[Albion Plane, Porfield Kingdom, Mount Thor, White Lion Stronghold]
The encounter with Alicia left a metallic taste of caution in Greem's mouth, a reminder that his growth was being watched from the highest peaks of the stronghold's power structure. The training continued with renewed intensity, but as the veil of night replaced dusk, Greem dismissed his squad.
"Drinks are on me", he announced, to a chorus of cheers, "The Blackstone Tavern in one hour. Get clean but don't be late"
The Blackstone Tavern was the heart of the White Lion Stronghold's limited social life, a sprawling hall of rough timber and stained stone from the quarry. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, cheap stolen ale, and the busy noise of men and women temporarily forgetting the harshness of their lives.
The White Lion Stronghold was home to roughly 200 bandit warriors, but it was their family that made the number grow to the 500 marks. Bored young men and women and veterans alike came here to drink.
Greem found a corner table with Jask, the scout. Soon, mugs of dark, bitter ale were placed before them.
"You were incredible today, boss", Jask said, taking a deep swallow, "The way you handled the Chieftain...I remember why I accepted to join your squad. A year ago, you were a little brat, but look at you now"
"Alicia may seem harsh, but she is a fair leader", Greem replied, though he felt a flicker of the same unease he'd felt under Alicia's gaze. He took a sip of his ale, letting the familiar bitterness wash away the tension.
As the night wore on and the ale flowed, the tavern keeper, a burly man named Haggard with a huge scar spanning across his face all the way to his neck, began making his rounds with a special.
"Wolf-Liver Stew!", he bellowed, slapping a steaming wooden bowl onto a nearby table, "Fresh from the Thor peaks! Puts hair on your chest and fire in your veins! Fifty coppers a bowl!"
A few of the wealthier bandits, veterans who had done well in the last raid, immediately called for orders. Greem watched with mild interest as a grizzled raider he recognized, a man named Goran, shoveled the dark, gamey-looking stew into his mouth with excitement.
"Ugh, that stuff", Jask grimaced, nodding towards Goran's bowl, "Tastes like a boot soaked in piss. Old Haggard charges a fortune for it because the hunters swear by it. Say it makes them quicker on the draw"
Greem's analytical mind, always active, latched onto the comment.
Quicker on the draw.
He focused on Goran.
[Name: Goran. Attributes: Strength - 1.1 | Agility - 1.7 | Vitality - 1.0. Skills: White Tiger Swordsmanship (15), Banditry (10)...]
'His agility is oddly high, indeed', Greem analysed, 'A perfect fit for someone who wields short sword. He is not the only one. Vanessa also mentioned that she grew up as a hunter...Perhaps they all unknowingly grew faster thanks to this stuff'
As Goran ate, Greem found that some elemental particles he saw when meditating were present in the food.
It was no coincidence.
"Haggard", Greem called, pulling out the absurd sum of fifty copper coins, "One bowl."
"You sure, boss?", Jask asked, his nose wrinkled, "It's a scam, I tell you"
"It can't be so popular yet ineffective", Greem said simply.
The bowl was placed before him. The stew was as unappetizing as advertised: a thick, greasy broth with chunks of dark, rubbery liver. He took a spoonful. The taste was powerfully metallic and earthy, overwhelmingly strong.
He forced it down, focusing on the sensation.
A warmth spread through his stomach, different from the ale.
It was a sharp, clean heat that seemed to travel directly into his muscles, a slight, almost electric tingle settling into his limbs. It was fleeting, gone in moments, but it was there.
And his interface responded.
[Ingested Minor Agility-Boosting Substance. Agility +0.0018]
Greem's eyes widened. He stared into the half-empty bowl, then back at the flickering text only he could see. It was real. The stories weren't just tavern tales. There were things in this world that could directly enhance one's capabilities.
"Jask", Greem said, his voice low and intense, "How often does Haggard have this?"
"Eh? Once, maybe twice a week when the hunters have a good haul. Why?"
'This increase...Considering that I will likely build some resistance to the food, ingesting only 60 bowls would result in a net +0.1 bonus in agility...Amazing!', Greem's mind was racing
Greem didn't answer.
His interface had specified it was a minor substance. Perhaps a larger quantity, or a more refined version from a stronger beast, would yield a greater effect.
But the cost...Sixty bowls would be 30 silver drakes. That was a small fortune, even for a squad leader, far more than he had saved from his share of the Oakhaven raid. It was the price of several good swords, or a full set of armor. All for a single, fractional increase to one attribute.
For the first time, Greem understood the true path to power in a way that went beyond mere training. It was a path paved with gold. Training was the steady, reliable foundation.
He looked around the tavern with new eyes. The veterans buying the stew weren't just indulging in a luxury; they were making an investment in their own strength. It was a quiet, expensive arms race happening in the smoky corners of the stronghold.
"Boss? You alright? You've been staring at that stew like it's going to attack you", Jask said, his words slightly slurred.
Greem pushed the half-finished bowl away.
"I'm fine", he said, a new, determined glint in his eye, "I was just realizing something."
"What's that?"
"The price of a single point," Greem murmured, more to himself than to Jask.
He needed coin. A lot of it.
Jask was left bewildered. His squad leader had yet drank too much again. But the arrival of the rest of the group, namely Albert, Brutus, Tyrus and Vanessa, quickly lightened the atmosphere.