Evening settled over Orario, the kind of dusky gold that made the stone streets glow.
Lucas buttoned up a black shirt, tucked it neatly into matching slacks, and stepped into a pair of worn brown boots. Cool water splashed over his face in the washroom, chasing away the dull haze that came from hours of intense focus.
He straightened up, running a hand through his messy bangs and staring into the mirror.
Black hair. Black eyes. Tall—around six-one, with a lean, wiry build. His face was sharp, defined, a little too striking for his own good.
"Who's that handsome bastard?" he muttered, smirking at his reflection before sighing and pushing his hair back into his usual three-seven part. A pair of black-rimmed glasses followed, softening the edge from "hero" to "respectable nobody."
Perfect.
He shrugged on a checkered jacket, pocketed his wallet and keys, and headed out.
In a city like Orario, carrying a blade was just common sense. He slipped a dagger into a sheath under his coat—a practical, everyday accessory for anyone who wanted to come home alive.
His house sat on the northern stretch of West Main Street, at the edge of the Seventh District, brushing against the forest. From his courtyard, he could see the faint silhouette of the outer wall in the distance.
Quiet neighborhood. Sparse lights. A world apart from the noisy, crowded heart of the city.
But Orario never truly slept. The gods made sure of that.
Pleasure streets, taverns, casinos, bathhouses—nightlife was practically the city's second economy. And of all those, taverns drew the biggest crowds.
The sun had barely dipped, and the streets were already alive. Adventurers streaming in from the Dungeon, coins burning holes in their pockets, looking for a drink and some company.
Lucas was no exception.
He strolled down the cobblestone path, humming quietly, blending into the tide of laughter and chatter. He'd broken through his magic limit, learned his first spell—life was good. For once, he didn't mind the noise.
The glowing sign came into view soon enough.
The Hostess of Fertility.
Warm light spilled from the windows. Laughter. Music. The clink of glass.
"Welcome!"
A cheerful voice greeted him the moment he stepped inside. "Just one tonight?"
Lucas blinked. Huh. The famous waitress herself, front and center at this hour?
The gray-haired girl in the green uniform smiled at him—white apron, black thigh-highs, and brown boots completing the look. She was adorable, in that disarmingly natural way.
"They're already here, right? Luvis and Dormul?" he asked lightly.
Recognition sparked in her soft gray eyes. "Oh! You're their friend. Yes, they're seated already—this way, please."
She turned gracefully, ponytail bouncing as she led him through the crowd.
Watching her weave between tables, Lucas couldn't help raising a brow. You've got guts, goddess.
The Evilus cults had been after her for years—Freya, one of the most powerful goddesses in Orario, slumming it as a waitress like it was a joke. If it were him, he'd have locked himself in the top of Babel Tower and never come down.
He followed her into the tavern proper—and the noise hit him like a wave.
The smell of food, sweat, and alcohol mingled into something almost intoxicating. Every table was full. Adventurers laughed, shouted, argued, toasted. Waitresses glided between them, balancing trays with effortless grace.
"Lucas! Over here!"
A familiar voice called from a corner booth. A blond elf waved from across the room.
No grand "main character entrance." No dramatic silence. No heads turning. Just another night.
Good. That was how he liked it.
"Thanks," he murmured to Syr as he slid into the booth.
Luvis threw an arm over his shoulder, smirking. "You're late, man. Three-drink penalty."
Before he could even relax,
Lucas chuckled. "Fine. Three it is."
He glanced at Syr, who was waiting politely with her notepad. "Ten pints of ice-cold ale, a grilled skewer platter, one pan-seared tofu with bonito flakes. What's the special tonight?"
"Wasabi butter chicken," Syr replied smoothly.
"Perfect. Add one. Oh—and a cucumber salad and confit garlic. We'll order more if we need it."
Her professional smile softened into something warmer. "Got it. Drinks first, food will be right up."
The beer came fast—another waitress set down frosty mugs a minute later.
Lucas grabbed one without hesitation and downed three back-to-back.
"Ahh—damn, that hits the spot."
Cold, bitter, refreshing—the kind of drink that burned away a whole day's exhaustion. After hours in the Dungeon, this was the real reward.
"This guy gets it!" Dormul barked, slamming his mug down. The dwarf's beard was already wet with foam. "Beer's meant to be drunk, not sipped like tea! Unlike some prissy stick over here."
He shot a glare at Luvis.
The elf's ears twitched. "Who're you calling a stick, you brick?"
Lucas snorted, chewing on a skewer. "You two still fight like an old married couple. Though, to be fair, forcing an elf to chug ale is bullying."
"Lucas!" Luvis protested, but his mock outrage melted into laughter.
Seven or eight rounds later, the table was a battlefield of empty mugs and half-eaten plates. The laughter came easier now, stories flowing between the three of them like water.
"By the way, Luvis," Lucas said casually, swirling his drink. "You're paying tonight? This place ain't cheap. A night here runs, what, twenty thousand Valis? You feeling generous or just lost a bet?"
He darted a glance toward the bar. The Hostess of Fertility's owner—a towering woman built like a small giant—caught his eye. Lucas instantly straightened, flashing his most innocent smile.
Luvis didn't answer right away, just tried—and failed—to keep a straight face.
"C'mon, don't act all mysterious," Dormul cut in with a grin. "Our elf here leveled up today! Lv.2, baby!"
Lucas blinked. Then groaned. "Oh, that's why you're splurging."
Luvis puffed up instantly, pride leaking from every pore. "Damn right. Took me long enough, huh? Go ahead—say it. Lord Luvis."
"Sure thing, Lord Lightweight," Lucas said dryly. He and Dormul clinked mugs and promptly tag-teamed the poor elf in a merciless drinking assault.
An elf's alcohol tolerance was about as sturdy as a paper sword. Two rounds later, Luvis had slid under the table, face red and grinning stupidly.
"Lv.2, my ass," Dormul scoffed, slamming back another gulp. "Still can't hold his booze."
Lucas laughed. "An elf challenging a dwarf to a drinking contest… that's suicide."
He peered under the table and shook his head in mock pity.
"Anyway," Dormul said suddenly, leaning closer. His tone dropped low, cutting through the background noise. "Lucas, listen. Be careful in the Dungeon for a while. Something's off."
The humor drained from Lucas's face. He gave a quick, discreet glance around the room—no one was paying attention. "Off how? Monster surge? Or… something darker?"
Dormul shook his head, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Not monsters. Not rival parties either. Word is, Evilus is moving again. Somebody spotted them down below."
Lucas's brow furrowed. "Where'd you hear that?"
The dwarf tipped his mug toward the far end of the tavern, eyes narrowing. "Rumor came from the bastards on the eighteenth floor. Rivira Town. You know what that means."
Lucas didn't answer.
But he understood.
If Evilus was stirring again—then peace in Orario was about to get a whole lot shorter.