Lennox leaned forward slightly. "And what about Clerics? You said they use divine power… So, does that mean gods actually exist?"
Garrick glanced up, studying him for a long moment before answering.
"Yes."
Lennox blinked. He hadn't expected such a direct answer.
Garrick continued, his tone even. "Divine power is not like magic—it does not come from within. It is granted. Bestowed. Clerics draw upon it through faith, devotion, or through pacts with higher entities."
Lennox frowned slightly, rubbing his chin. "Yeah, but that still doesn't answer the question. Are gods real? Like, actual living beings?"
Garrick exhaled. "I don't know."
Lennox's brow rose. "You don't?"
Garrick leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I have fought against Clerics. I have fought beside Clerics. Their divine power is real—I have seen it heal wounds, smite enemies, and even revive the dying." His voice darkened slightly. "But whether the gods themselves exist as true beings… that is something no one knows for sure."
Lennox absorbed the words carefully.
He had never been religious in his past life on Earth. He had grown up in New York City, where belief in gods was more of a personal or cultural thing than an absolute truth. The idea that some divine entity was watching over people had always seemed far-fetched.
But now?
This was a world of magic, monsters, and a mystical tavern that could serve enchanted drinks. A world where warriors could shatter boulders with their fists and mages could summon fire from their fingertips.
Compared to that, the existence of gods didn't seem so impossible anymore.
Still, Lennox wasn't entirely convinced.
"So," he pressed, "you're telling me that clerics and priests just take on faith and suddenly become powerful?"
Garrick met his gaze evenly. "Yes."
Lennox frowned. That sounded… too easy.
But before he could voice his doubts, Garrick continued, "But belief alone is not enough."
Lennox leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
"True clerics," Garrick said, "must forge a strong connection to the divine—a bond that goes beyond mere prayer or ritual. Their entire existence must be dedicated to that path. Without that unwavering devotion, without truly surrendering themselves to a higher purpose, they will never wield divine power."
Lennox let out a slow breath, absorbing the words.
So, unlike magic and martial arts, which people could learn, cultivate, and control, divine power was something that had to be granted.
And the source of that power?
It had to be gods—or equally powerful, incomprehensible beings.
But that still didn't answer all of his questions.
The concept of classes in Eldonia—and in the greater world of Aetheris—remained unclear to him. Sure, Garrick had his own understanding, but he was an outsider, a warrior summoned from another world.
Maybe someone like One-Eyed George or Derrin Locke would know more.
Both were seasoned adventurers, and more importantly, both were locals. If there was anyone who could explain how classes actually worked in this world, it would be them.
Lennox made a mental note to ask the next time they stopped by the tavern.
For now, he had other things to do.
-----
Soon enough, Lennox and Garrick finished their meal and cleared the table.
Lennox felt grounded and more refreshed.
The combination of food and Eluna's Nectar left him feeling balanced, despite the significant increase in his strength. There was no discomfort, no instability—just a steady, reassuring sense of power flowing through him.
Glancing at the clock, he noted that it was already past midday.
Time to open the tavern.
He strode toward the entrance and unbolted the doors, briefly letting them swing open to let in the barely warm spring afternoon air. Then, he settled behind the counter, ready for the first customers of the day.
It was just then that Garrick descended the stairs.
The burly warrior had changed into full armor—not his usual striking one—but a dark, rugged set reinforced with leather and metal plates. His massive sword was strapped across his back, exuding an air of quiet menace.
Lennox raised a brow as Garrick approached.
"I'm heading out," the warrior said. "Need to restock supplies."
Lennox nodded, already expecting as much. He reached into the cash cabinet, pulling out five gold coins, and handed them over.
"Get whatever we need," he said.
Garrick took the coins with a silent nod before striding toward the door.
The warrior didn't waste time with unnecessary words—he simply walked out of the tavern, disappearing into the streets of Greywater.
-----
The moment Garrick disappeared beyond the bend in the street, two cloaked figures stirred in the shadows of a nearby alleyway.
Their presence had been imperceptible—no sound, no movement, no trace. It was as if they had always been there, lurking in the dim recesses of Greywater's silent underbelly.
They stood within the gloom of an alley bordering The Gilded Scroll, a quiet but well-known establishment dealing in rare tomes, scrolls, and old relics. It was a perfect place to remain unseen.
The taller of the two figures tilted his head slightly, his piercing crimson eyes tracking the departing warrior.
"That one," he murmured, his voice like rustling parchment, "is a terrifying man."
The shorter figure let out a low, dry chuckle, his voice carrying a whisper of amusement. "Lucky for us, we waited before acting. If we had moved rashly…" His words trailed off meaningfully.
The taller figure didn't respond at first. Instead, a chill rippled through the air around him, an unnatural cold that defied the mild spring afternoon.
His tone was colder than the air itself.
"As usual," he muttered, "Ulrich failed to disclose everything."
The shorter figure exhaled sharply. "Hah. You expected anything different?"
"No," the taller one admitted. His gloved fingers twitched, as if itching to draw a blade. "But I should remove one of his arms as punishment."
The other figure chuckled again, though this time, it was softer—almost approving.
A long silence stretched between them as they continued watching the entrance of the Mystic Tavern. Sunlight streamed down from the clear spring afternoon sky, casting gentle shadows across the cobbled streets. A light breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, mingling with the distant murmur of the marketplace.
This was not an ideal time to act.
Normally, they would have waited until nightfall, when shadows stretched long and secrecy was easier to maintain. But night was not an option.
That damned warrior was always at the tavern in the evenings, a constant and immovable frightening presence. Once darkness fell, their window of opportunity would close completely.
They had no choice.
The moment was now.
Now—when the streets were neither too crowded nor too empty.
Now—when the only real threat had just walked away.
The shorter figure's deep-set eyes gleamed beneath the hood. "We've observed enough. The warrior is gone. There won't be a better time."
A slow nod.
And then—they vanished.
No sound. No lingering trace. Just shadows dissolving into thinner shadows.
The next instant, they reappeared at the very threshold of the tavern, merging seamlessly with the shadows beneath the awning.
Their movements were effortless, ghost-like, their cloaks whispering against the wooden frame as they straightened—two silent wraiths, standing at the entrance of the Mystic Tavern.
Then—without hesitation—
They pushed the door open and stepped inside.
-----