"So, does he personally teach the disciples?" I ventured, a flicker of hope igniting in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I'd be the sole prodigy singled out for one-on-one lessons with the guild master—a classic anime trope to salvage my bruised ego. Masamato tilted his head, his golden eyes glinting with faint amusement.
"Yeah, he does."
"Oh." My voice flattened, disappointment crashing over me like a poorly timed status debuff. So much for being the chosen one—again.
"By the way," I pressed, shaking off the sting, "can you tell me more about the school?"
"Sure," Masamato began, leaning forward with the casual confidence of a man who'd seen a dozen training grounds and lived to tell the tale. "First off, the school offers free dormitories for students from abroad, plus free meals—"Just then, Lance leaned in close, his breath tickling my ear as he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I heard the free food there's so bad it could gag a wyvern."
I stifled a snort, catching Masamato's sidelong glance as he cleared his throat with an exaggerated ahem. "Well," he continued, undeterred, "if the free fare doesn't suit your palate, you can always buy your own. But trust me—those who graduate from that school emerge as some of the finest swordsmen in Xipen."
"That's nice," I said, nodding thoughtfully. It reminded me of universities back home—free dorms for out-of-towners, questionable cafeteria slop included. A familiar setup, just with more swords and fewer term papers.
"How many disciples does he have?" I asked, curiosity nudging me forward. Masamato rubbed his chin. "About four hundred, give or take."
Four hundred? My jaw nearly hit the table, visions of a packed lecture hall replacing my dreams of intimate mentorship. That's not a school—that's a small army!
"Does he personally teach each one?" I asked, clinging to a shred of hope.
Masamato chuckled, a low rumble that carried a hint of sympathy.
"No, of course not. He instructs them in groups on the training grounds. But for you—" His grin widened, a spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. "—I'll make sure he teaches you individually."
Well, well, well. My spirits lifted, a smirk tugging at my lips. Not bad—not the sword-saint-solo-apprentice fantasy I'd been secretly nursing, but private lessons with the guild master? That's a solid consolation prize. Still, a tiny pang lingered—he wasn't some legendary hermit with a flowing cape and a cryptic catchphrase. Ah, well. Beggars can't be choosers in an isekai world.
"Ok," I replied, keeping my tone neutral despite the otaku fireworks popping off in my head.
The conversation paused as we settled into the Bromùët's warm chaos, the clatter of mugs and the bard's lute weaving a lively backdrop. Masamato leaned back, crossing his arms with a satisfied air, while Suzuki's light blue eyes flicked toward me, her serene smile softening the moment. Lance, predictably, couldn't sit still—his fingers drummed the table, itching for action or at least a good story. Gild, as usual, loomed silently across from us, a mountain of quiet amid the bustle.
"So, Kozuki," Suzuki began, her voice a gentle melody cutting through the din, "what do you think of Solva so far?" Her staff rested against her knee, its runes faintly pulsing like a heartbeat.
I shrugged, playing it cool. "It's… lively. Bigger than I expected. Kinda reminds me of—" I caught myself mid-sentence, nearly blurting Tokyo Game Show or some other Earth reference. "—uh, some places I've heard about. You know, busy and chaotic."
Lance grinned, leaning forward with a gleam in his green eyes. "Chaotic's right! You should've seen it last spring during the Serpent Festival—streets packed tighter than a goblin hoard, vendors slinging fire-roasted drake wings, and some lunatic juggler tossing live salamanders. Nearly burned down half the market!"
Suzuki giggled, her hand rising to cover her mouth. "Oh, I remember that. The guild had to send three squads just to douse the flames. Poor Masamato was stuck wrangling the crowd while Lance here cheered the juggler on."
"Hey!" Lance protested, throwing his hands up. "He was talented. Deserved an audience—till the fire got out of hand, anyway."
Masamato smirked, his golden eyes narrowing at Lance. "Talented or not, you owe me a new cloak. Mine came back singed and reeking of lizard spit."
I couldn't help but laugh, the image of Masamato—cool, composed Masamato—chasing down a flaming salamander too absurd to resist. "Sounds like I missed a good show."
"Oh, you did," Lance said, wagging a finger like a bard mid-tale. "But stick around—Solva's got a knack for throwing curveballs. Bet you ten silver we'll stumble into some madness before the week's out."
"Ten silver?" I arched a brow, feigning skepticism. "I don't even have a copper to my name yet."
"Ha! Then you'd better hope that guild master turns you into a sword-slinging gold mine," Lance shot back, his grin widening. "Speaking of—any bets on what rank you'll pull tomorrow?"
I leaned back, crossing my arms with a mock-serious frown. "F-rank, probably. Gotta start somewhere, right?"
Inside, my brain was screaming Please be SSS-rank, please be SSS-rank—but no way was I jinxing it out loud.
