The Immortal's Secret Tavern

The morning light struggled to pierce the thick, grey mist that perpetually clung to the narrow alleyway of Swallow’s Hollow. Inside the tavern, Shen Ruichen hummed a tuneless melody, his rag moving in methodical circles over the scarred surface of the mahogany counter. It was the same rhythm he had followed for three years—wipe, dry, polish, repeat.

The silence of the morning was heavy, the kind that pressed against the eardrums like deep water. Shen paused, casting a look at the rows of earthenware jars lined against the back wall. They looked ordinary enough, though he could have sworn the latest batch—brewed from the wild mountain berries he’d picked near the fog-drenched cliffs—had developed a peculiar, iridescent sheen around the rim.

"Quiet as a tomb today," Shen muttered, tossing the rag over his shoulder. "If business stays like this, I’ll be eating pickled radishes for the rest of the winter."

The door creaked open, a harsh, jagged sound that shattered the stillness. A man stumbled in, his robes tattered, stained with streaks of dried mud and what looked suspiciously like old blood. He leaned heavily against the frame, his face pale and eyes clouded with exhaustion.

"Water," the man wheezed, his voice barely a rasp. "Please, just… something to wet my throat."

Shen looked up, his brow furrowing as he appraised the stranger’s state. He didn't look like a local, and he certainly didn't look like he had any coin, but the man’s misery was plain to see.

"You look like you’ve walked through the bowels of the earth, friend," Shen said, stepping around the counter. "I don’t have much in the way of plain water, but the well-pump is acting up again. Tell you what, have a cup of my special brew instead. It’s fresh. Might put some life back into those tired bones."

The stranger collapsed onto a stool, his hands shaking so violently that the wood groaned in protest. "Anything. It doesn’t matter. Just… hurry."

Shen grabbed a ceramic cup and dipped a ladle into one of the jars. The liquid was thick, swirling with a faint, silvery vapor that vanished the moment it hit the air. He poured it and set it down in front of the traveler. "Take it slow. It’s got a bit of a kick."

The man grabbed the cup with both hands, his fingers white-knuckled, and downed it in a single, desperate gulp.

For a heartbeat, the tavern fell into an eerie, unnatural hush. Then, the stranger’s eyes snapped wide open. A low, vibrating hum began to emanate from his chest—a sound like a thousand angry bees trapped in a hollow gourd.

"Hey, easy there!" Shen backed away, his hands raised. "I told you it was strong, but you don’t need to go turning blue on me!"

The man didn't respond. His robes began to billow, though there was no wind inside the room. Dust danced in the air, suddenly suspended as if time had lost its hold on the space.

"What in the world?" Shen squinted, shielding his face as a sudden gale erupted from the stranger.

CRACK.

A spiderweb of splinters shot across the floorboards beneath the stranger’s feet. The tavern shuddered, the rafters groaning as if the entire structure were being crushed by an invisible hand.

"Wait, wait! That’s original timber! Do you have any idea how much that costs to replace?" Shen yelled, genuinely annoyed as a shelf of cups rattled dangerously. "Stop doing that! Whatever you’re doing, take it outside!"

The stranger ignored him, his expression one of agonizing, transcendent focus. A surge of pressure, invisible but heavy as a mountain range, slammed into Shen, forcing him to plant his feet just to stay upright. The floorboards buckled, snapping with the force of a dry branch in a storm, creating a jagged crater beneath the stool.

"Are you mental?" Shen shouted, struggling to keep his voice steady over the roar of rushing energy. "You’re wrecking the place! I’m a tavern keeper, not a demolition crew!"

The stranger let out a long, shuddering breath. The pressure vanished as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a silence even heavier than the one from the morning. The man stood, his movements fluid and unnervingly fast. He looked at his own hands, then at Shen, his face etched with pure, unfiltered shock.

"That… that wine," the stranger whispered, his voice vibrating with newfound clarity. "What did you put in that vat?"

Shen stepped over a splintered board, his expression darkening as he surveyed the damage. "I put in berries. And water. And a bit of my sanity, which is currently fraying at the edges. You owe me for the floor, you know. That’s premium oak."

The stranger reached into his robe and pulled out a small, translucent stone that glowed with a soft, pulsing azure light. He dropped it onto the counter with a heavy thud.

"I have no time to explain," the man said, his eyes scanning the windows nervously. "I’ve been stuck at the peak of the Foundation stage for a decade. One cup… one cup of your swill did what years of meditation couldn't. This is for the floor. And for my life."

Shen stared at the stone, his mouth slightly agape. He’d never seen anything like it, but even he knew the weight of raw value when it was sitting right in front of him. "Wait—what is this? Are you serious? You just blew a hole in my tavern and left me a glowing pebble? Hey! Come back!"

The man was already at the door, his movements blurring as he stepped out into the fog. "Don’t sell that to anyone else," he called back, his voice distant. "You have no idea what kind of trouble you’re brewing in those jars."

The door swung shut, leaving Shen standing alone in the wrecked tavern.

"Great. Just great," Shen sighed, kicking a piece of splintered wood. "I’m going crazy. Or the water is poisoned. Or the berries were fermented by some sort of forest spirit. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the berries."

He knelt down, grabbing his hammer and a pouch of nails. He tapped at the crater, shaking his head. "Just a freak earthquake. A very localized, very specific, tavern-destroying earthquake. Nothing more."

He hammered a nail into the floor, the sound echoing dully. He was halfway through patching the hole when a new sound hit his ears.

Three pairs of heavy footsteps.

They weren't the hurried, frantic steps of the stranger. These were measured, deliberate, and synchronized. Shen paused, his hammer hovering in mid-air. Through the frosted glass of the tavern window, he could see three tall silhouettes, draped in long, elegant robes that fluttered even in the stagnant morning air.

They weren't looking at the door. They were standing perfectly still, heads tilted, as if tasting the air.

"Do you feel it, Brother?" one of the voices drifted in, cool and sharp as a blade.

"It’s residual, but unmistakable," another replied. "The scent of a breakthrough that shouldn't exist in a place like this."

Shen stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He gripped the hammer a little tighter. "Business," he whispered, a nervous

sweat breaking out on his brow. "I suppose they’re here for business."