After the battle, Brynjolf and I took a moment to rest. Looks like my plate gauntlets are busted, and my leather armor's not far behind. While we caught our breath, I pulled out my map and compass to confirm the favor quest was complete. What's cool is that this part of the region was now colored in, with all the waypoints on the map lighting up. Clearing favor quests and points of interest actually seems to affect the area. Huh—didn't expect that.
After that, I tapped the air to open the "Hero Build" menu. In the base game, each profession had five "tracks"—basically skill trees you could mix and match to suit your playstyle.
To my surprise, the menu wasn't empty this time. There was one track unlocked: Brawler. The rest were still grayed out. The track itself looked like a constellation shaped vaguely like a clenched fist. Cool.
I checked out the first skill: Hands of Stone (Passive):You were born with heavy hands. Your unarmed strikes have a high chance to stagger enemies near your size, as well as those slightly smaller or larger. Damage increases with your weight, making every blow a force to reckon with.
I peeked at the three skills branching out from Hands of Stone. The first was Swarmer—looks like it boosts damage with each successive hit. The second was Counter Striker, which adds the opponent's damage to mine on a successful counter. The third was Slugger, which increases my power the more damage I take.
Holy fuckin' shit. There's finally a brawler class system!?
"Doing arithmetic in your head again, brother?" Brynjolf asked, snapping me back to reality.
"…Yeah. Was calculating how much silver we'd need to repair our gear."
"I see. I know how to fix my own equipment, so you don't need to worry about mine. How about you?"
I paused, eyes dropping as I thought. The merchant from earlier totally ripped me off with this junk gear. Who's to say it won't happen again?
"I might take a break from adventuring to learn how to craft my own shit," I muttered. "Could save money in the long run, yeah."
Brynjolf gave me a smile and a nod of approval before walking over to pile up the kobold corpses. I followed. They were surprisingly light for humanoid dogs.
"Is there anything lootable in kobold corpses?" I asked.
"Hm… I don't think so, brother. We'd have to ask an alchemist about that."
I took a moment to peer deeper into the tunnel. It was a dead end—but packed with ore deposits. From what I could tell, they looked like Tier 2 Copper and Tier 3 Tin. Honestly, I was too exhausted to mine them now. Maybe I'll come back later.
Brynjolf and I exited the cave, only to be met with the cheers of miners on standby.
"Looks like business is back, boys!" one of them shouted.
Each miner gave us a grin and a pat on the back as they passed. Andrew, on the other hand, stopped right in front of us with a wide smile.
"Knew I could count on you two. You comin' to ol' Sandra's tonight?"
Sandra's? Yeah, that run-down inn back in Graywatch.
"I could use some chicken stew," I mused.
"Great! There's somethin' goin' on right now—Annual Festival dedicated to Big George," Andrew said.
"Big George?" Brynjolf and I echoed, curiosity piqued.
Andrew then launched into the tale of Graywatch's local legend. "Big George" was a renowned pugilist born and raised in the town. He'd been a two-time coliseum champion—once in his mid-20s, and then again in his 40s. Wait… wait… this sounds oddly familiar.
Andrew went on to explain that Big George loved two things: fighting and drinking. So, every year, they held a brawling and drinking competition at the inn where he used to rest—to honor his memory.
"Cool. What's the prize pool like?" I asked.
"Somewhere around... 10 gold coins total."
"..."
Brynjolf and I exchanged a glance, then looked at Andrew.
"…How many is that in silver, my brother?" Brynjolf asked.
"Well, I dunno. A gold coin's 'round a hundred silver…" Andrew replied.
"…A thousand," I cut in.
The three of us paused, stunned. Then we all let out the kind of shocked, half-horrified, half-thrilled shrieks that can only mean: holy shit. That's basically a mountain of chicken stew money.
"Well, if you'll excuse us…" I said to Andrew with a cheeky grin, giving a sharp whistle to call my saddled ox mount.
"Greedy bastard," my ox grumbled in my head, his mental tone unimpressed.
"Hey, we could use the money! Besides, when's the last time you ate anything other than grass?" I shot back.
"A long time. An apple would be nice," he muttered.
"I'll see you both in the inn later!", Andrew yelled in the distance.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and shadows stretched long across the fields, Brynjolf and I rode our mounts back toward Graywatch—toward stew, fists, drinks, and fortune.
By the time we arrived, night had fallen. We stabled our mounts and handed the stablehand a few coins to keep watch. Then we walked through the streets we'd worked so hard to help rebuild. Was it just me, or did the city feel… bigger? Looks like the reconstruction efforts carried on just fine without us.