Suzuki tilted her head, her golden hair catching the lantern light. "Don't sell yourself short, Kozuki. That lizard chase took guts—or at least really fast legs." Her teasing tone was soft, but it landed like a playful jab.
"Fast legs and a loud mouth," Masamato added, his smirk deepening. "You practically serenaded that beast into chasing you. Maybe you've got bard potential too."
"Oi, don't give me ideas," I retorted, grinning despite myself.
"I'd be the worst bard in Xipen—can't carry a tune to save my life. I'd just yell at monsters till they leave."
Lance erupted into laughter, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the empty mugs. "A shouting bard! I'd pay to see that—imagine you hollering 'Begone, foul beast!' while swinging that fancy sword of yours."
"Fancy paperweight, you mean," I quipped, nodding toward the Sword of Absolute Death at my hip. "Still haven't figured out how to make it do anything useful."
Suzuki's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "It's got a strange aura, though. I felt it when we met—like it's waiting for something. Maybe the guild master can help you unlock it."
"Maybe," I mused, running a thumb over the blood-red gem in its hilt.
"Or maybe I'll just chuck it at the next monster and call it a day."
Masamato chuckled, a rare full laugh that softened his usual stoic edge. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I'd rather not fish you out of a drake's gullet."
The banter flowed easy and warm, the Bromùët's amber glow wrapping us in a bubble of camaraderie. Lance launched into a wild tale about the time he accidentally speared a merchant's cart instead of a bandit, earning a groan from Suzuki and a deadpan stare from Gild—who, true to form, offered only a slow nod when pressed for his opinion. I tossed in a few dry jabs, keeping my otaku glee under wraps, while Masamato played the straight man, steering us back from Lance's tangents with wry precision. Suzuki's gentle prodding kept me in the spotlight just enough to feel included, her quiet warmth a steady anchor.
The chatter rolled on, a mix of guild gossip, Solva quirks, and playful bets about my future, until the waiter reappeared, his arms laden with trays that steamed with promise. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread hit like a critical strike, silencing us mid-laugh as our eyes locked on the feast ahead.
"When's the food getting here? I'm starving!" Lance groaned, slumping dramatically against the table, his green eyes darting toward the kitchen like a hawk tracking prey.
As if on cue, two waiters emerged from the bustling chaos, their arms laden with trays that steamed with promise. The clatter of plates silenced Lance's whining as they approached, deftly weaving through the crowded dining hall. With practiced grace, they began unloading the bounty—dish after dish piling onto the table until the dark wood vanished beneath a mosaic of culinary splendor. It wasn't just a meal; it was the entire menu, a feast so extravagant it threatened to spill over the edges.
"Here you are, sirs—one complete menu," the first waiter announced, a lanky youth with chestnut hair and a crisp blue apron. He set down the final platter with a flourish, stepping back to survey the spread. "Please enjoy," he added with a sharp bow, his voice bright before he retreated with his companion into the kitchen's clamor.
The air thickened with a symphony of aromas—sweet, savory, and spiced—curling up from the dishes like a siren's call. My mouth watered traitorously, my stomach growling loud enough to rival a dungeon beast. Before anyone could blink, Lance lunged forward, his restraint crumbling like a poorly fortified wall.
"Let's eat!" he bellowed, seizing a drumstick and tearing into it with the ferocity of a starving wolf.
A ripple of laughter broke out—Suzuki's soft giggle, Masamato's low chuckle, even my own stifled snort—as we followed suit, diving into the feast with abandon. Suzuki plucked a piece of roasted chicken from a platter, its golden skin glistening with herb-flecked oil, and took a delicate bite. Her light blue eyes widened, sparkling with delight.
"This is absolutely delicious!" she exclaimed, her voice a melodic lilt over the din.
Even Gild, the stoic monolith, shed his usual reserve. His massive hands moved with surprising speed, snatching a thick slab of seared meat and devouring it in great, ravenous bites, his jaw working like a blacksmith's bellows. Masamato, ever the composed leader, speared a morsel of tender pork drizzled with a dark, honeyed glaze. He chewed thoughtfully, then nodded.
"I agree," he said, his tone measured but warm, a rare crack in his cool façade.
I reached for a dish—a steaming pile of what looked like shredded beef, nestled in a sauce that shimmered a deep, spiced crimson. The first bite hit me like a critical strike. My jaw slackened, nearly dropping the fork as flavors exploded across my tongue: smoky, tangy, with a subtle heat that lingered like a well-timed plot twist. This is unreal, I thought, reeling. Maybe it was because I'd subsisted on instant noodles back home—those sad, salty packets wolfed down between anime marathons and gaming binges—but this?
This was food from another world in every sense. I'd never tasted anything so rich, so alive.
