The tavern was closed in the morning. Now, although it was technically past lunchti and could barely be called "afternoon," custors were still sparse, only a few scattered tables occupied.
The tavern’s layout was modest, with several shabby wooden tables and chairs, unvarnished, surfaces covered in knife scratches, ring stains from cups, and the patina of years of use. A slightly cleaner-looking bar stood at one side, and behind it a hulking man leaned idly.
Among the few patrons, a handful had wrapped themselves up tightly, wearing either straw hats or black cloaks, using coarse cloth to hide their faces.
Samuel pushed the door open, the worn wooden door letting out a grating creak.
The hinge was clearly unlubricated, and Samuel felt resistance as he shoved it.
A wave of slls hit him — cheap ale, fernted fruit, tobacco ash, old wood, damp wool, and at least a dozen different human scents mixed together. Already bracing for it, Samuel waved his hand and stirred up a gust that cleared the air in front of him.
Light inside the tavern imdiately switched from the relative brightness outdoors to a thick, dim gloom. A few kerosene lamps hung from the low beams, their glass shades smoked yellow and black, barely casting several pools of wan, flickering light whose edges quickly dissolved into the heavy shadows.
A quick scan revealed a rather rundown tavern. Compared to the dockside district near the eastern quarter where he was staying, this tavern actually wasn’t that bad.
Everything is a matter of comparison.
At least there were windows that didn’t leak, a few kerosene lamps providing a little light, and enough bottles on the shelf to count as a decent selection, even if not particularly clean.
He took from his coat pocket the phone from his previous life — now reduced to a "premium brick." He glanced at the ti.
11:41.
Less than half an hour remained before the secret eting ti described in the Travel Guide. He casually picked a seat.
His gaze swept over the few patrons in the tavern, one by one, studying each person from head to toe.
Cloaks, straw hats, or heavy cotton coats couldn’t block his sight.
He wasn’t exactly spying — in his current state, most people, male or female, simply didn’t look that great.
He didn’t even need to use Visual Perception. With his naked eyes he could see skin texture, folds, pores, and bumps; if he looked closely enough he could clearly discern veins, subcutaneous fat, and internal organs.
Although his body was indeed that of a vigorous eighteen-year-old youth, hormones ample enough to push him toward all sorts of ssy thoughts, the gift of those eyes had successfully stripped away all the allure.
He had reached the point of viewing beauty as bare bones.
In other words, a pile of actual skeletons without beating viscera or trembling fat — maybe that would even be more pleasing to his sight.
So he had essentially turned seeing beautiful bodies into seeing bones.
This was also why the first thing he did upon arriving in this world was reshape his face.
He’d grown used to the original face and it wasn’t terrible, but if he could avoid seeing coarse pores and bumps every ti he looked in the mirror, he would.
After scanning the room, Samuel withdrew his gaze in disappointnt.
He hadn’t found what he wanted to see.
No horns, no tails, no wings, no fangs…
The entire tavern hall was full of humans.
He had been hoping to see nonhuman species.
Why is a human city full of humans?
He sat on a shabby wooden chair without summoning a server to take an order, leaning back slightly against the uncomfortable backrest. Samuel set the Travel Guide on the table, eyes vacant, and began to daydream.
The Travel Guide hovered a little above the tabletop, as if reluctant to touch that surface.
Samuel didn’t care about the Guide’s aloofness; he projected his thoughts toward the bridge arch in the eastern slums, where the original clone that had beco the monstrous tree stood.
His consciousness slipped along invisible threads, spreading through the mysterious connection between himself and his creations.
The "view" switched.
No longer the dim, noisy tavern, but a scene that was still yet filled with strange life.
Unlike the decay of the slums, this looked more like a patch of primitive jungle.
In the lush, almost flower-strewn grass, a "tree" about two people tall stood erect.
The tree remained where it had been; the security bureau had not taken it away.
It might frighten others, but by Samuel’s aesthetic standards, it wasn’t bad.
Its odd appearance kept most of the slum residents away, so for now, no one was removing its brain.
On the monster tree, the exposed soulless eyeball hanging outside suddenly brightened, turned once, then quickly sank back into dormancy.
“Looks like the early bird hasn’t co to eat Samuel yet,” Samuel murmured, shaking his head.
He left a faint invisible mark as a tag so that if the security bureau later investigated, he could notice imdiately.
Then he withdrew his attention and shifted his thoughts to Falson.
Falson was still at work, playing the piano.
He had discovered a little trick for slacking off at work.
He found he could let the System temporarily take over his body, guiding his hands to play while his consciousness sneaked off to read novels.
Although he wouldn’t neglect the job entirely, the music produced when the System guided his hands sounded better than when he played himself.
So it wasn’t really slacking.
Would repeatedly letting the System take control have consequences? Could long-term System caretaking rob him of physical control altogether?
He had thought about those questions, but had no answers.
“So things are like that: if you can’t resist them, then enjoy them.”
That line ca from a book the System had provided.
If he lacked the power to resist the System, he might as well use it to make himself comfortable.
What’s he looking at?
Samuel glanced at the panel he had created.
He had uploaded every book he knew into the System’s backend, and he was curious which book this young man from another world would pick up first.
Oh? Reading "The Mysterious Return"? Classy.
Seeing Falson absorb forbidden knowledge made Samuel smile silently, then he unobtrusively withdrew.