We made our way to Sandra's Brew & Bruise. Even from outside, we could hear the roar of laughter, the clinking of tankards, and the rhythmic stomp of boots on wooden floorboards. The heavy oak doors creaked as we stepped in, instantly greeted by a wave of warmth—sweat, spiced stew, and spilled ale all mingling in the air. The inn was packed shoulder to shoulder with townsfolk and travelers alike, all shouting and cheering as a bard on a makeshift stage belted out a wild medley about the one and only Big George.
We squeezed past the crowd, dodging elbows and sloshing drinks as we searched for a sign-up desk—until we ran into a familiar face.
It was Mayor Durand. He raised a brow at us, his usual stoic expression twitching into a smirk.
"Mayor!" I called out through the din.
"Well, well—if it ain't the two local heroes I've been hearin' about."
He gave us both a once-over, eyes narrowing in judgment before he broke into a fit of laughter.
"Don't look much like heroes to me! Been through hell, have ya?"
We chuckled, and the Mayor pulled us aside for a bit of small talk—fishing, farms, kobolds, the usual.
"Good to see you two makin' a real difference out there," he said, nodding. Then, with a grin: "So. You bastards here for the gold, yeah?"
Brynjolf and I shared a smirk and nodded.
"Well, you'd better give it your all—we've got some tough bastards in there tonight. Go sign up before it kicks off."
He pointed us toward a table tucked in the far corner. A rugged woman with a broken nose sat behind it, arms crossed, glaring daggers at some poor lad in front of her. She spoke—more like snarled—without breaking eye contact, then gave a sharp chin jerk. The kid bolted.
"NEXT!" she bellowed, loud enough to hush the tavern for a moment before the revelry resumed.
Brynjolf and I stepped forward.
"Names?" she barked.
"Marcus Pereira."
"Brynjolf Einarson."
She gave a short nod, checked a note, then glanced up again.
"You two are VIPs—entry fee's waived. Which competition?"
She slid over two notes, scribbled messily in some foreign script. A translation box blinked to life on my interface:"Dead Man's Drink" and "Ol' George's Grill."
Brynjolf picked the former. I, naturally, chose the latter.
The woman pointed us to our respective waiting areas.
"I'll see you after, brother," Brynjolf said, raising his cinderblock of a fist.
"Yeah, dude. Later," I replied, bumping it with mine.
I climbed the stairs and settled into one of the seats overlooking the stage. From up here, I spotted Brynjolf's massive, comically broad frame lining up with the other contestants in a single-file line. Mostly humans... wait, hold up.
I leaned forward and squinted.
There was a gnome among them.
She couldn't have been taller than four feet, with gray skin etched in black ink markings, big pointed ears, and white hair tied back into a tight bun. Her black-and-red leather armor hugged her lean, toned frame. Gnomes usually hailed from the far west. She's a long way from home.
After the bard wrapped up their performance, they stepped offstage, and a sharply dressed announcer—wearing something suspiciously close to a modern-day suit—hopped up to take their place.
"Laaaadies and gents, fighters and fools! Welcome to the first main event of the night—Dead Man's Drink!"
The crowd exploded. Tankards clanged, and someone in the back already started chanting, "DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!"
"This one's for the brave, the stupid, and the liver-strong! A trial of guts, guts again, and the kind of stomach that could make a troll puke!"
Laughter followed. Someone belched like a warhorn.
"Now let me spin you a tale. Before Big George was out there bustin' jaws and takin' crowns in the coliseum, he was already a champion of the one thing no one could ever outmatch him in—drinkin'."
The cheers got louder.
"They say ol' George once outdrank ten dwarves and a goat—and still managed to knock out a guy with a bar stool right after. True story… or close enough!"
The crowd howled. Someone spilled their ale near me—splashes hit my arm, but I didn't care.
"So tonight, in honor of the man, the myth, the walking keg that was Big George—we drink 'til the last one's standing, or at least still upright! First to pass out, puke, or cry for water is OUT!"
The announcer spread his arms wide.
"ARE YOU READY… for the DRINK OF THE DEAD!?"
The tavern shook from the collective roar. Contestants climbed up on stage and took their seats at a long table. Waiters zipped in like battle-hardened rogues, slamming down mugs of ale in front of each competitor. Kegs were already lined up behind them.
The announcer stepped up again. "Here's how this goes: each round, the contestants get a full mug. You chug it down. The round ends when everyone's either finished, quit, or got caught cheatin'. You're out if you fall, vomit, or cry mercy. Simple, brutal, beautiful."
He raised his hand.
"With that all out of the way… LET'S GET THIS SHOW STARTED!"
The bards struck up a rowdy tune. The crowd's chant surged back in:"DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!"
I saw Brynjolf tilt his mug back and down the whole thing in one single, godless gulp.
I nearly forgot—Nords in-game were absolute units when it came to liquor.
He's got this in the bag.
The earlier rounds breezed by like a drunken sprint through memory lane. Half the roster was already hiccuping, faces red and eyes glazed over like glazed ham.
