They decided to grab some lunch, heading toward the old part of Bjornfell. The streets grew narrower, the buildings older and more worn. John glanced around, taking in the crooked signs and the faded facades of shops. "Alright, where’s the best place to eat around here?" he asked.

A local passerby, an older woman carrying a basket of goods, paused and pointed down the street. "You’ll want Kargan’s Grill. Best Fyrhaalek this side of the mountains."

"Ok I'm intrigued tell me about that fyrhaalek" John said

"It's a spiced meat on rice with spicy gravy" the old lady responded

John’s face lit up. "That sounds fantastic. Let’s go."

The group followed the directions and soon stood outside a small, rundown establishment. The wooden sign above the door was barely legible, and bags of trash were piled up against the building’s side.

Kaia wrinkled her nose. "Are you sure about this?"

John grinned. "This is how you know it’s good. If it’s not sketchy, it’s not authentic."

They stepped inside, greeted by the rich aroma of spices and grilled meat. The interior was dimly lit, with mismatched furniture and a smoky haze hanging in the air. A tired-looking waitress approached them. "Sit wherever," she said, not bothering to make eye contact.

They found a table near the back, and John eagerly scanned the menu. When the waitress returned, he pointed to the spiciest option available. "I’ll have this. Extra spicy."

The waitress raised an eyebrow. "Your funeral," she muttered before jotting it down.

Thorin ordered a hearty meat platter and an ale, while Kaia carefully selected a tea and a dish described as savory pancakes. "I can’t handle spicy food," she admitted. "It’s not worth the pain."

When the food arrived, John’s plate was a vibrant, fiery red, the aroma alone enough to make his eyes water. He took a bite and practically melted in his seat. "Oh, this is amazing," he said, savoring the heat. "Tastes just like curry."

Kaia tilted her head. "Curry?"

"Yeah," John replied, a nostalgic smile creeping across his face. "My wife used to make it for me sometimes. She hates the smell and taste, but she’d put up with it just so I could have it."

Kaia smiled softly. "She must love you a lot."

John nodded. "Yeah, she does. Or did." His voice trailed off as he poked at his food. "This world has so many little things that remind me of home. It’s weird."

Thorin clapped him on the back. "Eat up, then. It’s not every day you get food this good."

As they ate, the murmur of conversations around the room drifted to their table. Most of it was mundane—local gossip, complaints about prices—but two snippets caught their attention. One group discussed a murder that had happened the night before. "A traveling merchant," one man said. "Found dead near the south gate."

Kaia frowned. "Do you think it was the one who told us about the tournament?"

Thorin shrugged. "Could be."

Another voice from the bar caught John’s ear. "Big score last night," the man was saying. "Gotta pay my share to the master of thieves, but I’ll skim a little off the top first. I hate the new guild master anyway."

John glanced toward the bar but didn’t see who was speaking. As they debated whether to investigate further, three shadowy figures emerged from a dark corner of the room and followed the man out the door.

Thorin stood. "Let’s go."

Kaia nodded and pushed back her chair, but John remained seated, shoveling food into his mouth. "You guys go ahead," he said through a mouthful of rice. "This is delicious."

Thorin shot him a look. "Really?"

John sighed, shoveling one last bite into his mouth before throwing some coins on the table. He downed the rest of his drink

in one gulp and stood. "Fine, fine. Let’s go."

***

The sound of boots scuffing against cobblestones drew their attention to a shadowy alley between two dilapidated buildings. From within, hushed voices escalated into threatening tones.

“You’ve got nerve skimming off the guild, Trevik,” a gruff voice growled. “The Guild Master won’t take kindly to this.”

“Unless…” a second voice interjected with mock consideration. “You offer us a little... incentive to forget about it.”

John wiped the last remnants of Fyrhaalek from his mouth with the back of his hand, stepping into the alley. “What’s this? No honor among thieves?”

Three men turned, startled by the interruption. Their grubby clothing and scarred faces screamed “trouble.” The man they had cornered, pale and trembling, took the opportunity to dart past them, bolting into the safety of the street.

One of the muggers cursed, while another grinned, pulling out a dagger. “Wrong place, stranger. Time to teach you some manners.”

Thorin cracked his knuckles, his grin as broad as a mountain pass. “Oh, I’ve been itching for some fun.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

John reached instinctively for his knife—only to groan as his hand hit empty air. “Right. Blacksmith.”

Kaia, standing behind them, crossed her arms. “Probably for the best. No sense committing murder in town.”

