That day, in the dimly lit tavern, laughter and chatter echoed endlessly. Among all the noise, one table drew every eye—stacked with empty tankards and half-finished mugs—where two figures stood facing each other.
One was a burly man with a thick beard named Avil, and opposite him was a young man named Ron.
The two were in the midst of a drinking contest, their tankards clashing in cheers and defiance, while the rest of the tavern crowd circled around them, egging them on.
"Hahaha! Keep drinking, Ron! You might actually beat Avil!" someone shouted from the crowd.
"Oy, oy, oy! That's impossible! Avil!—he's a monster! He's drunk all of that and didn't even flinch!" another voice yelled, shaking their head in disbelief.
"Oh, look at Ron! He's keeping up with that speed! Incredible!" a third spectator cheered.
"Go! Defeat that monster for us, Ron! Ahahaha!" the crowd roared in unison, slapping the tables and stomping the floor in excitement.
Ron wiped a smear of froth from his lip, his eyes wide but determined. He raised his tankard once more, a grin spreading across his face despite the burn of the alcohol already working through him.
Avil chuckled deeply, the sound rumbling like distant thunder, and raised his own tankard.
"You've got spirit, boy… but let's see if that's enough to take me down."
The two drank again, the clang of their mugs echoing through the tavern like a war drum.
The crowd leaned closer, holding their breath as if watching the outcome of a duel rather than a drinking game.
Ron's face turned red, sweat beading on his forehead, yet he refused to back down.
"I… I'm not done yet!" he shouted, his voice wobbling but fierce.
Avil's eyes sparkled with amusement.
"That's the spirit! But remember, kid… the bigger they are, the harder they fall!"
As the tankards emptied and new ones arrived, the tavern seemed to shrink around them, the world narrowing to just the two of them, locked in this chaotic yet exhilarating challenge.
Then—clink!—the final tankard hit the table. Silence fell. All eyes were on Ron, who swayed slightly but managed a victorious grin.
He had done it. Somehow, against all odds… he had kept pace with the monster.
And the crowd went wild.
"Ron! Ron! Ron!" they chanted, clapping and stomping, lifting their tankards high in admiration.
Avil leaned back in his chair, laughed heartily, and gave the boy a rare, approving nod.
"Well, I'll say… you've got guts, lad. I'll drink to that."
Ron laughed, chest heaving, feeling the warmth of both the alcohol and the cheers around him. For a moment, he felt unstoppable.
But little did he know… Avil had one more trick up his sleeve.
Avil slammed his hand on the table, sending a few empty tankards rattling to the floor.
"Alright, lad, you've impressed me… but now it's time to see if you can handle the final round!" His deep laugh shook the rafters, echoing through the tavern.
Ron swallowed hard, his throat burning, eyes wide but sparkling with stubborn determination.
"Final round… huh? Bring it on!" he shouted, raising his tankard once more, though his grip trembled slightly.
The crowd roared even louder, some standing on chairs, banging the tables with fists and mugs.
"FINAL ROUND! FINAL ROUND! FINAL ROUND!"
A new tankard was placed before them, larger than any they had seen so far, froth spilling over the sides.
Avil leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief.
"You ready, kid? This one's on me."
Ron's grin faltered for just a moment as he looked at the massive tankard. His mind screamed 'No way…' but his pride would not let him back down.
"I… I can do this," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
"Then drink!" Avil bellowed, and the two clashed their mugs together one last time before tipping them back.
The crowd held their breath as the liquid flowed down their throats.
Ron's face turned crimson, his eyes watering, while Avil's expression remained calm, almost smug, as if this was nothing.
The tavern erupted into cheers and laughter as Ron began to wobble on his feet. A few spectators whispered nervously, "He won't last…" but Ron refused to let himself falter.
One, two, three… he downed the tankard. And yet, somehow, his grin returned, wild and triumphant.
"Ha! I… I did it!" he gasped, leaning on the table for support.
Avil blinked, then laughed so hard it rattled the tavern windows.
"By the gods… the boy actually drank it all!" He raised his own tankard, signaling surrender, though the crowd still cheered for both of them.
The room was chaos—clapping, stomping, laughter, and the smell of spilled ale thick in the air. Ron's legs trembled, and he swayed like a reed in the wind, but he held his head high, victorious.
Someone in the crowd shouted, "Ron! Ron! The legend of the tavern!"
"Legend?" Ron coughed, still laughing through the burn of the alcohol.
"I… I think I need a nap first!"
Avil chuckled again, patting Ron on the shoulder with surprising gentleness.
"Relax, kid. You've earned your place here tonight. But next time… don't think I'll go easy on you."
Ron grinned weakly, staggering as he finally slumped into a chair, the tavern spinning around him.
The cheers continued, the music of glasses and voices filling the night.
A few hours later, Ron stirred awake. The first thing he noticed was the ceiling above him, plain and unremarkable, yet unfamiliar.
He blinked once, then again, trying to push away the haze clouding his mind.
"Ugh… how much time has passed since I… passed out?" he groaned, rubbing his temples as he forced himself to sit up.