Lance, mouth stuffed with a hunk of crusty bread slathered in some creamy herb spread, managed a garbled, "This place lives up to the hype—so damn good!" Bits of crumbs flew as he spoke, earning a playful eye-roll from Suzuki.
"Yeah," I agreed, swallowing another blissful bite, my voice quieter but no less awed.
The table was a battlefield of indulgence. Platters towered with roasted delights: golden-crusted fowl stuffed with fragrant wild rice, its skin crackling under our fingers; slabs of boar glazed in a sticky, sweet reduction that clung to the meat like molten amber; and a fish—some fantasy leviathan, no doubt—grilled whole, its scales crisped to a shimmering bronze, flesh flaking apart in tender, buttery layers laced with citrus zest. Bowls brimmed with sides: creamy mashed roots swirled with melted cheese, vibrant greens sautéed in garlic and drizzled with a tart vinaigrette, and dumplings plump with minced meat, their doughy shells bursting with savory broth at the slightest bite. A basket of bread—crusty rolls, soft flatbreads, and twisted loaves speckled with seeds—sat flanked by pots of whipped butter and a sharp, tangy jam that danced on the palate. Desserts peeked from the edges: honey-drenched pastries layered with nuts, their flaky edges crumbling at a touch, and a dark pudding quivering in bowls, its surface dusted with spiced sugar that melted into a velvet richness.
We ate like a party of adventurers fresh from a boss fight—relentless, joyous, a little messy. Lance tore through a rack of ribs, sauce smearing his chin as he grinned mid-chew. Suzuki nibbled daintily but steadily, her staff propped beside her, sampling a bit of everything with quiet relish. Gild's methodical assault left bones stripped clean in his wake, a silent testament to his approval. Masamato savored each bite with a connoisseur's eye, occasionally nudging a dish my way with a murmured, "Try this."
I obliged, losing myself in the flavors—each one a revelation, a far cry from the microwaved monotony of my old life.
Around us, the Bromùët's other patrons cast furtive glances our way, their curiosity a tangible hum beneath the room's lively buzz. A trio of grizzled adventurers at a nearby table—clad in dented armor, tankards in hand—nudged each other, their weathered faces splitting into grins as they watched Lance's theatrics, one muttering, "That's the Midnight Vanguard for ya—eat like they fight." A merchant couple, dressed in fine silks, paused their haggling over a ledger to stare, the woman's brow arching at the sheer volume of food, her partner whispering something about "guild coin" with a mix of envy and awe. A lone bard by the hearth faltered mid-strum, his eyes lingering on Gild's towering frame and the carnage of empty plates, before scribbling a note—probably fodder for his next ballad. Even a cluster of greenhorn adventurers, their gear mismatched and shiny-new, gawked openly, one whispering,
"Who's the kid with 'em?" as they sized me up, my untested vibe a stark contrast to the crew's seasoned swagger. The attention prickled my neck, but I kept my focus on the food—let them stare; I was too busy eating like a king.
Time blurred in a haze of flavor and laughter until, at last, we leaned back, sated and slightly dazed. The table resembled a warzone—platters picked clean, crumbs scattered like fallen soldiers, a lone dumpling rolling forlornly near the edge. We stumbled outside into Solva's evening air, the cool breeze a sharp contrast to the Bromùët's warmth, our bellies full and spirits high.
"Man, that was very expensive" Lance lamented, his face twisting into a comical grimace as he patted his now-bulging stomach. Masamato smirked, crossing his arms.
"Well, you ordered the whole menu, so no surprise there."
"Even so," Suzuki chimed in, cradling the leather sack of gold coins with a gentle shake,
"we've still got forty-six left." Her light blue eyes twinkled as the coins jingled softly.
"Really?" Lance's face lit up, his green eyes sparkling with renewed mischief. "Then let's go—"He didn't finish.
Masamato's hand shot out, delivering a swift, playful smack to the back of Lance's head, cutting off his grand scheme mid-sentence. Lance yelped, rubbing the spot with an exaggerated pout, while the rest of us dissolved into laughter, the night stretching ahead with promise.
"Kozuki, here," Masamato said, pressing a small leather pouch into my hand.
"Your share of the prize money—ten gold coins."
I stared at the gleaming coins as they spilled into my palm, their edges catching the fading light with a soft, buttery sheen. Real gold—up close and heavy, not some pixelated loot drop. Back home, I'd never seen anything like this; my world was a blur of glowing screens, instant ramen, and anime marathons, not tangible treasure. My gut screamed to snatch it with a loud 'THANK YOU!'—but that'd be too eager, too uncool. No, I'd play the humble hero, a genius move as always, Kozuki.
"I can't take this! It's too much!" I protested, thrusting the pouch back toward Masamato with exaggerated reluctance. He didn't budge, his golden eyes steady as he pushed it back.
