Deluo and Nimo waited in the "Tavern" inn, with a sumptuous dinner and frothy beer laid out before them. In this dark underworld, barley doesn’t grow, and this beer was bought by the Stone-leg Boss at a high price from an Underworld Halfling caravan, which took quite so effort.
"This is well-deserved; we shall cheer for the King of the Arena today!" Stone-leg Boss shouted loudly, holding his cup high in the air, the fragrant scent spreading throughout the tavern.
"For our King of the Arena! Deluo from the surface world! Let’s all cheer!!" The others in the tavern echoed loudly, cheering.
Even a few goblin patrons joined in the cheers. They actually didn’t know who Deluo was, nor did they understand the significance of this so-called King of the Arena. But the sumptuous food in front of them: golden roast pig, chicken legs slathered in honey, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside Los aura beast, and fragrant mushroom thick soup. A spoonful of mashed potatoes revealed a unique aroma that filled their mouths, with a subtle spicy flavor brought by the seasonings. Even the most picky gourt could not find any fault with how the tavern entertained that night.
Not to ntion the various delicious liquors available, from strong to llow, gentle to refreshing, and fiery to stimulating. All for one thing: Deluo had finally accomplished an impossible feat today. He defeated all the monsters in the Duel Arena and beca the King of the Arena!
This was the title of a warrior, the title of the mightiest warrior in Rattrace!
But Deluo seed uninterested; only when people clinked glasses with him did he put on a smile, absentmindedly listening to their praises, and replying "Yes! Indeed!" as if completing a routine task.
His eyes were always expectantly looking at the inn’s entrance, waiting for one person’s return.
"Lynch has been gone for a whole day." Nimo sat by the table often occupied by the Mage, resting his chin on his hand, looking sowhat bored out the window at the dark city. The Dwarf couldn’t bear the noise of the revelry below. They had returned happily from the Duel Arena today, only to receive news that their Mage friend had been called away by the Dark Elves. Then ca a whole day of waiting.
"He’s...he’s not back yet?" Deluo stumbled in from outside, reeking of alcohol. He drank quite a lot today, but strangely, the usually blacked-out drunk Deluo managed to stay sowhat sober.
"No," Nimo replied, "Maybe he’ll co back tomorrow."
"Let’s hope..." After saying this, Deluo collapsed onto the floor.
However, Lynch still didn’t show up the next day. Deluo began to get impatient, while Stone-leg kept persuading him, saying that Dark Elves had a habit of having handso young n stay overnight, suggesting their Mage friend might be having fun. Deluo just shook his head, not believing Lynch was delayed by such a reason. He still sat in the tavern’s ground floor hall, holding the strong liquor bought that morning, sitting there all day. Until the evening, the level in the glass hadn’t decreased at all.
By the third day, Deluo started blaming himself, blaming himself for leaving the Mage alone to challenge the Duel Arena, knowing full well that a Mage is very vulnerable without a warrior’s protection! Nimo kept trying to console him, "Lynch is a powerful Mage, he will be alright."
On the fourth day, Deluo finally couldn’t sit still. He picked up the Double-headed Sword and was about to go out. Today he decided to visit the Dark Elf Family to find out what had happened to the Mage!
Nimo used all his strength but couldn’t hold back the warrior’s advancing steps. Stone-leg Boss was also alard, knowing the fearso power of the First Family, he tried with all his might to stop the warrior’s reckless actions.
At that mont, the long-missing Mage finally appeared at the inn’s entrance. He now appeared to be in a state of disarray, exhausted, leaning his entire body weight on the Magic Wand, barely able to stand with the support of that Black Iron Long Stick. His previously neat hair now draped over his shoulders; his eyes swollen, filled with bloodshot lines, as if he hadn’t slept in days; his lips chapped, slightly parted, slowly exhaling air from his lungs; the Mage Robe on his body was practically torn into strips, barely hanging on him; from his exposed arms and legs, countless wounds could be seen, so scarred, so appearing fresh with bright red markings covering his pale skin.
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