Though a mix of trepidation and curiosity churned within him, Fullen's actions were far more decisive than his thoughts.
After pushing open the door to what he considered a new world, Fullen did not immediately scrutinize the interior. Instead, he behaved like an ordinary customer—stepping away from the entrance and casually wandering about, as if driven by idle curiosity.
In truth, the moment he entered, the tavern was far less mysterious than he had imagined.
This sudden psychological gap made his usual caution feel almost laughable.
Fullen felt a trace of embarrassment at his conflicted mindset and excessive inner drama. Yet the horrors and absurdities of this world quickly washed that feeling away. After a moment of shame, he once again reminded himself—perhaps unnecessarily—to prioritize stability and follow his instincts above all else.
While these thoughts churned, his gaze had already swept across the entire tavern.
Aside from the fact that both places sold alcohol, this tavern bore almost no resemblance to any bar Fullen had known in his previous life.
The stench alone was overwhelming.
Even after bracing himself for the smell of the commoner district, the tavern's interior assaulted him with something far worse—a nauseating mix of alcohol, sweat, unwashed bodies, and a sharp, unmistakable undertone of urine.
This was a far cry from the sacred, mysterious place of his father's memories.
The noise only made it worse.
Shouts, curses, laughter, and incoherent babble overlapped chaotically, forming a deafening tide of sound. Coupled with the dim lighting, it made Fullen feel dizzy, as if his vision were slowly darkening.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to steady his breathing.
Neither in his previous life nor in this one had he ever been in such a noisy, oppressive environment. The tavern was lit by crude candles that burned animal fat, producing weak light and an unpleasant stench that clung to the air.
In his former world, even the living standards of commoners were nearly comparable to those of nobles—if one ignored certain crushing pressures. Endless light, abundant entertainment, and convenient lives were things even modern nobles in this era could scarcely imagine.
Yet paradoxically, the living conditions of the wealthy merchants and nobles of this world were, in some respects, far superior to those of modern commoners.
As for the current commoner class—
Fullen had once viewed them with the shallow mindset of "why don't they just eat meat porridge?"
Now, standing here, he finally understood the lamentation described in Travel Notes of Trier. The author, Ises Bain, had written of scenes even more unbearable than this tavern—yet done so in a calm, restrained tone.
Perhaps that was why readers praised her work so highly:because it was real.
"As long as there is difference," Fullen thought,"everything becomes a kind of travel."
Even within Trier, he felt the divide between worlds.
If he could travel elsewhere…what unimaginable sights would await him?
After enduring the initial discomfort—as though he had brushed against a world completely alien to his own—Fullen began observing the tavern with a detached, bystander's mindset.
Suddenly, his spirituality stirred.
Fullen was startled, then quietly delighted.
His acting—whether intentional or not—seemed to be having an effect, though he still didn't understand the precise rules behind it.
The tavern itself was vast—larger than any room Fullen had ever seen, save for the Trier National Library. Perhaps the actual area wasn't larger, but unlike a manor divided into bedrooms, reception rooms, and studies, this space was almost entirely open.
In one corner, a tightly packed enclosure had formed.
People clustered around it, clutching drinks or waving wooden slips. Fanatical shouts and furious curses rose and fell in waves, completely blocking Fullen's view.
Then—
A sharp sound rang out.
The noise in that corner abruptly stilled, followed by an explosion of cheers and enraged howls far louder than before. Moments later, the crowd began to part as if it were a living thing.
Fullen watched quietly.
When only a few scattered figures remained, he moved against the flow of people.
The ground inside the enclosure was stained with blood.
A man, face smeared crimson and eyes wild, shouted in ecstatic triumph. Around him, some people responded with cheers, others drained their cups in flushed excitement, and still others spat curses at a severely injured man being carried away on a stretcher.
Fullen immediately understood.
This tavern hosted bloody gladiatorial gambling.
It wasn't surprising. For many mercenaries, such brutality was the purest form of entertainment—and taverns were their natural playgrounds.
Opposite the fighting enclosure lay another corner.
Only when Fullen approached did he realize it was a gambling area. From time to time, anguished cries and ecstatic shouts rang out, revealing the raw madness lurking beneath human restraint.
He didn't linger.
Instead, Fullen turned toward what he considered the true heart of the tavern—
the bar counter.
It was impossible to miss.
Rather than a single counter, the tavern had several smaller bars arranged around a massive central one, each crowded with customers.
The price lists above each counter were clear and meticulously written.
Some counters sold alcohol cheap enough for the lowest mercenary to drink daily. Others offered drinks so expensive that a single glass could consume an entire mission's earnings.
The central bar counter sold everything.
Fullen didn't hesitate. He went straight there.
People were more scattered here, and the number of bartenders was noticeably higher. Some customers took their drinks and left for empty tables without lingering.
At the center of the massive bar stood a person who appeared far less busy than the rest.
They leaned back slightly, watching the tavern with a lifeless gaze.
Wrinkles lined their face. Their hair was sparse, streaked with white and black, dulled by age and hardship. Their arms were thick and veined with muscle, while their protruding belly betrayed middle-aged indulgence.
This person—the tavern owner—silently observed everything with an expression that suggested nothing here surprised them anymore.
And instinctively, Fullen knew—
this was the person he needed to speak to.