The Bartender of the Nest (Part 2)
“Still struggling to control your power, I see.”
Bourbon remarked, glancing at the scorch marks and flickering flames on the table.
“Will you master the dragon’s power, or be consumed by its blood?”
His slit, emerald eyes glinted with a strange light, and the magical energy that already filled the tavern intensified, swirling around them.
The presence of the true dragon pressed down on Dalen’s shoulders, stirring the dragon blood coursing through his veins.
“Show me.”
Kylebercus Arburn. The first roar of the dragon god.
This ancient being, one of the oldest among the true dragons, spoke, and the power of his words resonated through the air.
Whoosh!
The dark red dragon blood within Dalen responded, igniting into flames.
Crackle—
The fire consumed the chair he had been sitting on.
In an instant, all that remained were a few handfuls of ash and a charred piece of wood.
Dalen found himself standing, his boots leaving dark red imprints on the floor, which began to smolder.
Rumble…
The walls shook, and dust rained down from the ceiling. The pillars and floor trembled as if they might collapse at any moment.
Amidst the chaos of overturned chairs and shattered glass, only the two of them remained still.
The true dragon, arms crossed, gazed at the mortal, who met his gaze without flinching.
Crack. Crash!
Though neither moved a muscle, the mere intertwining of their powers began to warp the space around them.
It was Bourbon who first withdrew.
“Enough.”
With a single word, the magical energy that had shaken the tavern receded like a tide, restoring the scorched floor and tables, and returning the scattered items to their original state.
This phenomenon, beyond the realm of simple spells, was proof of the true dragon’s mystical nature.
“Phew.”
With the pressure on his dragon blood gone, Dalen let out a small sigh.
He took a deep breath, calming the dragon blood within, and grasped the hilt of his sword.
The holy sword trembled as if it had been waiting.
Bourbon watched with curiosity.
“Suppressing the dragon blood’s consciousness with the power of a holy sword. An ingenious tactic, though merely a temporary measure.”
“I know.”
Dalen tapped the hilt of his sword and replied, tossing the remaining ice from his glass into his mouth.
The heat in his mouth hadn’t fully dissipated, and the ice melted away almost instantly.
“That’s why I’ve come to seek your help.”
“My help?”
Bourbon asked, and Dalen nodded.
“I need a vessel to contain the dragon’s power.”
At Bourbon’s suggestion, they moved to Sienna’s office, a place Dalen hadn’t visited in a while.
The well-worn bookshelves and tea leaf containers, along with the newly acquired furniture, remained unchanged.
The gentle silence and aroma of tea, unchanged from months ago, lingered thanks to the bartender’s diligent care in the owner’s absence.
Bourbon placed a bottle of liquor next to two teacups and, seeing Dalen slump onto the sofa, finally spoke.
“A bold request.”
The bartender poured liquor into the teacups instead of tea, a sight that would have shocked Sienna, Dalen thought as he responded.
“What do you mean?”
“Your request. A vessel for the dragon’s power implies you seek a body of mystery.”
“That’s right.”
Bourbon’s emerald eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in disbelief.
“Creating something from nothing is difficult enough, let alone creating mystery from nothing.”
“Don’t worry about that. I have the materials.”
“Oh?”
Bourbon’s eyes curved into an unusual arc, a rare expression on his usually impassive face.
“What are they?”
“The hearts of a true dragon and a lesser dragon.”
Dalen opened a small pocket of space, not needing to reveal the actual hearts.
The faint aura emanating from the opening was enough for the ancient dragon to guess its contents.
“So, the Azure Scale has fallen. The reign of the exiled one has finally ended.”
Bourbon downed his drink in one gulp. Dalen raised an eyebrow. Only filling his own glass, huh? What am I, invisible?
Whether he noticed Dalen’s gaze or not, the bartender refilled his glass and gently swept the table.
“Let’s set aside the long story. Mortals like you tend to focus on the present. So, let me ask, why should I grant your request?”
“Because I intend to help you in return.”
Dalen replied bluntly, halting Bourbon’s hand mid-pour.
“A mortal helping an immortal? With what, exactly?”
“Not all immortals are free. In fact, the longer they live, the more shackles they bear.”
“Quite the silver tongue. Did you slay a demon with that mouth?”
“The Nest is empty because Sienna descended into the labyrinth, isn’t it?”
The dragon fell silent. Dalen smirked and continued.
“In exchange for crafting a body of mystery, I’ll follow her and save her from danger.”
Creak.
Dalen sank deeper into the sofa, watching the bartender.
A hardened expression. Twitching eyes.
After a moment, Bourbon leaned forward and spoke.
“Do you understand the weight of what you just said?”
The short question carried no magical power.
Yet the air, heavy and still, became an invisible blade.
The true dragon’s innate power, the authority of words he wielded since birth.
The depth and breadth of that power were such that even the slightest emotional nuance could threaten a mortal’s life.
“The weight? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Dalen didn’t back down. He bared his teeth and spoke.
“Are you referring to the contract you made with Sienna’s ancestor, the first Feathered Witch? Or perhaps the complicated circumstances that keep you by her side as a mere avatar?”
The dragon’s expression twisted. A good sign.
This was similar to when Dalen had faced one of the transcendent beings in the depths of the Golden Palace months ago.
Everon Raktala, known as the Face of a Thousand Changes.
In front of the ancient being who had lived for centuries, Dalen had won favor by mentioning the name of the most enigmatic of the transcendent beings.
The old dragon before him was no different.
