Chapter 65: Separation
Two hours after nightfall marked the town’s busiest golden hour.
In a two‑story stone building with a chimney spewing black smoke, bodies pressed together as people pushed open the creaking wooden door to enter and exit, letting the tavern’s noise spill onto the street.
“You didn’t see! Even though I dropped my weapon, I slapped that kobold’s head clean off in one swing!” The half‑ork warrior slapped the wooden table, bragging to the others at his table, spittle flying under the oil lamp.
Clattering from overturned goblets, rowdy thumb‑war games, and the waiter hollering for customers to make way filled the air.
Drunkards’ mutterings, off‑key hoarse singing, heated arguments, and whispered conspiracies all swirled above the tavern, creating a chaotic yet strangely harmonious undertone.
In a corner, the bard’s lute stubbornly tried to project sound over the crowd.
The pungent sourness of ale wafted through the air, mingled with the aroma of roasted sausages and grilled meat, making mouths water and, amid the boozy atmosphere, inducing slight inebriation.
The Night Owl Team had gathered in the tavern, niche oil lamps casting warm yellow light across their faces.
Sitting on wooden stools, chin in hand, they observed the tavern scene, their faces showing rare comfort and relaxation.
This kind of noisy tavern might be jarring to adventurers on their first visit, but after a few visits they quickly relax in such rough‑and‑ready liveliness.
A group of low‑level adventurers with blades stained in blood gathered together, numbing themselves with alcohol and food—not refined or elegant, but rugged and wild like hardy weeds clinging to the edge.
“Come to think of it, this is our first team dinner since Gauss joined,” Levin said, raising his huge wooden mug and taking a sip of frothy ale.
Gauss thought about it—it really was—he’d been with this team for nearly a month, and in the past they often dispersed right after a job, exhausted, filthy, only wanting to rest.
But after this goblin contract, with a short journey and little exertion, everyone still felt pretty good.
At Levin’s invitation, they all bathed and then gathered here in the tavern.
“Gauss, want some ale?” Levin noticed Gauss’s mug was empty.
Gauss was about to refuse out of habit, but seeing the mugs of the others — even the two female members — filled to the brim with ale, he swallowed his words.
“Sure, I’ll try it.” He hadn’t claimed to be teetotal; in his previous life he occasionally had a small glass of red wine before bed.
He just hadn’t tried this world’s cheap ale, always sniffed a suspicious sourness, but since others seemed to enjoy it, maybe this was its natural flavor.
Levin poured him about half a mug.
Gauss sniffed — a strong, stale sour grain fermentation stench hit his nose, like old soggy oats or sour rice.
There was none of the malt aroma of beer he recalled from his past life, only a primal rough fermentation scent.
He took a cautious sip.
“Sour!”
His taste buds were immediately assaulted by a sharp sourness, followed by a sudden burn of alcohol and a lingering unpleasant aftertaste down his throat.
Is this really considered tasty?
“Cough, cough!” Gauss couldn’t help coughing a few times, his face flushing red.
Seeing his reaction, the others at the table burst out laughing.
Used to Gauss slicing through enemies on the battlefield, it was rare to see him look so embarrassed, and everyone found it novel.
“Told you, Levin, I knew Gauss couldn’t handle alcohol!” Daphne took a big gulp of ale and winked at Levin.
“Gauss, are you even normal? I grew up treating booze like water.” Doyle laughed heartily, secretly feeling proud—he had finally beaten Gauss at something.
“I do handle alcohol, just not used to this stuff,” Gauss defended weakly.
“What do you mean ‘this stuff’? It’s just ordinary drink, isn’t it?” Oliver the archer eyed Gauss suspiciously.
“Come on, your background story is clearly made up. You act like it’s your first time drinking ale.”
“……”
Gauss fell silent, seemingly unable to respond.
In this world, drinking culture was pervasive; many began drinking young and even used low‑alcohol drinks as drinking water without it being strange.
This cheap ale was something almost every commoner had tried.
Except for him, the odd one out.
The others, having guessed the “truth” themselves, saw that he seemed unwilling to explain and assumed there was some inconvenient secret involved, so they chuckled and tactfully changed the subject.
After all, for someone like Gauss, who clearly came from a prestigious background, to “fall” to mixing with their muddy‑booted bunch, he must have suffered some major upheaval.
……
By the time Gauss got up from his familiar straw bed, it was already the next day.
He shook his head, still feeling a bit heavy in the body.
Remembering last night, he couldn’t help but shake his head again.
It had been total chaos.
They had eaten and drunk until late at night, and right before leaving, there was a small incident—Doyle noticed someone harassing Daphne at the tavern entrance, and a scuffle broke out.
The Night Owl Team didn’t tolerate that kind of behavior; they all rushed in, knocked the guy down, and bolted before the patrol guards could arrive.
In the end, it was Gauss who carried the dead‑drunk Doyle back to his place.
Gauss smiled.
He felt more and more like he belonged in this world.
First time stepping into the wilderness, first time slaying monsters, first commission, first team, first cheap ale, first brawl...
Strictly speaking, he didn’t dislike these experiences—these “firsts” that he had rarely gone through in his past life made him feel vividly, tangibly alive.
“Want some hangover soup?”
Coming down to the first‑floor hall, Gauss was greeted by Sophia, who had just finished delivering a meal.
“By the way, it’s not free.”
“Sophia, can’t you let it slide? We’re old friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course not. I bought it with my own money. A businesswoman can’t always be doing charity,” Sophia said as she turned to fetch the soup from the kitchen.
Gauss was teasing, but inwardly, he felt a bit warm.
He knew Sophia had likely prepared the hangover soup especially for him, having seen him drenched in alcohol the night before.
After drinking a little of the soup, Gauss felt better.
Sitting by the counter and watching the other boarders eat in the hall, he once again drifted into thought.
Though last night’s dinner had been enjoyable, he understood the message Levin and the others had tried to convey during the latter part of the conversation.
Levin hadn’t said it directly, speaking very tactfully, but Gauss wasn’t so dense that he couldn’t pick up the meaning.
He realized that, because of his presence, the others hadn’t been able to gain much training or improvement from their recent tasks.
If they were all mercenary‑type adventurers around forty years old who had completely given up on their dreams and were just working for money, they’d naturally welcome a powerful teammate like him.
But clearly, none of them were that kind.