We finish the registration after getting an iron necklace with a plate on it that had an uncanny resemblance to a dog tag that soldiers wore from my previous world. Supposedly they used some sort of identification embedding magic on the item that makes the iron necklace usable to prove my identity.
Sadly there was a registration fee of 1 silver for me and 50 bronze for my combat slave. Ayame wasn’t eligible for getting promoted to bronze instantly either, because slaves can only be registered under a free person as their property, and that policy of instant advancement only applies to free citizens.
Once we are done with the registration process, we can finally move on to the actual reason for why we’ve come here: to observe Ian, our target. With our new adventurer plates in hand, we make our way to the guild’s built-in inn section.
The inn’s entrance is guarded by a burly bouncer whose size alone would deter most troublemakers. The giant war-axe on his back and his shining, expensive-looking armor adds another few layers to his intimidating atmosphere. His arms are crossed, and his expression is stern, making it clear that not just anyone can waltz in. As we approach, he uncrosses his arms and looks us over.
“Adventurer plates,” he grunts, his voice low and gravelly.
I quickly produce mine, flashing it in front of him, and Ayame does the same. The warrior-bouncer gives a single nod and steps aside, allowing us to pass through the heavy wooden doors into the inn.
The bar inside is bustling with activity. The air is thick with the smell of ale, roasted meat, and the underlying scent of sweat. Rough fighters fill the room, their boisterous laughter and loud conversations creating a cacophony of noise. It’s clear that this is a place where adventurers come to unwind after a hard day’s work.
The bar itself is long and sturdy, made of dark, polished wood that has seen years of use. Behind it, shelves are lined with various bottles of liquor, ranging from common ales to more exotic spirits. The bartender, a grizzled man with a bushy beard and a muscular build, expertly serves drinks while keeping a watchful eye on the patrons.
Scattered throughout the room are heavy wooden tables and chairs, many of which are occupied by groups of adventurers sharing stories of their exploits. Some play cards or dice games, while others simply drink and chat. A few are more reserved, sitting alone or in small groups, their eyes scanning the room as if ever-watchful for potential threats.
In one corner, a small stage is set up where a bard strums a lute, singing a lively tune that adds to the rowdy atmosphere. The flickering light from the chandeliers overhead casts a warm glow, illuminating the faces of the adventurers and highlighting the dents and scratches on the wooden walls- a testament to the many brawls that have likely taken place here.
It doesn’t take long for us to spot our target. There’s a table with the loudest, drunkest patrons, their raucous laughter cutting through the din of the bar. Three men sit at the table, each with at least one woman wearing a collar standing behind them in a motionless posture with emotionless expressions.
I spot Blossom standing with her back towards us. The man sitting in front of her must be Ian. I can’t see all of his features, but the fatty curves rolling off the side of his chair paint a clear picture of the kind of life he leads. As Blossom had stated, he is an alcoholic who moves from the bar to the brothel and back to the bar over and over again. freewёbnoνel.com
Without turning around, Blossom raises her chin a bit and sniffs the air. Her tail wags from left to right a few times adorably, but she quickly stops the action. She clearly smelled our arrival but tactfully doesn’t turn around to not draw attention to us.
I take the opportunity to observe the other two slave owners. The one next to Ian seems pretty big and muscular, though he doesn’t seem to be doing particularly well money-wise based on his simple garbs and his two slaves standing behind him, both looking pretty average as well.
They stand with the same blank expressions, their shoulders slightly hunched as if weighed down by their intangible chains.
The last guy, however, seems more troublesome. He is muscular with battle scars etched into his face, telling tales of past battles. His armor gives off dangerous vibes, made from an expensive, strong-looking metal. Behind him, six beautiful human women stand like statues, each adorned with well-maintained gear for slaves.
I spot mage robes, bows and quivers, staves, and various magical necklaces and rings. (picture)
One looks like a stereotypical fantasy priestess, so they probably have a dedicated healer in her person. From my inexperienced and relatively uneducated observation, my guess is that the man is a melee warrior, probably with a tank or warrior type class, and he uses his harem as strict backliners. He is the example of the exact battle harem owner that Ayame described before.
There’s a priestess, two rangers, the rest are similarly dressed mages or wizards.
It’s a horrible team composition made solely for the purpose of stroking his male ego, as he played the role of the main character and his supportive cast was a harem of beautiful women.
However, all of them are well equipped and prepared, likely quite skilled in their respective fields, which makes this battle harem a formidable opponent we probably stand no chance of beating as of now.
We can’t just remain standing in the doorway while gawking at them, so we walk up to an empty table and take our seats. Well, I do, as Ayame stands behind me. It seems that she doesn’t want to stand out as every collared person we see is standing behind someone. A barmaid soon runs up to us and takes our order. I order some fruity cocktail with ice.
I’m surprised they have ice in this world, but it’s certainly a welcome surprise.