The thieves lunged.

John ducked under the swing of a blade, countering with a wild punch to the nearest thief’s gut. The man doubled over, wheezing, while Thorin roared and swung a haymaker that sent another thug sprawling into a pile of crates. Kaia moved deftly, tripping the third thief with a sweep of her leg before pinning him to the ground with practiced ease.

“I really need to work on my unarmed fighting skills,” John muttered as he dodged another strike. He swung again, landing a solid jab on his opponent’s chin.

The fight became a blur of fists, kicks, and grunts. Thorin was laughing as he took on two at once, tossing one into a barrel like a sack of grain. Kaia stayed efficient, disabling her target with precision strikes.

John, meanwhile, was flailing with enthusiasm if not skill. After a particularly awkward series of punches, he managed to trip his foe, sending the man sprawling into the dirt.

Eventually, all three thieves lay unconscious, groaning and battered. John brushed off his hands, a triumphant grin on his face.

[Notification: Skill Gained: Unarmed Combat (Rank 1)]

[Notification: Skill Gained: Improvised Brawling (Rank 1)]

“See?” John said, rubbing his knuckles. “Progress.”

Thorin chuckled, rifling through one of the thieves’ pockets. “Aye, progress in stealing too, it seems.”

“Wouldn’t want them to think we weren’t thorough.” John crouched down and searched the leader. He pocketed a few coins before pulling out an odd, tarnished medallion.

“What’s that?” Kaia asked, stepping closer.

John held it up to the faint light. The medallion bore an intricate design—a crescent moon entwined with a dagger. “No idea,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. “But I bet it’ll come in handy.”

Thorin clapped him on the back. “We’ll see. For now, let’s get out of here before more of their friends show up.”

The trio left the alley, John grinning despite the bruises forming on his face.

***

As they strolled through another part of Bjornfell, John paused outside a cozy-looking store with a weathered sign hanging above the door. Through the window, a group of elderly women sat around a table playing some kind of tile-based game. They sipped from steaming cups and laughed in soft, knowing tones.

John grinned. “If anyone in this town knows about the thieves' den—or that murder—it’s always old women.”

Kaia raised an eyebrow. “Old women?”

“Trust me on this,” John said with a smirk. “They’re like the secret keepers of the world. I’ll be right back.”

As he pushed the door open, a small bell jingled overhead, and the warm aroma of tea and spiced pastries enveloped him. The women barely looked up, engrossed in their game and chatting in a language John couldn’t understand.

His grin faltered, but then he remembered. He dug into his inventory and pulled out the Earbuds of Universal Translation, popping them into his ears. Instantly, the incomprehensible words became clear, as though they were speaking plain English.

“...and then I told her, ‘If you’re going to haggle like that, you might as well just rob me outright!’” one woman said, eliciting chuckles from the others.

John cleared his throat and approached with a bright smile. “Honorable aunties, forgive me for interrupting your game, but I couldn’t resist stopping to admire your wisdom and grace.”

The table fell silent. The women stared at him, wide-eyed.

One of them, a sharp-eyed matriarch in a vibrant shawl, tilted her head. “You speak our dialect perfectly, young man. How is this possible?”

John tapped his earbuds subtly and smiled. “I have a gift for languages. But it’s nothing compared to the beauty and wisdom sitting before me.”

The women exchanged glances, their skepticism melting into smiles. The matriarch gestured to an empty chair. “Sit, then, and share some tea with us. A polite boy like you is rare in these parts.”

John sat, and before he could protest, a cup of fragrant tea and a plate of pastries were placed before him.

“So,” the matriarch said, leaning forward. “Tell us about yourself. Where are you from? Do you have a family?”

John sipped the tea—it was spiced and sweet, with a floral undertone. He talked about his home, carefully leaving out the part about being from another world. He mentioned his wife and children, his love for curry, and how he missed them.

“Oh, how sweet,” one woman cooed, passing him another pastry.

“You must love your wife very much,” said another.

“I do,” John said, his voice softer now. “She’s the reason I’m here, trying to find my way back to her.”

The matriarch patted his hand. “A good man. Too good to be asking about thieves’ dens, I think.”

John blinked. “Ah, well, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

The women exchanged looks again. After a moment, the matriarch sighed. “If you’re determined, then perhaps you should start at the Silver Thorn Tavern. The kind of men you’re looking for often pass through there.”