He had no intention of interrupting or suddenly appearing to "chat" right now.
Even peeking into soone’s privacy required a bit of basic courtesy.
Well, he wanted soone to talk to, but he’d leave the guy so private space for now.
Retracting his scattered thoughts, Samuel Gavris pulled his consciousness back from afar and returned to the tavern.
Bored…
So bored, so bored, so bored…
Samuel slumped in his chair and felt his body growing softly limp.
He felt as if he was going to die of boredom — literally.
His body slowly softened and lted, becoming a writhing lump of tentacled flesh, slumping uselessly.
Looking for so fun…
But he didn’t know much about this world and had nothing entertaining to do…
He toyed with his tentacles, tying a bow with them.
He felt he was about to evaporate from boredom.
At that mont, Samuel noticed several people rise from their seats and walk toward a private room at the back of the tavern. They didn’t speak or exchange glances, simply rose one by one from their places.
The private room’s door looked a bit cleaner and heavier than the tavern’s front door, painted a deep brown close to the wall color. A burly man who appeared to be a bodyguard stood beside it.
Samuel noticed those people walked past the bodyguard and entered the room without obstruction; the guard made no move to stop them.
Instantly, Samuel’s body returned to normal human form, no longer flowing everywhere or sprouting tentacles.
He blinked and rose. The wooden chair scraped against the stone floor with a slight sound.
Picking up the still-slightly-hovering Travel Guide, Samuel followed.
Just from glancing, he had noticed the little thin iron badges pinned to those people’s clothes.
About the size of an adult thumbnail, white with a bit of paint, rough edges, not finely finished.
This must be the admission badge for this secret gathering.
Pretty crude-looking.
He fell in behind them and walked straight up.
He tapped his hat casually and an identical thin iron badge appeared, hanging right at the center of his bowler hat.
For him, copying things was trivial.
As expected, he t no resistance when approaching the private room door.
He had the feeling the guards were just for show; the real security would lie within the eting.
The door creaked a little as the hinge turned more smoothly than he’d expected, and the private room opened slowly.
Samuel slipped inside sideways and closed the door behind him with a pull. He could see the tables and benches pushed into corners, and along one wall of the room a floor hatch led downward. Beneath it, a steep wooden spiral staircase descended.
“Oh, here we go.” Samuel nodded, adjusting his bowler hat as he went down. “At least it’s not a ladder; no need to climb hand over hand. Pretty civilized.”
Unlike the old exterior boards, these downward steps felt much more solid. Thick planks with neat edges, surfaces seemingly lacquered or waxed, catching a faint sheen in the dim light.
Each step gave a firm, stable response underfoot, not the slightest wobble or unsettling creak. The handrail was smooth hardwood, well cared for.
His boot heels clicked against the wood with a steady rhythm: tap, tap.
Soon Samuel erged from the spiral and reached the tavern’s basent.
This wasn’t just a wine cellar; it went deeper.
Below, stone steps replaced wood for another seven or eight steps, and suddenly a short, straight corridor opened up.
The corridor was built of rough stone, wide enough for two people side by side, its ceiling slightly oppressive. Every few steps, a small brass wall lamp was embedded in the wall, its fla steady and providing light. At the corridor’s end stood a locked wooden door and another sharply dressed guard.
After a glance, Samuel still judged this guard to be just decoration.
Oh… so perhaps the real protector of this gathering is the host?
Samuel pondered.
When he approached, the guard had one hand behind his back and used the other to pull the door open for him.
Warr, brighter light and louder voices flooded out.
Finally, the underground secret gathering ca into Samuel’s view.
It was a spacious underground hall. Much larger than Samuel had expected, it could comfortably hold over a hundred people without feeling crowded.
The ceiling was rough rock, but several large multi-bulb chandeliers hung from it, their light carefully adjusted. Though the overall tone remained yellowish, it was bright enough to clearly illuminate every corner.
Being underground, there were no windows, but plenty of gas lamps were lit to provide illumination.
The hall was an irregular oval. The entrance was at one end of the long axis, and directly opposite, the far wall had been smoothed and painted white, fitted with a huge, well-polished blackboard. On the blackboard were several neatly written lines in white chalk, formatted like a product list or notice board.
In front of the blackboard, an area had been cleared and a dark carpet laid on the floor.
The central area of the hall held dozens of single armchairs and upholstered seats haphazardly arranged. They varied in style and age — so covered in worn velvet, so sturdy leather, and so simple wooden chairs with cushions. About two-thirds of the seats were occupied.
Samuel’s gaze drifted from the chandeliers to linger on the fireplace for a while.
Ah… a bit worried about carbon monoxide poisoning…
He shrugged then.
What business was that of his? Poison wouldn’t kill him anyway.
Many people sat in scattered clusters, similar to outside. So hid their appearances with hoods, capes, and masks, while others didn’t bother and displayed their features openly.
One person wore golden armor from head to toe, gleaming with light, a faceplate hiding their visage beneath a helt.
Samuel belonged to the category that did not conceal.
A smile twitched at his mouth as he removed the thin iron badge from his hat and casually picked an isolated deep-red velvet single armchair to sit in.
His entrance drew so attention — after all, few here made no attempts at disguise.
But soon those glances lost interest in Samuel, who seed entirely unaware.
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