Inside the pub, the air was hot with laughter and shouts. Wooden beams low overhead were strung with fading garlands and strips of cloth—makeshift decorations, probably from some recent celebration. Candles burned in rusted sconces, giving the interior a golden, uneven glow. The floor creaked with every footstep, and long benches were lined with villagers banging their mugs, all chanting the same word again and again: "Drink! Drink! Drink!"
In the center, two red-faced men sat at a round table. Each had a hand gripping a mug, and the other shaking slightly as they prepared for the next downing. Foam splashed as they raised their drinks in unison, the crowd roaring around them. A third man was already on the floor, face planted on the wooden boards, with someone tying a cloth under his head like a pillow. Someone else laid a blanket over him with surprising gentleness.
Near the back of the pub, behind the counter, two women were pouring jugs into endless mugs. A young boy, maybe no older than ten, ran back and forth carrying plates of roasted meat and fried vegetables. The smell of salted pork and warm cheese filled the room, tempting even the most restrained stomachs.
At the doorway, Bral stood with stars in his eyes.
"This," he said, arms spread, "is what I call culture."
Idin rolled his eyes and muttered, "It's a tavern full of alcoholics."
Bral ignored him and nudged Pao and Amukelo, "Come on, tell me this doesn't look like fun."
Pao giggled slightly, while Amukelo raised an eyebrow, more curious than annoyed. But Bao… Bao was already turning away.
"Nope. Let's go. I'll find the next one," she said flatly, already stepping back into the street.
Bral turned quickly and followed her a few steps. "Wait, wait, you don't even know if there is another pub out there!"
"There's always another one."
"Not in a place like this!"
Bao didn't stop until she heard the voice—low, rough, and sudden.
"He's right, young lady."
She jumped with a surprised grunt and spun around. At the side of the door, just beneath a crooked window, an old man sat in a wooden chair, one leg resting on a broken stool, pipe in his mouth. His beard was scraggly, more white than gray, and his eyes squinted through the smoke that curled lazily around his face.
"Where did you come from?" Bao muttered.
"Been here the whole time," the man said calmly. "Watchin' the fools go at it."
Bral stifled a laugh as Bao's face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.
"Great," she muttered. "The only pub in the village is run by lunatics."
The old man puffed his pipe once, leaned forward slightly, and chuckled. "Ah, there's reason behind the madness, girl."
Bao looked at him skeptically. "What reason could possibly justify turning a pub into a drunken contest ground?"
The man nodded toward the tables. "You see them? That bunch out there shouting like half-drowned toads? They've earned their right to drink. Every one of 'em."
He took another drag and began, his voice soft but clear enough for all of them to hear.
"This here region," he said, "ain't kind. It's full of cliffs, forests, old ruins, and worse—monsters that'll eat you whole before you can pull a blade. We ain't got cities here. Barely have roads. Most of our trade is done on foot or cart, passin' through dangerous land just to get food or medicine."
The group stood quietly now, listening.
"Ain't rare for someone to go missin'. Sometimes they don't come back. Sometimes... all we get is a shirt, or a sack they were carryin'. But a few years back, we noticed somethin' strange."
He leaned back in his chair, the wooden joints groaning.
"Old Ned—merchant by trade—went missin'. We thought he was dead. But three days later, he comes strollin' back, eyes wide, clothes torn, says a Mosshide Trampler sniffed him, growled, and just walked away. Turns out, he was so drunk he didn't even realize what was happenin'."
Bral raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
The old man nodded. "We didn't believe it either. Until it happened again. Another drunk comes back sayin' he passed by wolves, and they didn't even touch him."
"So you're saying... monsters avoid drunk people?" Amukelo asked, visibly intrigued.
"Not all monsters. But enough. Maybe the alcohol messes with their sense of smell, or maybe they think we taste like fermented garbage. Don't know. Don't care. What matters is, the ones who drink seem to survive more often."
Idin squinted. "That's the dumbest survival strategy I've ever heard."
"But it works," the old man said simply.
"And now," he added with a small smirk, "we've turned it into a sort of tradition. A contest. Who can drink the most and still walk straight. People say if you can win, you're safe anywhere in these woods."
The group was silent for a moment.
Bao frowned and crossed her arms. "That still doesn't explain why they need to shout so much."
The old man gave her a knowing smile. "Because the world out here is cruel, child. And shouting, laughing, and drinking together reminds people that they're still alive."
Pao looked at Bao, then at the crowd.
Bao's cheeks turned pink again. "We-well, maybe we can at least enjoy the food."
