After dealing with the corpse on the road, Lann arrived in a small place within Videns called Ham in the afternoon.
The Demon Hunter stopped Bopai in front of the tavern, pulled down his increasingly empty supply bag, and got off the horse, preparing to fill his water pouch and stock up on bread, cheese, roast chicken, and the like.
Pushing open the hinged door, which was steaming warmth from the gaps in the planks, Lann stepped inside.
Due to everyone being bundled up in winter clothing, his tall figure wasn't particularly noticeable.
Now Lann only carried Aron Dite at his waist, and his eyes were hidden beneath a hood, so the drunks in the tavern didn't notice he was a Mutant.
"What's available here... never mind, a strong one first."
The tavern owner was a man whose shoulder cloth had started to shine with a greasy glow. He was attending to three tables of drunks by himself, shrugging nonchalantly.
As usual, he set down a small wooden cup, the size that fits in a tiger's mouth, then pulled out a half-full glass bottle from under the counter and poured a potent liquid.
"This is my homemade vodka, perfect for driving out the cold."
Lann picked up the cup with three fingers, raised it slightly to the owner, then emptied it in one go, uttering a breath carrying alcohol vapor through his teeth.
"Whew - How far is it to Brugge's border from here?"
The tavern owner retrieved Lann's used cup, drained it, and left it upside down on the table to dry.
"We have baked apples, bread that can be reheated, carrots, potatoes. If you can afford it, I can even get you a roasted fish. From here, just follow the forest path for another two and a half days, and you'll reach the border checkpoint."
The owner answered Lann's two sets of questions in one go.
The Demon Hunter's hood nodded up and down, and the heavy armor on his arm visible beneath his cloak caught the owner's eye slightly, but elicited no further reaction.
In these turbulent times, it was unusual for someone to travel alone without gear.
It was just that this person's equipment seemed somewhat high-end today.
For someone running a tavern by the road, it wasn't something unseen.
"Pack whatever can fit into the bag, fill the water pouch with light beer, I'll have the roasted fish here, thank you."
"That'll be two Silver Coins in total... sir?"
Lann's politeness made the owner stare at him with surprise again, and he ended up using an uncertain polite form of address.
Seeing Lann's leather gloves holding two dim Silver Coins, he straightforwardly started preparing the meal.
"There's space over there, sir. Please don't mind those drunks, they won't bother you."
"Of course, I don't mind."
With that, Lann already went to the seat, adjusted his cloak, and sat down on the bench.
The drunks starting to drink in the afternoon were local farmers, as winter was the idle season for farming, they spent their days either drinking or making their wives scream at home.
These people indeed wouldn't cause trouble, but if they saw Lann's cat-like eyes while drunk, they'd probably get a bit carried away.
People of lower status, when seeing someone even lower, often feel more thrilled and superior than the nobles themselves.
Demon Hunters are people of sufficiently low status.
Even though Lann could beat everyone in the tavern with one hand, what good would that do? The deeply ingrained group perception wouldn't change just because of a fight.
A drunken farmer said with a laughing tone to his companion.
"Our Miss Eliza came up with another way to save her brother this time. She plans to knit a sweater out of nettles for him to wear."
"Can Sir Fist still be saved? How long has he been turned into a cormorant now? Must be two years, right?"
"Serves him right, who else would he sleep with but a witch? Let me tell you, there's a curse in every witch's **! Any man who goes in them is doomed! Once he leaves her, he'll turn into a cormorant the next day!"
The farmers' comments were sharp, candid, and filled with absurd imagination, causing Lann to clear his throat immediately.
He reckoned that Margaret wouldn't place such a curse on him.
A curse that turns people into cormorants... tsk, without a Warlock or Demon Hunter, folk remedies in legends would likely never cure Sir Fist.
Amidst the farmers' lively discussions, the roasted fish was served.
Lann began picking at the white meat on the fish bones with a fork, and the owner sent an extra cup of light beer before returning to the counter to stock the supply bag.
The farmers at the table behind him became more spirited in their conversation.
A nobleman turned into a waterbird by a curse, while his sister went to great lengths to break the curse... In the monotonous and boring medieval countryside, this was indeed an excellent topic of conversation.
At least for the moment, Lann heard doubt from the table behind him.
It was said the knight wasn't turned into a cormorant but was cursed into a swan.
Since witches are also women, and as long as she's a woman, she'd always prefer swans over cormorants.
The farmer who initially told the story, after some self-doubt, quickly changed his mind and said he was indeed turned into a swan.
It seemed this version made the story more vivid and romantic.
To ensure smooth storytelling and to attract more attention and listeners during the tale, the storyteller was never shy about making 'appropriate adaptations' to the facts.
While eating fish, Lann witnessed a rumor being born.
He didn't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for the knight, as it was a bittersweet feeling.
The knight's sister wanted to use folk legends to break the curse, which was likely a futile effort.
Curses should be left to the professionals, like Warlocks or Demon Hunters.
Information that transformed into 'rumors' during transmission would cause great trouble for those breaking the curse, adding difficulty out of thin air.
Lann quickly finished the rather small roasted fish, took the supply bag prepared by the owner, and planned to set off again.
As for curse-breaking, a Demon Hunter's service, he didn't have any field experience yet, so he wouldn't practice on this knight.
Otherwise, he might not even stay a cormorant.
Now, the young Demon Hunter could only pray in his heart that the knight wouldn't die from parasites on raw fish before the curse was lifted.
However, just as the young man was about to step back into the chilling wind, the farmers' joking reached a new stage.
"Enough, this joke is about to end. King Aivelle has had enough of the humiliation our knight suffered affecting national prestige, so he's rarely generous and paid a Demon Hunter to come lift the curse off Baron Ham for us."
"Demon Ender? What's that?"
"It's Demon Hunter, you fool. Those who are specialists in lifting curses and slaying monsters."
"Oh!" A gulping sound of drinking followed, along with a burp. "Hic – They're quite nice!"
"Nice? My ass! You think they're kind, but they want heaps of Gold Coins and even your kids! They're all monsters, monsters killing monsters. Those working with King Aivelle supposedly have milk-white hair! Cat eyes! Just looking at them chills the heart!" For original chapters go to novel(ꜰ)ire.net
Lann's movement of opening the tavern's wooden door paused slightly, then he continued walking out normally.
A lock of his silver hair, reflecting a slight glow in the light, slipped out from the hood of his cloak.
"Videns, Brugge... that makes three Demon Hunters?"
Mounting the horse, Lann rode towards the most grandiose manor in the village. Under the hood, his slender, graceful lips displayed an intrigued smile.
"Well, this is quite lively."