"And we've got our first casualties, folks! Down goes Big Tony! And—oof—look at that stagger from Redbeard! Someone get him a pillow and a prayer!"
One poor human was visibly fighting a losing war with his stomach—cheeks puffed out, eyes darting for an exit. Before disaster could strike, a waiter zoomed in like a knight on a divine quest, catching the projectile vomit mid-air with a bucket.
"Woooo! Give it up for the real MVP—the Bucket Knight rides again! That was a clean catch, ten outta ten form!"
The crowd—and yeah, me too—erupted in cheers like he'd scored a goal in the World Cup of booze.
By the time the sixth round hit, the competition turned into a battlefield. Contestants dropped like flies, tipping out of their chairs or slumping over with glazed stares and foamy lips. The ref had to check if some of them were still breathing.
"And then there were... what, seven? Six? I've lost count and most of these folks can't count anymore either! What a beautiful mess!", the announcer yelled.
But Brynjolf? My guy was built different. He drank like he brushed his teeth with ale every morning. Each mug disappeared down his throat like it was nothing—just another Tuesday.
"Look at the Nord go! He ain't drinkin', he's breathin' this stuff!"
Then came the eleventh round.
Only two remained.
Brynjolf… and the gnome!?
"Hold onto your tankards, people! It's down to our last warriors—a walking keg from the north, and a gray-skinned goddess of grog from the west!"
The crowd gasped. I leaned forward, squinting again. She was swaying ever so slightly, but those ink-marked arms gripped her tankard with the resolve of a warrior poet. She locked eyes with Brynjolf across the table.
No smiles.
Just mutual, boozy respect.
"No words. Just liver-powered telepathy. The final rounds await… and I wouldn't bet a single coin on how this ends."
The air was tense. The crowd was on edge. Someone in the back whispered, "She's not real…"
And honestly? At that point, I wasn't sure either.
Then the drinks just kept coming. Was this the 20th? 21st round? I lost count somewhere between the cheering and the secondhand hangover. Brynjolf was hiccuping now, his face flushed, shoulders tense—I could see it in his eyes. He was holding it together by sheer Nordic stubbornness.
Meanwhile, the gnome? She was giggling. Giggling like a kid holding a Wintersday present, swirling her mug in little loops before raising it high like it was the Goblet of Fire.
What the actual fuck?
"Brynjolf! You got this! Come on!" I shouted from above the crowd.
He lifted his head at the sound of my voice, eyelids heavy, but he nodded. Slowly, steadily, he raised his mug and downed another. My man.
Then I heard it.
"That Nord's a whelp. Even a Geirdmundholt tavern wench could outdrink him."
The voice was deep, rumbling beside me like thunder wrapped in disdain.
I turned fast. Real fast.
The guy looked like Thor after a bulk phase. Blonde hair braided back, thick beard, tribal tattoo curling up his neck, muscles like boulders stacked on boulders. Dude was massive. Like, 'eats a cow for breakfast' massive. And yeah, I'll admit it—I felt a chill.
But nobody, nobody, talks shit about my friends.
"The fuck did you just say, bitch!?" I snapped, shooting up from my seat and glaring him down.
He stood up to meet me. Towered over me, actually. The man must've been nine and a half feet tall, easy. I craned my neck just to keep eye contact.
"I said," he repeated, voice slow and smug, "your friend is a whelp. A boy. A disgrace."
And that was it.
Fury lit up the back of my neck like wildfire. My fingers slid around a bottle from the table as I stepped forward.
"Oh yeah? Say that again, you piece of shit—I dare you."
He didn't flinch.
"Your friend is a mere boy. Not worthy of Nord blood. An embarrassment to our forefathers."
That was it—I wound up to swing.
But before I could launch the bottle into his smug jaw, two figures stepped in.
One was a bald man in flowing orange robes, calm as still water. The other was a sharply dressed woman with curled hair, wearing a purple vest over a crisp white blouse and striped black pants. Fancy. Poised. Dangerous.
"Save it for the competition," the monk said, voice calm but solid as stone. "Do not let fury take over."
"Gentlemen," the woman added, folding her arms. "Let's not ruin the festivities with whatever primitive posturing this is. Sit down."
We both stared each other down a moment longer—me and the Thor-knockoff. Fury burning in my chest, tension thick enough to choke on. But eventually, we both relented. Sat back down. Eyes never leaving the other.
The show must go on.
When I looked back, Brynjolf was already slumped over the table, arms still wrapped around his mug like it was his firstborn. The announcer sprinted over, nearly tripping on his coattails in the rush.
"Is he out!? Hold on—no! He's still holding the mug! He might still be in this, folks! Let's all give a moment of silence… for this brave Nord!"
The room fell eerily quiet.
Brynjolf twitched slightly.
Then—
He snored.