"Take it. It's rightfully yours," he said, his tone firm yet warm, like a mentor handing down a hard-earned reward.
"But what about the others? Will they agree?" I glanced around, fishing for consensus to sell my act.
"Yeah, take it," Lance chimed in, waving a hand dismissively, his grin as wide as ever.
"No problem with me," Suzuki added, her voice a gentle ripple, her light blue eyes crinkling with approval.
Gild, true to form, said nothing—just a slow, deliberate nod, his silent endorsement as weighty as a boulder's roll.
"See? Everyone agrees," Masamato said, folding his arms with a satisfied smirk.
"Thanks," I relented, slipping the pouch into my pocket, the coins clinking softly as they settled. My cool-guy façade held, but inside, I was doing mental backflips—ten gold coins, baby! Main character status unlocked!
The sun dipped low as we linger outside the Bromùët, painting Solva's evening sky in a breathtaking sprawl of color. The horizon blazed with streaks of molten orange and crimson, like a dragon's breath igniting the clouds, while tendrils of deep violet and indigo bled upward, softening the edges into a twilight haze. The last rays slanted across the cobblestones, gilding them in a warm, fleeting glow that danced off shop signs and glinted in puddles from an earlier drizzle. A cool breeze swept through, carrying the faint tang of river water and the sweet decay of fallen leaves, rustling the banners overhead with a whispery sigh. Shadows stretched long and jagged from the city's spires, the distant castle on its hill now a dark silhouette against the fiery backdrop—a scene straight out of an anime OP, all moody beauty and quiet promise.
"So Kozuki, it's getting dark" Masamato said, snapping me out of my reverie, "there's an inn nearby. Let's get you checked in." He turned to the others, his voice shifting to a leader's crisp command.
"You guys wait here—I'm taking Kozuki to the Hkou Inn."
"Don't take too long," Lance called, leaning against the cart with a mock pout, his green eyes glinting in the dusk.
"Ok," Masamato replied, flashing them a quick, easy smile. "Let's go, Kozuki."
"Ok," I echoed, falling into step beside him. We crossed the street from the Bromùët, the cobblestones slick underfoot, and hooked left down a narrow lane. Barely a dozen paces later, we stopped. "We're here already!?" I blurted, blinking at the building before us. "I didn't know 'nearby' meant this close!"
Masamato chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Ha, yeah—convenience is the perk of Solva's layout."
The Hkou Inn rose modestly from the street, its exterior a perfect snapshot of every isekai trope I'd ever drooled over. Its frame was a sturdy patchwork of weathered timber, dark with age and streaked with knots, braced by rough-hewn stone at the base—gray slabs flecked with moss that gleamed faintly in the evening damp. The walls leaned slightly, as if bowing under decades of stories, their wood planks warped but solid, stained a rich chestnut that glowed under the sunset's dying light. A sign swayed above the entrance, the word "Hkou" carved in flowing script across a slab of polished oak, dangling from iron chains that creaked softly in the breeze. The door was pure fantasy cliché—thick oak planks banded with blackened iron, its surface scarred with shallow gouges and faded stains, a heavy brass ring bolted at its center begging to be yanked. Windows flanked it, small and square, their panes rippled glass that distorted the warm flicker of lanterns within, casting amber patches onto the street.
Ivy clung to the lower stonework, its tendrils curling like nature's graffiti, while a faint whiff of woodsmoke and roasted barley drifted from a chimney poking through the slanted roof—shingles of dark slate curling at the edges like dragon scales. Not too big, not too small—just right, a cozy haven straight out of Konosuba or Shield Hero.
"Well, let's head inside," Masamato said, shoving the door open with a casual push. It swung inward with a groan, and we stepped into the inn's embrace.
The interior hit me like a nostalgia bomb—a textbook isekai inn, alive with the hum of low-key revelry. The air hung thick with the scent of ale, warm bread, and a faint tang of sweat, swirling around us as we crossed the threshold. The main room was compact but bustling, its floor a patchwork of worn wooden planks, scuffed and stained from years of boots, softened by a threadbare rug near the hearth.
A small bar stretched along the left wall, its countertop a slab of dark oak polished to a dull sheen, cluttered with tankards and a few stray crumbs. Behind it stood the bartender, a wiry man with a mop of graying hair and a face etched with lines, his hands deftly polishing a glass with a rag that'd seen better days. The hearth crackled at the far end, its stone frame blackened by soot, a modest fire licking at logs and casting a flickering glow across the room.
Shadows danced on the walls—rough plaster patched with timber beams—where a few faded tapestries hung, their threads depicting serpents and swords in muted greens and reds.
