Chapter 5: Carving Dreams into Wood

There’s a peculiar thing about mornings: they carry a promise of potential, an unspoken agreement that today might just be the day where everything aligns. Of course, mornings also carry the stark reminder that you slept awkwardly and your back will remind you of this fact all day. Such is life—a delicate balance between optimism and backaches.

I stretched lazily under the warm morning sunlight filtering through the trees, feeling both excited and slightly daunted by the task ahead. Today, I would turn my humble, undecorated tavern into something that could make even the heavens pause and say, “Not bad, mortal.”

But first—breakfast.

The tavern's small kitchen gleamed in the morning light. It wasn’t much, just a stone counter, a wood-fired stove, and a handful of utensils ,and other things assential for cooking. But this modest space carried the potential to create magic—or at least an edible omelet.

I reached into my bag, pulling out the ingredients I’d purchased in the village: eggs, a loaf of bread, and a bundle of fragrant herbs.

“Alright,” I said aloud, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s make something worth remembering.”

I started with the herb soup. Filling a small pot with clear mountain spring water, I set it on the stove and lit a fire with the bamboos from my courtyard. I poured water in the pot and before long the water hissed gently as the flames licked at the pot’s underside. Next, I picked through the herbs: a mix of green stalks, leaves with serrated edges, and tiny purple flowers. Their scent was intoxicating, a mix of earthiness and freshness.

Chopping them finely, I let the herbs rain into the pot, their colors swirling like brushstrokes in water. The scent that rose was enough to make my stomach growl—a heady mix of thyme, basil, and something uniquely this world’s own.

While the soup simmered, I turned to the eggs. Breaking them one by one into a bowl, I whisked them vigorously until they formed a golden liquid. A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and a sprinkle of finely chopped herbs followed, adding both flavor and color.

I poured the mixture into a heated skillet, the sound of it sizzling against the pan like a symphony. The omelet puffed up beautifully, its edges curling slightly, golden and inviting. With practiced ease, I folded it neatly and slid it onto a plate.

Finally, the bread. Thick slices went onto a heated griddle, their surfaces turning a crisp, golden brown. The smell of toasted bread mingled with the herbaceous aroma of the soup, creating a sensory feast.

Sitting down to eat, I couldn’t help but grin. “A simple breakfast,” I mused, taking a bite of the omelet, “is like life: humble ingredients brought together with care.”

With my stomach full and my energy restored, it was time to tackle the day’s main task—decorating the tavern.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I stood in the main hall, hands on my hips, surveying the space. The wooden beams stretched high above, crisscrossing like the ribs of some ancient beast. The walls were plain but sturdy, the floor a smooth stone that gleamed faintly. It was a good structure—functional and solid—but it lacked soul.

“Time to fix that,” I said, rolling up my sleeves.

The system had assured me my crafting skills were maxed, and while I was skeptical of its boasts, this was as good a time as any to put them to the test.

I began with simple items: stools, tables, and shelves. Selecting a sturdy piece of wood from a pile I had gathered the day before, I set it on the workbench and picked up a chisel.

There’s something meditative about woodworking. The steady rhythm of the blade carving through the grain, the way the wood curls and falls away like shavings of time itself—it’s an art form, a conversation between the craftsman and the material.

The first stool took shape under my hands, its legs even and its seat smooth. Then came a table, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. As I worked, I couldn’t help but admire the precision of my movements, the ease with which my hands guided the tools.

“Maxed crafting skills, huh?” I murmured, running a hand over the finished table. “Maybe the system wasn’t exaggerating after all.”

With the basics done, I turned my attention to decorations. If the tavern was to stand out, it needed more than functional furniture—it needed character.

My first piece was a simple carving of a tree, its branches reaching skyward in an intricate tangle. The wood seemed to come alive under my hands, the chisel tracing lines that hinted at wind and growth. I mounted it on the wall behind the bar, where it would serve as a centerpiece.

Next came a bird—its wings outstretched, its beak open in a silent cry. The details were finer this time, each feather a delicate stroke of the blade. When it was finished, I hung it near the entrance, as if it were welcoming guests into its domain.

I grew bolder with each piece. A crane with slender legs and an elegant neck, poised as if mid-dance. A fox, its tail curled around its body, eyes gleaming with cunning. Even a small Lesser-dragon , coiled and fierce, its scales glinting in the firelight.

The hours slipped away unnoticed, the tavern slowly transforming into a gallery of carved wonders. Each piece seemed to tell a story, to whisper of a world where nature and magic intertwined.

As I worked, my thoughts wandered.

“Wood is a lot like people,” I mused, shaping the wings of a dove. “You start with a rough block, full of potential but unformed. Then life happens—the chisels, the cuts, the sanding. Each mark leaves a scar, but also adds character. And in the end, if you’re lucky, you get something beautiful.”

I paused, staring at the unfinished dove in my hands. “Or,” I added with a wry smile, “you end up with a splinter.”

By the time I stepped back to admire my work, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold. The tavern was unrecognizable—no longer a blank canvas but a vibrant, living space.

The stools and tables were sturdy and inviting, their polished surfaces gleaming in the warm light of the hearth. The walls were adorned with carvings that seemed to dance in the flickering shadows, each piece adding depth and personality to the room.

I felt a surge of pride, a sense of accomplishment that was almost intoxicating.

“This,” I said, gesturing to the room, “is more than a tavern. It’s a story—a piece of myself carved into wood and stone.”

As night fell, I lit a few lanterns, their soft glow casting a cozy ambiance over the space. The tavern was ready, but my journey was just beginning.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered, standing in the doorway and gazing out at the moonlit mountains. “Or I wonder when, the doors open, and the real adventure begins.”

With that, I stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air. The world was vast, mysterious, and full of possibilities. And for the first time since arriving, I felt ready to face it.

- - -