Bral slapped a hand on her back. "That's the spirit!"
Bao hissed through her teeth, "Don't touch me."
Inside, the chanting had faded to applause. One of the men had collapsed forward, snoring loudly with his face in a bowl of stew.
Amukelo chuckled. "Well, at least the food seems good."
"Let's find a table before Bral joins the competition," Idin muttered.
"You think I won't," Bral grinned.
"Don't," Bao said flatly with a threatening face.
Bral's confidence wavered a little bit, "Is that a threat?"
But Bao didn't answered.
Bral only laughed uncomfortably.
Then they chose a table, ordered some food and a few drinks.
Idin took a bite of the roasted pork leg in front of him and nodded in approval. "This… is exactly what I needed," he said, chewing contentedly.
Pao wiped a bit of sauce from her cheek and smiled. "It's actually really good. Spices too. I wasn't expecting that from a place like this."
Bao, less enthusiastic but still cleaning her plate, grunted, "At least it's not bread."
Bral, meanwhile, wasn't even looking at his food. He sat sideways on the bench, eyes locked on the center of the room where the latest round of the drinking contest had just concluded. A man was being patted on the back by friends as he doubled over a bucket. Another was raising his mug in triumph, face flushed and eyes gleaming with pride.
"Ohhh…" Bral murmured, grinning like a child staring at fireworks. "This is glorious."
"Don't even think about it," Bao muttered, not even lifting her gaze from her plate.
But Bral didn't hear. He had already slammed his mug on the table and stood up with the kind of confidence that only leads to disaster. "You seem tough, don't you?" he shouted across the room, pointing at the newly crowned drinking champion. "I bet I could beat you!"
The room went dead quiet.
Even the musicians in the corner stopped strumming. A few patrons froze mid-bite. All eyes slowly turned to Bral.
Bao stared at him in horror. "What. Are. You. Doing?"
Pao blinked, halfway through a sip of her drink.
Amukelo raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely leaning forward.
The champion, a thick-shouldered man with a beard that seemed to grow in every direction, narrowed his eyes. He looked Bral over once and scoffed. "You're an outsider. I got no reason to waste my time."
Bral gave a dramatic sigh and shrugged as he turned back to his seat. "Whatever," he muttered loudly, loud enough for all to hear. "I just figured you took pride in being the best. Never thought you'd be scared of a guy who doesn't even train for this."
The man's fingers clenched around his mug.
Somewhere in the crowd, a quiet "Oooooh…" rang out.
The man's face flushed darker than his ale. "Ha! To think I'd fall for—" he paused. Then slammed his mug down. "Alright then. You want a contest? You got it."
Bao immediately stood up. "No. Absolutely not. This is a waste of time and money—"
"If I win," the man said, cutting her off, "you pay for the whole pub's drinks tonight."
Bral smirked and shouted, "And if I win, you refill our entire supply stash for free."
The man looked at him for a second, then stuck out his hand. "Deal."
"Deal," Bral said, clasping it.
Bao sat down with a slow exhale. Her expression didn't shift so much as drop, like all hope in humanity had quietly left her. Her eyes shifted to Bral, who met her gaze with the look of a man who had just jumped off a cliff and only now realized there might not be water at the bottom.
Across from them, the crowd cheered and parted as the bartender slammed down a large crate beside their table. From it, two assistants began drawing out mugs in sets of two, each filled to the brim with the dark, bubbling ale that made this village famous.
"To make it fair," the champion said with a devilish grin, "you drink fifteen rounds first. Everyone starts on an even playing field. I already drank my share."
"Fifteen?" Pao asked in shock.
"Heh," Bral smirked, puffing out his chest, "That's it? I thought you guys took this seriously."
"Cocky bastard," the man muttered.
The first mug went down fast. Bral slammed it to the table and let out a sharp exhale. "Ahh! That's actually good!"
The second mug followed right after. Then the third.
Bao crossed her arms, staring at him like a disappointed mother. Then she said flatly. "If you lose, you're dead."
By the fifteenth mug, Bral slammed his last of the initial rounds down.
The champion gave a smirk, a calm, calculated tilt of his head.
Bral grinned too.
Then leaned slightly.
And whispered to Amukelo, "Hey, is my nose bleeding?"
"No," Amukelo said, blinking.
"Then I'm still good."
"You are not good," Idin said.
"Shhh…"
The champion raised his hand and snapped. "Now we go one by one. Last man drinking wins!"
The room roared. More mugs were brought out. Bao groaned.