A handful of patrons filled the space, their voices a low, steady buzz. At a round table near the bar, three grizzled men in leather vests hunched over mugs, their laughter rough and sporadic as they swapped tales—probably adventurers or local toughs. A lone woman in a hooded cloak sat by the fire, nursing a bowl of stew, her spoon clinking faintly against the clay. Two younger guys—merchants, maybe—leaned over a ledger at a corner bench, their whispers sharp with haggling, coins glinting between them. The atmosphere was warm but gritty, a mix of camaraderie and quiet tension, like a tavern scene before the quest-giving NPC shows up. Lanterns swung from the low ceiling, their iron frames rusted at the edges, spilling pools of amber light that barely reached the shadowy corners—a perfect blend of cozy and lived-in, just rough enough to feel authentic.
We approached the bar, and Masamato leaned in. "I'd like a room for one, please."
The bartender glanced up, his dark eyes appraising us over the rim of the glass he was polishing.
"One copper coin a night," he grunted, his voice gravelly but bored, like he'd said it a thousand times.
Masamato fished a dull copper coin from his pocket and slid it across the counter with a soft clink. The bartender set the glass down, reached into his apron, and produced a key—iron, pitted with age, its teeth jagged and worn.
"Upstairs, first room you'll see," he said, tossing it onto the desk before resuming his task.
"Thanks," Masamato replied, scooping up the key with a nod. We turned and climbed the narrow staircase at the room's edge, its steps creaking underfoot, the wood sagging slightly from years of use. At the top, a short hallway stretched before us, dimly lit by a single lantern flickering on a hook. The first door loomed ahead, its oak surface unadorned save for a few scratches. Masamato slotted the key in, twisted it with a faint grind, and pushed it open.
I stepped inside, my boots thudding softly on the floorboards, and took it all in. The room was a quintessential isekai hideaway—small, sparse, but oddly comforting. A single bed hugged the left wall, its frame a simple wooden rectangle, sturdy but unpolished, topped with a straw-stuffed mattress draped in a faded gray blanket. The fabric was coarse, patched in places, but thick enough to promise warmth. Beside it sat a round table, barely wide enough for two, its surface pocked with old knife marks and ringed with stains—probably from late-night ale or hasty meals. A lone chair flanked it, its backrest slanted from overuse, the wood a lighter shade where countless hands had gripped it. A lantern perched atop the table, its brass frame tarnished, cradling a stubby candle that flickered with a weak, buttery flame, casting jittery shadows across the room.
The floor was bare planks, worn smooth but uneven, softened by a small rug near the bed—threadbare wool dyed a muddy red, its edges fraying into wisps. A wardrobe squatted at the bed's foot, a squat box of dark wood with a single door, its hinges rusted and squeaky when I nudged it open later. Inside hung a musty scent and a single shelf, empty save for a faint dusting of cobwebs. The walls were plain plaster, cracked in spots, with a single window beside the bed—small, its glass warped and cloudy, offering a hazy view of Solva's twilight streets. The air carried a faint whiff of old wood and candle wax, undercut by a chill that seeped through the walls, though the room's simplicity felt oddly inviting—like a blank slate for my new life.
"Do you like it?" Masamato asked, lingering by the doorway, his obsidian armor glinting faintly in the candlelight.
I flopped onto the bed, the mattress yielding with a soft creak.
"Well, it's not so bad," I said, stretching out. The softness hit me like a sneak attack—way plusher than my lumpy futon back on Earth, a luxury I hadn't expected in this bare-bones setup. This is so soft, I thought, sinking deeper, my body melting into it.
"Glad you think so," Masamato said, tossing me the key. It arced through the air, and I snagged it mid-flight, the cold iron biting into my palm. "I'll swing by tomorrow to check on you—sound good?"
"Sure," I replied, sprawled across the bed, already half-lost in its comfort. He turned to leave, the door creaking as he pulled it shut, but a sudden impulse jolted me upright. "Masamato, wait—thanks!"
He paused, glancing back with a faint smile.
"No problem," he said, then stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him. I flopped back down, the key clutched in my hand, staring at the ceiling's shadowed beams. Alone at last, with ten gold coins and a bed softer than anything I'd known—my isekai arc was finally taking shape.
After Masamato's footsteps faded down the stairs, I shuffled over to the window beside my bed, nudging the warped glass open a crack. The cool night air slipped in, sharp with the scent of river damp and distant woodsmoke.
Peering out, I caught a glimpse of his silhouette—obsidian armor glinting faintly under the street lamps—as he crossed back toward the Bromùët, his stride steady and unhurried. Then he was gone, swallowed by Solva's twilight sprawl.
I flopped onto the floor, the worn planks cool against my back, and stared at the ceiling's shadowed beams. 'Why are they so nice to me?' I wondered, my mind spinning. I'm just some rando they met four days ago—barely a blip in their adventuring saga. Is it the goddess pulling strings? Gah, no way—stop it, Kozuki. That old hag wouldn't lift a finger to help me, let alone play matchmaker with a crew this cool after all she left me in a monster infested forest. Ugh, let's not overthink it. I shook my head, banishing the spiral.