The bartender of the Crow’s Nest, Kylebercus Arburn.
The ancient dragon, known as the first roar of the dragon god, had not only foreseen the coming apocalypse but had lived long enough to rival its weight.
To gain the favor and assistance of such a being, one must approach in a manner entirely different from dealing with mortals.
“The Feathered Witch Sienna is bound to you by a contract passed down through her bloodline. If she is in danger, you are compelled to save her, whether you wish to or not.”
Unraveling secrets that had become more legend than history over millennia.
This was a tale from long before humans had established their current dominion over the continent.
The progenitors of the thirteen witches, scattered from the first witch.
Among them, the dragon who made a pact with the Feathered Witch.
The dragon swore to rise once to save the life of her descendant in peril, a promise that had endured unblemished through the ages.
Though merely an avatar, working as a bartender in a small tavern, hidden even from the witch herself, was for no other reason.
What if he pushed a little further?
Dalen decided not to hesitate.
“But your true form cannot leave its place now. Doing so would hasten the apocalypse. In the deep valleys of the Blade Mountains, where you are sealed with…”
“Enough. That’s enough.”
Bourbon murmured, suppressing his agitation. Ripples formed in his glass.
Dalen stopped speaking and looked at the dragon’s face.
“You know a lot, human.”
The dragon’s expression was complex.
The contract he made with the first Feathered Witch thousands of years ago was a promise forgotten even by the witch herself in this era.
And the circumstances of his true form, dwelling deep within the mountains, were secrets known only to a handful of transcendent beings.
How would it feel for a mortal, who hadn’t even lived a century, to reveal all those secrets before him?
It was a sentiment Dalen, with no experience of living an eternity, could never comprehend.
“Then what is it you wish to say?”
The important thing was that his words had stirred a small ripple in the ancient dragon’s heart.
Layering secret upon secret, proving himself an unpredictable variable even to the transcendent.
In the face of the predetermined apocalypse…
To someone for whom even resignation is just a memory, such unexpected twists are hard to resist.
The outcome was like ripples spreading from a glass of wine, enough to disturb the calm surface of a lake that had been still for millennia.
Clink.
Bourbon set down his glass and picked up the bottle, pouring the clear spirit into Dalen’s glass.
Dalen downed the potent liquid in one swift motion and replied, “I’ll prevent Sienna’s death, ensuring you don’t have to forsake the two duties you chose for yourself. I’ll also help her regain her strength. After all, that’s what this journey was about from the start.”
“Agreed.”
Bourbon nodded.
“Let’s seal it in the name of the dragon.”
Splash.
The alley was a muddy mess, thanks to two days of relentless spring rain.
Dalen, having swapped his burnt-out boots for a new pair from his pocket dimension, strode through the alleys of the Bronze District.
“Meeting Bourbon first was a stroke of luck,” he mused, rubbing his left arm.
Since sealing the pact in the dragon’s name, Bourbon had offered him a small boon.
He had awakened part of the power of the baby dragon, Cheongrin, which had been squirming in his bag.
“Cheongrin’s epithet is the Left Arm Armor of the Dragon God. You might not know, but Cheongrin has always been a control mechanism to suppress the dragon god’s madness.”
The bartender had said this, gently stroking the baby dragon and murmuring an incantation.
The dragon immediately clung to Dalen’s arm, transforming into a solid crystalline armor that encased him from shoulder to fingertips.
“Kyung?”
“It’ll keep the dragon’s blood from consuming your body and mind. Rescuing Sienna while relying on the holy sword alone would be a precarious tightrope walk.”
“Kyung kyung.”
“If you don’t want it to stand out, it can take the form of a tattoo. It’s not uncommon for northern warriors to have body art.”
The baby dragon settled as a tattoo across his left arm, a welcome change.
No longer would it squirm conspicuously in his bag, and with Cheongrin attached to his arm, the dragon’s blood calmed without the holy sword’s aid.
As he emerged from the alley into the main street, the crowd multiplied.
Like intersecting rivers, people flowed in their own currents. Dalen made his way toward the Gallios Trading Company branch.
Clatter. Clatter.
Carts and horses navigated through the throng like ships on a river.
And where there are ships, there are always fish hoping for scraps.
The children swarming in groups were like those fish.
In clusters ranging from half a dozen to over twenty, they moved together.
One such group brushed past Dalen. Then, thud. One of the boys bumped into him.
“Oh, sorry.”
The boy bowed his head and tried to continue on his way, but Dalen reached out and naturally caught him by the shoulder.
“Ah!”
The boy was trapped in Dalen’s firm grip. Dalen reached into the boy’s coat.
“Hey! Who do you think you are? A mercenary beating up people!”
“Didn’t anyone teach you that stealing is wrong?”
Dalen asked, pulling out a heavy pouch filled with gold coins from the boy’s clothes. It had been hanging from Dalen’s waist just moments ago.
“Damn it! Just my luck!”
“Watch your language.”
“Ugh!”
Dalen pinched the boy’s lips into a duckbill shape with his thumb and forefinger.
After a few moments, he let go, and the boy, with slightly swollen lips, quickly rejoined his group.
The children swarmed away again, and no doubt some of them had other people’s coin pouches hidden in their clothes.
“Hey, you little thieves! Stop right there!”
A familiar voice called out from a distance.
“Hand over the pouches nicely, and I won’t turn you over to the guards!”
It was Penny, the sewer cleaner, and the guide who had accompanied Dalen on his first mission, and the niece of the blacksmith, Reberon Ahakim.