."
"I… I'm fine," Lennox stammered, though his voice cracked like brittle glass.
George chuckled. "You don't sound fine." He jabbed a thumb toward the bodies. "First time seeing someone die, huh?"
Lennox nodded weakly, his gaze fixed on the blood pooling around the fallen thugs.
"Figures." George's smirk softened into something resembling kindness. "You'll get used to it, or you won't. But here's some free advice: keep your wits about you. This world doesn't care if you're ready. You'll either survive, or you won't."
"Thanks… I think," Lennox muttered, his voice barely audible.
George shrugged, hoisting the bow onto his shoulder. "Anyway, you're welcome. Can't have thieves scaring off my future customers, now can I?"
Lennox blinked. "You… saved me because I bought a magic beast core from you?"
"Partly," George admitted with a grin. "But mostly 'cause I can't stand these scum. Makes the streets look bad. You know—public relations."
Lennox managed a small, shaky laugh. "Right. Public relations."
George's eye narrowed slightly, studying him. "Where are you headed, anyway? Headed off somewhere to buy something else?"
"No," Lennox replied quickly. "I live nearby. I… run a tavern."
The words sounded strange, even to him.
"A tavern?" George raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "You? A skinny kid who just got cornered by three amateurs?"
"It's a work in progress," Lennox admitted, feeling his cheeks heat up.
George snorted. "That's putting it mildly." He scratched his chin, then gestured toward the alley's exit. "C'mon, I'll walk you back. Don't want another pack of rats trying their luck."
Lennox hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Thanks."
------
The cobbled streets of Greywater stretched before them, worn smooth by centuries of boots, carts, and rain. It was around 1:45 PM, the afternoon sun still hanging high in the sky, casting bright light across the uneven stones. Lennox walked beside One-Eyed George, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. George's heavy boots thudded rhythmically, and his gruff voice filled the silence.
"So, this tavern of yours—what's it called?"
"The Mystic Tavern," Lennox replied, his voice carrying a note of quiet pride.
George let out a low whistle. "Fancy name. Let me guess, inherited it from your folks?"
"Yeah," Lennox said softly. "My mom."
George glanced at him, his single eye briefly softening under the brim of his weathered hat. "Good woman?"
"The best," Lennox answered without hesitation.
"Then you've got big shoes to fill," George said, his tone losing some of its usual edge. "Better not mess it up, kid."
"I'll try not to," Lennox replied, a spark of determination surprising even himself.
"Good answer." George chuckled, the sound like gravel rolling in a barrel. "You've got spirit, kid. Shame it's buried under all that naivety."
They continued in a comfortable silence, broken occasionally by George's rambling observations about Greywater's shadier alleys, the smell of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery, or the antics of a stray cat weaving through the shadows.
Finally, the Mystic Tavern came into view. The wooden sign above the entrance gleamed in the dappled light, freshly polished and adorned with a stylized depiction of a swirling aetheric wisp. Lennox felt a swell of pride as George slowed to a stop, studying the establishment with his good eye.
"Well, kid," George said, nodding at the sign, "I've got to admit—it looks decent. Much better than I expected."
Lennox frowned. "What were you expecting?"
George smirked. "Something collapsing, maybe. A roof held up by prayer and sheer stubbornness."
Lennox forced a smile and narrowed his eyes. "Glad to exceed your low expectations, George."
George chuckled, then turned toward him. "Well, kid, you got me curious. What's the inside look like?"
On hearing the question, an idea sparked in Lennox's mind. He was desperate to gather the 10 silver coins needed for the quest to upgrade the tavern, and here stood a potential first customer—a seasoned adventurer who probably carried enough funds to make a difference.
Before he could second-guess himself, he blurted, "Why don't you come in? First drink's on the house."
George's single eye narrowed, scanning Lennox as if trying to detect a trap. The moment stretched uncomfortably long before the older man sighed and nodded.
"Alright, kid. Let's see if the inside matches the outside."
Lennox let out a small cheer under his breath and pushed open the heavy wooden door, the little bell above tinkling softly. Warm light spilled in from the street as the two stepped inside.
The interior of the Mystic Tavern was even more impressive than its polished exterior. Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, sturdy tables gleamed with fresh varnish, and the faint scent of lavender mixed with the sharper tang of polished brass. A few lanterns glowed with an ethereal shimmer, adding an almost mystical ambiance to the space.
George let out an impressed grunt. "Well, I'll be damned. You actually put effort into this place."
Not me, but the mystical system. Lennox thought as he slid behind the polished counter. He flipped the door sign to Open and turned to George with a grin.
"So, what'll it be, George?" Lennox asked, resting his hands on the counter. "We've got... well, actually, what do we have?"
George raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me? Shouldn't a tavern keeper know his own stock?"