So, what's an average isekai MC supposed to do now? Sleep? Nah—too basic, too early. Gather intel? Bingo. That's the play—scope out the world, snag some useful loot, level up my newbie status. Genius as always. I hauled myself off the bed, the mattress creaking in protest, and slipped out the door, key jangling in my pocket as I headed downstairs.
The Hkou Inn's main room hadn't shifted an inch since I'd arrived—still a warm, gritty bubble of low-key chaos. The air hung heavy with the same mix of ale, bread, and faint sweat, now laced with a sharper tang of spilled cider from some clumsy patron. The hearth crackled on, its flames licking higher, casting jittery shadows that stretched across the scuffed wooden floor and flickered over the faded tapestries. The bartender still leaned behind his counter, polishing that same glass—did he ever stop?—his graying hair catching the lantern light as he muttered something to a grizzled regular nursing a tankard. The trio of leather-clad toughs at the round table had grown louder, their laughter a rough bark as one slammed a mug down, sloshing foam onto the wood.
"Bet he didn't see that wyrm coming!" one crowed, earning a chorus of guffaws.
The cloaked woman by the fire hadn't budged, her spoon scraping the bowl with a slow, deliberate rhythm, her face hidden in shadow—classic mysterious NPC vibes. The two merchants in the corner hunched tighter over their ledger, their whispers now a frantic hiss, coins clinking as they slid across the bench.
A new face had joined the mix—a lanky kid in a patched tunic, probably a stablehand, slumped near the bar with a bowl of broth, slurping noisily between yawns. The lanterns swayed overhead, their amber glow pulsing like a heartbeat, illuminating the room in soft pools that left the edges dim and hazy. It was cozy but restless, the kind of place where quests simmered just below the surface—perfect for an info-gathering pit stop, if I weren't too broke to buy a round and eavesdrop.
I slipped out the door, the oak groaning shut behind me, and stepped into Solva's evening streets. The sky had darkened to a deep indigo, stars pricking through the velvet expanse, while street lamps flickered to life one by one, their iron frames cradling orbs of pale yellow light that buzzed faintly with some arcane hum. Despite the hour, the city thrummed—vendors hawked their last wares, cart wheels rattled over cobblestones, and clusters of locals darted between taverns, their laughter spilling into the night. The energy was electric, undimmed by the encroaching dark.
I flagged down a passerby—a wiry man in a patched cloak, his face weathered and sharp, a basket of firewood slung over his shoulder.
"Excuse me, sir, do you know where I can buy a world map?" I asked, stumbling mid-sentence as my brain scrambled. Weapon shop? General store? Map shop? Eh, map's the safest bet.
He squinted at me, then jerked a thumb toward a crossroad ahead.
"See that intersection? Turn right, and you'll spot a store called 'Jouki.' They've got everything—maps included."
"Thank you, sir," I said, dipping my head in a quick bow—otaku manners kicking in. I started off, but his voice cut through the din.
"Boy, you're new here, aren't you?"I froze, turning back.
"Uh, yeah—I just got here this morning."He nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"A word of advice, then—watch yourself at night." Before I could stammer a "What?" he'd already melted into the crowd, leaving me blinking in his wake. Cryptic much? I thought, shrugging it off. Probably just Solva's version of don't talk to strangers.
Following his directions, I veered right at the intersection, boots scuffing the cobblestones as I trekked a few blocks. The Jouki store loomed into view on my right, nearly slipping past me in the dim light—good thing I glanced sideways, or I'd have wandered into the next district like a lost NPC. Its exterior was a standout, even among Solva's eclectic sprawl, radiating that unmistakable isekai charm with a practical edge.
The building was a two-story affair, its frame a sturdy blend of dark timber and smooth, pale stone—less weathered than the Hkou, but still kissed by time, with faint cracks spidering up the masonry. The wood was a deep walnut, polished to a subtle sheen, its grain swirling like ripples in a dungeon pool, while the stone base gleamed faintly, flecked with quartz that caught the street lamps' glow. It wasn't massive—medium-sized, snug between a tailor's shop and a narrow alley—but it carried a quiet confidence, like a seasoned adventurer sizing you up.Two display windows flanked the entrance, each a broad pane of rippled glass framed in iron, their surfaces smudged but sturdy. The left showcased a suit of leather armor—light, supple, dyed a deep forest green, its studs glinting like tiny stars—beside a longsword with a hilt wrapped in crimson cord, its blade etched with faint runes that shimmered when the light hit just right. The right window boasted a spear, its shaft a sleek ebony capped with a barbed steel tip, propped next to a shield of battered oak banded with iron—a warrior's toolkit begging for a quest. Smaller trinkets dotted the displays: a dagger with a bone handle, a coil of rope, a stack of parchment rolls—maps, maybe?—and a dented helm that looked like it'd seen a dragon's claw up close. A sign hung above the door, "Jouki" carved in bold, angular letters across a slab of cedar, its edges charred for effect, swaying gently on rusted chains that clinked in the breeze.