He scratched at his arms and shoulders, wincing at the stiffness that reminded him of the battle he'd just fought—not with swords, but with ale.
His head throbbed, and every movement felt heavier than usual.
Rubbing his eyes, he began to observe his surroundings.
The room was small and sparsely furnished. A single wooden table sat against one wall, littered with a loaf of bread.
The air smelled faintly of smoke and stale ale, a lingering echo of the night before.
Sunlight streamed through a narrow window, catching the dust in the air and turning it into tiny, drifting golden specks.
Ron squinted, trying to focus.
He noticed that the door to the room was slightly ajar. Beyond it, the muffled sounds of early morning—the distant clatter of pots and the soft murmur of voices—drifted in.
"Wait…" he muttered to himself, leaning closer to the window.
Through the glass, he could see a cobblestone street below, bustling with people who seemed oblivious to the chaos he had survived the night before.
A few tavern-goers stumbled past, rubbing their heads and groaning, clearly victims of the same contest.
Ron sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"So… I survived, somehow. That's a start, I guess."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meeting the cold wooden floor, and took a slow breath. As his eyes wandered around the room, something caught his attention.
A sword was leaning against the wall beside the door.
Ron raised an eyebrow.
"They even brought my sword… how kind."
He adjusted his clothes first, brushing away the wrinkles and dust from the night before. Then he stepped closer and picked up the sword, tilting it slightly to inspect the blade.
The metal caught the morning light, gleaming faintly.
Ron gave it a few casual swings through the air.
Whoosh.
Whoosh.
The familiar weight steadied him more than the rest ever could. His posture straightened a little as the fog in his head slowly cleared.
"Good, still in one piece." he murmured.
Satisfied, he slid the sword back into its sheath and fastened it securely to his belt.
Only then did his stomach growl—loudly.
Ron glanced toward the table and spotted the lonely loaf of bread sitting there. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, tore off a chunk, and stuffed it into his mouth.
"Breakfast," he mumbled through the bite.
Still chewing, he pushed open the door and began heading downstairs.
The sound of voices grew louder with each step. Plates clattered, chairs scraped, and the smell of cooked food drifted up from below.
When Ron stepped into the tavern hall, he looked around the room first. His eyes moved across the tables, the people chatting, the mugs being filled again and again—until he spotted an empty seat near a window.
Perfect.
He made his way there, weaving between chairs and patrons. When he finally reached the table, he dropped into the chair with a quiet sigh.
"A simple plate of food would do…" he murmured to himself, gazing out through the window.
Morning had fully arrived outside.
The street was alive with movement—merchants setting up their stalls, travelers passing through the gates, and townsfolk beginning their daily routines.
Ron rested his chin on his hand, absentmindedly chewing the last piece of bread.
For a brief moment, everything felt calm.
Too calm.
Then suddenly—
A heavy hand slammed down on the table.
The mugs rattled.
"Well well well," a booming voice said with amusement, "look who's alive."
Ron didn't even need to turn his head to know who it was.
"…Morning, Avil."
The large man pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, grinning like someone who had been waiting for this exact moment.
"You caused quite a scene last night, kid."
Ron slowly turned his head.
"…I'm afraid to ask."
Avil's grin widened.
"Oh, you should be."
"Hahaha! Since you defeated me last night, I'll treat you!" Avil said loudly, his laughter rumbling through the tavern like distant thunder.
Ron blinked at him, still not fully awake.
"…Thanks," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck.
Avil waved a hand toward the counter.
"Oi! Two plates! And make them big!"
The tavern keeper raised a hand in acknowledgment from across the room.
A few nearby patrons glanced over, some whispering and chuckling as if they were still amused by the events of the previous night.
Ron ignored them all. Instead, he leaned slightly toward the window, watching people pass by outside.
Merchants rolled carts down the street, travelers walked with dusty cloaks, and a pair of guards chatted lazily near the corner.
After a moment, Ron spoke.
"Hey, Avil… is there any escort job today?" he asked, sounding a little thoughtful.
Avil scratched his beard.
"Hm… oh! Yeah, there is. What, you wanna take it?"
Ron nodded slightly.
"If the pay's decent."
Avil grinned.
"Well, since you're a capable mercenary now, I can introduce you to the merchant."
"Thanks."
"Nah, don't mention it, lad." Avil waved it off casually.
"If you really want to thank me, buy me a drink when you get back! Ahahaha!"
Ron smirked faintly.
"If I come back."
Avil snorted.
"With that sword and that liver of yours? You'll be fine."
Just then, two large plates arrived at their table with a heavy thud.
Eggs, roasted meat, thick bread, and steaming potatoes filled the dishes. The smell alone was enough to make Ron's stomach roar again.
Avil immediately grabbed a piece of meat and started eating like a starving bear.
Ron, however, paused for a moment, glancing once more out the window.
"…Yeah, maybe this day would be interesting." Ron muttered quietly, picking up his fork.
Outside, the creaking of cart wheels rolled along the road, blending with distant footsteps and the lively murmur spilling out from the tavern.