John nodded, filing the name away. “Thank you, aunties. I also heard about a murder recently—Garrik the trader?”

The mood shifted. The women lowered their voices, glancing around as if the walls had ears.

“Terrible,” one whispered.

“His body was found near the old mill,” the matriarch said grimly. “Mangled beyond recognition.”

John frowned. “A robbery?”

The matriarch shook her head. “No. That’s the strange part. Nothing was taken. His coin purse, his wares—everything was left untouched.”

John’s mind raced, but he kept his expression neutral. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll be careful.”

The matriarch nodded. “You should be. And eat more before you go. You’re too thin to be running around asking dangerous questions.”

By the time he left, John’s hands were full of exotic-looking food wrapped in leaves and paper. He rejoined Thorin and Kaia outside, a wide grin on his face.

“Did you get anything useful?” Kaia asked, eyeing the food.

“Oh, plenty,” John said, handing her a wrapped pastry and tossing another to Thorin. “Also, these aunties make the best snacks.”

As they walked away, John recounted what he’d learned about the thieves’ den and the murder. Kaia frowned thoughtfully, while Thorin muttered something about punching more thieves.

“We’ll start with the Silver Thorn Tavern,” John said. “But let’s stay sharp. Feels like there’s more going on in this town than we realized

***

The Silver Thorn Tavern had a dim, inviting glow, the scent of ale and roasted meat thick in the air. The trio stepped inside, immediately aware of the eyes on them. Conversations quieted for just a moment before resuming, but the wary glances remained.

John led the way to the bar, where an elderly man with silver-streaked hair and a weathered face polished a tankard with slow, deliberate movements.

John slid onto a stool and tapped the counter. “A dark stout, if you’ve got one.”

The old man gave him a measured look, then nodded, reaching below the counter. Moments later, a thick, black brew in a sturdy mug was placed before him.

John looked at it with the kind of hungry anticipation usually reserved for a long-lost love. He lifted the mug, inhaling deeply—notes of roasted malt, bitter cocoa, and a hint of spice. His eyes fluttered shut for just a second in pure pleasure.

Then, without hesitation, he downed it in a single gulp.

Thorin gave an approving nod. Kaia, a disapproving sigh.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the empty mug down. “Another.”

The barkeep smirked, refilling his drink. This time, John took a slow, savoring sip.

“That’s some damn fine beer,” he said.

The old man gave a slow nod. “Brew it myself.”

John raised an eyebrow. “A brewer and a barkeep? I respect that. I did some brewing back home—nothing this good, though.”

The barkeep’s expression softened just a little. “Takes patience. And knowing what to leave out is just as important as what you put in.”

John smirked. “Ain’t that the truth?”

They swapped small talk for a while—trading brewing tips, stories about stubborn customers, and the weather, which was always a safe topic.

Then John leaned in slightly, his tone casual. “So, what do you make of that murder the other night?”

The barkeep didn’t blink, but there was a brief pause before he answered. “Strange business, that. Killing a merchant? Bad for everyone.”

John swirled his ale. “No robbery, either. Seems… wasteful.”

“Exactly,” the old man said, voice low. “The world’s bad enough with Grandfather gone. No need to make things worse by killing traders. Who’s gonna bring in the goods to steal? A merchant like that—how much could’ve been skimmed, extorted, or ‘taxed’ over his lifetime? Dead men don’t pay.” He shook his head. “A damn shame.”

John took another sip. “You seem to know a lot about thievery.”

The barkeep chuckled, the sound dry and amused. “You don’t live in Old Town to a ripe old age like me without hearing a few things.” He leaned on the counter. “But I’m just an honest old man who wants to live out my remaining years in peace.”

John gave him a knowing grin. “Of course. Just an honest old man.”

The barkeep smirked. “But I will say… the guild’s got a new master. And he’s a monster.”

John’s grip on his mug tightened slightly. “Oh?”

The old man nodded. “Not the kind you cross. And word is, he’s got a poison skill book he gives only to his best followers. Best to let them get on with their business.”

John set his empty mug down and stood. “I appreciate the chat.”

The barkeep inclined his head. “Come back anytime.”

John, Thorin, and Kaia made their way out of the tavern.

As the door swung shut behind them, the barkeep stood a little straighter. His posture, once hunched with age, became taut and strong. His weathered hands, once slow and deliberate, flexed with a hidden strength. His lips curled into a smirk.

“I like that guy,” he murmured. “Think I’ll keep an eye on him.”