The roof sloped sharply, tiled with dark shingles that overlapped like fish scales, a single chimney jutting out to puff faint curls of smoke—someone forging late, perhaps? The entrance itself was a double door of reinforced oak, its panels studded with iron bolts, a brass handle worn smooth by countless hands. Faint scratches marred its surface—battle scars or eager customers?—and a small bell dangled overhead, primed to jingle at my approach. The vibe screamed 'general store meets blacksmith' a one-stop shop for any adventurer worth their salt—straight out of Re:Zero or DanMachi, but with Solva's rugged twist.
I paused, hand hovering over the handle, the night's chill nipping at my neck. Maps, gear, maybe a side quest—this is where the real isekai grind starts, I thought, a grin tugging at my lips. Time to step up my game.
I nudged the double oak doors of Jouki open, the brass handle cool under my palm, and a sharp ding-a-ling from the bell overhead pierced the evening quiet. The sound bounced off the walls as I stepped inside, the threshold creaking faintly under my boots.
"Welcome to Jouki," rumbled a voice, deep and gravelly, from behind the counter. My eyes flicked up to meet a buff man stationed there, his presence dominating the space like a final boss guarding his loot stash.
The interior of Jouki unfurled before me like a treasure vault from some high-budget RPG—an adventurer's paradise packed to the rafters with gear and grit. The walls were a fortress of weaponry, every inch bristling with steel and craftsmanship. Swords hung in neat rows—longswords with gleaming edges, curved sabers with etched hilts, and a wicked-looking katana that screamed samurai side quest. Spears leaned in clusters, their tips barbed or flared, shafts ranging from polished ebony to scarred ash. Bows arched gracefully beside quivers stuffed with feathered arrows, their strings taut and ready. Armors lined the perimeter—some plated and heavy, glinting with rivets, others leather-bound and supple, dyed in earthy greens and deep umbers. Six armor stands stood sentinel around the room, each draped in a different set: a chainmail hauberk shimmering like silver scales, a breastplate dented from some epic brawl, a rogue's tunic stitched with hidden pockets—each one a silent promise of battles yet to come.
The floor was dark wood, scuffed and grooved from years of foot traffic, its planks worn smooth under a thin layer of sawdust that crunched faintly underfoot. Shelves jutted out at odd angles, cluttered with miscellany—coils of rope, stacks of whetstones, a battered lantern flickering with a weak flame. A forge glowed in the far corner, its embers pulsing red beneath a blackened anvil, the air around it shimmering with heat and the faint tang of molten iron. Above, the ceiling sagged slightly, thick beams crisscrossing it like the ribs of some ancient beast, draped with a few cobwebs that danced in the draft. Lanterns hung from iron hooks, their glass smudged but bright, casting a warm, golden glow that bathed the room in a cozy yet rugged ambiance—straight out of Sword Art Online's weapon shops, but with a blacksmith's raw edge.
Behind the counter, where the buff man loomed, was a treasure trove of its own. Maps—rolled, folded, or pinned flat—stacked high on shelves, their parchment edges curling with age. Vials of potions lined a rack, their contents glowing faintly—emerald green, sapphire blue, a murky red that looked suspiciously like blood. Wands rested in a wooden case, their tips carved with runes that pulsed subtly, while a jumble of oddities—crystal orbs, a cracked compass, a leather pouch spilling dried herbs—spilled across the counter's edge. A massive warhammer leaned against the wall behind him, its head pitted and stained, a silent testament to the shop's dual life as forge and store.
I shuffled toward the counter, boots scuffing the floor, but before I could open my mouth, the man boomed again.
"Welcome to Jouki, the finest shop in Solva! Name's Garrick—how can I assist you, lad?" His voice rolled like thunder, warm but commanding, the kind of tone that could rally a party mid-dungeon crawl.
"Uh, I want a world map," I said, my voice sounding puny by comparison.
Up close, Garrick was a walking stereotype of every blacksmith I'd ever seen in anime, dialed up to eleven. He towered over me—easily six-foot-something—his frame a wall of muscle that strained against his clothes. His shirt was a sleeveless tunic of coarse gray linen, smudged with soot and sweat, the kind you'd see on a smith hammering away in Fate/stay night. Over it, a leather apron hung, its surface scarred with burn marks and streaked with oil, tied around a waist that looked like it could bench-press a wyvern. His arms were thick as tree trunks, corded with veins and dusted with dark hair, hands calloused and broad—scarred from forge work, no doubt. A thick beard spilled down his chest, jet-black shot with threads of silver, wild and untamed like a barbarian's mane, framing a square jaw and a grin that flashed white teeth. Goggles perched atop his head, their lenses scratched and smoky, shoved up into a mop of dark hair tied back with a leather cord. His eyes—hazel, sharp, and glinting—sized me up like I was a blade fresh off the anvil.
