Chapter 4: The Machine
The competition table was a long slab of oak, stained dark by years of spilled ale and vomit. Twenty men stood behind it. At the far end stood Brutus, the Van Der Hoven family servant. He was a mountain of muscle, looking at the rest of us like we were insects.
I took my spot at the far end, nearest the door.
"Rules are simple!" roared Barnaby, the tavern owner. "One pint of Firewater every ringing of the bell. You puke, you're out. You fall, you're out. You stop drinking, you're out."
He placed a tankard in front of me. The smell alone was enough to make eyes water. It wasn't ale; it was cheap, distilled grain spirit. High ethanol content. Toxic to the liver.
Ding!
The bell rang. The men around me chugged greedily. I lifted the tankard and poured the liquid down my throat. It burned like acid.
System Check, I thought instinctively.
The moment the alcohol hit my stomach, I felt the heat spread—and then, it vanished. It was as if a cooling fan had kicked on inside my body. My blood felt clear. My vision remained sharp. The ancient voice wasn't lying. I was a biological machine with a perfect filtration system.
Round Three. Seven men collapsed, retching on the floor.
Round Six. Only five of us remained. The crowd, usually loud with insults, had gone quiet. They were waiting for "Trash Asher" to pass out. They were waiting for the show.
I finished my sixth pint and set the mug down gently. I didn't sway. I didn't burp. I looked at Barnaby. "Next."
Up on the balcony, Lucas Van Der Hoven leaned forward, his silk sleeves resting on the railing. The arrogant amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a sharp, calculating curiosity. He whispered something to his guard, his eyes never leaving me.
Round Twelve.
It was just me and Brutus.
The giant servant was struggling. His skin was beet-red, sweat pouring down his face like rain. He gripped the table to stay upright, his breathing heavy and wet.
"Give up… little… rat," Brutus slurred, saliva dripping from his lip.
I looked at him calmly. I calculated his body mass versus the volume of alcohol consumed. He's at his limit. His central nervous system is shutting down. One more pint will induce unconsciousness.
"I'm just getting thirsty," I said coldly.
Ding!
I downed the thirteenth pint in four seconds flat.
Brutus lifted his mug with shaking hands. He got it halfway to his mouth, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed like a falling tower. The floor shook when he landed.
The tavern was silent. You could hear a pin drop.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared at the stunned tavern owner.
"The money, Barnaby," I said, my voice steady and clear, without a hint of a slur. "Fifty silver coins. Now."
The silence broke. The crowd didn't cheer—they were too confused to cheer. They just stared at Asher Grey, the town drunk, standing tall amidst a sea of unconscious bodies.
From the balcony, a slow clapping started. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Lucas Van Der Hoven was applauding.