Loud. Deep. Unapologetic. The kind of snore that rattles wooden beams and makes cats yowl three blocks over.
My jaw just about hit the damn floor.
Then came a second snore.
I lost it.
A snort escaped me, then full-on belly laughter. I clutched my sides like they were about to crack open. The whole tavern followed suit—howling, crying, practically convulsing with laughter.
"...AND THAT'S A WRAP, FOLKS! WE HAVE OUR WINNER—THE TWO-TIME, UNDISPUTED CHAMPION OF DEAD MAN'S DRINK… MAZZIE!!" the announcer bellowed, barely audible over the roar of the crowd.
Cheers erupted like an explosion of tankards and chaos. The gnome—Mazzie—stood proudly on the table like it was her throne.
"What's up, mothafuckas! That was some easy shit! Next time, bring real competition!" she shouted, her tomboyish voice slurred just enough to be concerning, while flashing the double middle fingers with the confidence of a rockstar mid-encore. "Thanks for the 5 G's, SUCKAS!"
Before anyone could even process her... incredibly aggressive victory speech—
BBRRRRRRRRRAAAAAPPPPP.
She let out a belch so ungodly and powerful it echoed across the rafters like a battle horn.
Wild cheers. Tankards thrown. It was absolute anarchy. I swear, even Brynjolf twitched in his sleep hearing that. Shortly after, everyone except the announcer cleared the stage.
"Here's a big thanks to everyone who participated! Please collect your bets and winnings later."
The announcer inhaled audibly.
"...AND NOW! FOR THE MOMENT YOU ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR!"
The crowd exploded into cheers, tankards raised high, as a waiter climbed the stairs, gesturing for us to line up. We were split into two groups, each descending down separate staircases toward the sides of the stage like warriors entering the arena.
The lights—well, torches—dimmed ever so slightly. Drums started pounding in rhythm. The announcer's voice thundered over the noise:
"...FOR THE MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!! A BLOODY, BRUISED, AND GLORIOUS COMMEMORATION OF A LEGEND!"
The crowd hollered, boots stomping against the floorboards.
"In honor of the man who could knock out an ogre before breakfast... who once punched a bear, stole its ale, and chugged it in front of its cubs... the one and only—BIG! GEORGE!"
The bard struck a power chord. Firecrackers—or maybe just poorly timed sparks—burst from the rafters.
"And to honor his legacy of mayhem and muscle—we bring you the finest, boldest, dumbest fighters Graywatch has to offer!"
The announcer paced across the stage, hands raised like he was summoning a storm.
"Tonight, fists will fly! Teeth will scatter! Friendships will be tested and bones will be bruised! This is not just a bar fight—this is a tradition! A festival! A straight-up legal brawl for fame, glory, and that sweet, sweet bag of gold!"
The crowd was losing their minds.
"So get your bets in, say your prayers, and hold onto your ale—because this is…"
He paused.
Dramatic silence.
Then screamed:
"OL' GEORGE'S GRILL!!!"
Cheers erupted once again, wild and rowdy as ever. We were told to strip off our armor and weapons—just bare fists and raw willpower from here on out. Only clothing allowed. No protection. No mercy.
"…AND FOR OUR FIRST MATCH OF THE GRILL!"
The crowd hushed in anticipation.
"A MAN WHO STARTED WITH NOTHING… AND BECAME A LEGEND OVERNIGHT! A FOOL BRAVE ENOUGH TO FIGHT—AND KILL—A CENTAUR WITH HIS BARE HANDS! A MAN STRONG ENOUGH TO REBUILD A CITY FROM THE DIRT AND ASH—THE HERO OF GRAYWATCH!"
The announcer held the pause. The torches flared.
"MARCUS! PEREIRA!"
Holy shit. What an intro.
I climbed the steps with a bounce in my step, riding the energy of the crowd. Their cheers hit me like a wave, and I drank it in. Arms raised high, heart pounding—I felt it again.
That fire.
That buzz.
Like I was back in the octagon, under the lights, before the storm.
Nothing else compares to this feeling.
"…AND HIS OPPONENT! A YOUNG, HUNGRY WHIPPERSNAPPER LOOKING TO MAKE HIS MARK TONIGHT! GRITTY, SCRAPPY, AND FULL OF FIRE—PLEASE WELCOME… BILL 'RUTHLESS' JOHNSON!"
A wiry guy sprinted up the opposite side of the stage, one fist raised to the air. Lean build, fast feet. He wasn't taller than me—but I could see it in his eyes.
He wanted this.
Still, something told me this was a mismatch. But that didn't mean I'd take it easy.
Once the bell rings...
There will be no mercy.
We stood across from each other, bouncing lightly on our feet. Limbs loose. Eyes locked.
The noise around us faded. Just me. Just him. The world narrowed down to this one moment.
"…AND—START!!"