"No problem at all—hold on a tick," he said, turning with a grunt. He rummaged behind the counter, his massive hands surprisingly deft, and hauled out three maps, slapping them onto the counter with a thud that rattled a nearby potion vial. "Which one you want, lad?" He spread them out, each a sprawl of parchment yellowed at the edges.
"This here's the world map drawn by Case," he began, tapping the first with a thick finger. "Simple, clean—shows the lay of 7 Kingdom's lands, rivers, mountains, the basics. Good for a merchant or a traveler who don't need fuss."
He slid the second forward. "This one's by Kuilan—now, this is a beaut for adventurers. Took him nigh on three centuries of tales from guilds and wanderers to chart every dungeon worth a damn—caves, ruins, lairs, you name it. Got markings for hazards too—swamps that'll swallow you whole, forests thick with beasties. Ain't much on towns, though—Kuilan cared more for glory than gossip."
Then the third. "And this—Marco Polo's work. A proper explorer's dream, this is. Kingdoms laid out in detail—castles, cities, even piddly little villages with names you'd forget otherwise. Trade routes, borders, coastlines sharper than a blade's edge. Less on the wilds, mind you—Marco liked his roads paved and his beds soft."
Garrick leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl as he launched into his pitch. "Case's map—see how the ink's bold but sparse? Rivers in blue, mountains in gray squiggles, not much else. Keeps it cheap—two coppers, if you're pinching. Kuilan's, though—" He unrolled it further, pointing at jagged red slashes. "—those are dungeon sites, see? Black dots for monster dens, green for safe camps—fella spent decades dodging claws to mark 'em. Legends say he died charting the Chaos Wastes, but who knows? Tougher to read if you ain't got the knack—five coppers, worth it for the bold." He nudged Marco's map last, tracing a finger along curling black lines.
"This one's got flair—gold for capitals, silver for towns, tiny script naming every hamlet from here to the Eastern Veil. Took Marco twenty years sailing and schmoozing kings—fancy, but light on the untamed bits. Six coppers, lad—class costs."
My first expression of him immediately change.
I blinked, my brain short-circuiting. What drug is this guy on about? His spiel was a whirlwind—half lore dump, half sales pitch, all gibberish to me. If he'd unloaded that on a geography teacher back home, they'd have keeled over from sheer overload. Dungeons? Kingdoms? Three centuries? I was just here for a map, not a dissertation!
"Uh, so which one do you recommend?"
I cut in, hoping to dodge another lecture.
Garrick rubbed his beard, sizing me up anew.
"Well, if you're aiming to be an adventurer, lad, Kuilan's your pick. Them dungeons'll keep you busy—three hundred years of blood and guts etched right in. But if you're itching to roam the world, Marco's the one—more details on kingdoms than you'll ever need. Depends on your game."
I peered at the two he'd flagged, squinting at the parchment sprawl. Kuilan's map was a chaotic tapestry—faded brown at the edges, its surface a mess of jagged lines and cramped script. Red slashes dotted it like battle scars, each paired with tiny symbols—skulls, claws, crossed swords—marking dungeons from misty peaks to swampy hollows. Names scrawled in tight black ink peppered the wilds—Grimfang Depths, Wraithspire, Bone Mire—places that sounded like instant death traps. But there was once that caught my eyes 'Nazzrick, the great tomb', the name is so cool. The kingdoms were vague blobs, outlines fuzzy, towns barely a blip—Kuilan clearly didn't care for civilization. It had a raw, hand-drawn grit, ink smudged in spots like he'd scribbled it mid-fight, the parchment creased from rough handling.
Marco's map, though, was a work of art—crisp, deliberate, almost too pretty to use. The parchment was smoother, its edges trimmed, the ink a rich black with flourishes of color: gold swirls for capital cities, silver dots for towns, faint blue veins tracing rivers and coasts. Kingdoms stood out sharp and proud—Solva's borders a bold arc, neighboring realms shaded in muted greens and yellows. Villages had names in tiny, elegant cursive—Harrowfen, Duskwick, Thornvale—down to crossroads and mills, with trade routes dashed in red like arteries. The wilds faded into vague patches, mountains mere gray humps, dungeons unmarked—Marco's world was tamed, polished, a noble's guide more than a wanderer's.
I tapped my chin, caught between the two. Kuilan's screamed hardcore mode—perfect for grinding levels. Marco's felt like a strategy guide—safer, broader. Decisions, decisions…