The Immortal's Secret Tavern

Chapter 3: The Price of a Seat

The door groaned under the weight of three men pushing against it simultaneously. Before Shen could even reach for the latch, it burst inward, slamming against the interior wall with a crack that vibrated through the floorboards.

"Brother Luo," the man in the lead sneered, stepping into the tavern with his robes fluttering like the wings of a hungry crow. "It’s hardly neighborly to hoard such a magnificent vintage all for yourself, is it?"

Shen stepped forward, hands held up in a placating gesture, though his jaw was set tight. "Hey! Do you mind? There’s a perfectly good entrance fee—it’s called ‘not breaking the property.’ You’re already making a mess of the foyer."

Luo Tianze didn’t even look at the newcomers. He kept his gaze fixed on the earthenware jar, his hand still hovering near the ladle. "Gu Wenhao. Qiao Zhenyu. I should have known the smell of opportunity would bring out the bottom-feeders."

Gu Wenhao, a man with a thin, drooping mustache and eyes that darted around the room like trapped flies, laughed. "Bottom-feeders? We felt the shift in the air from three miles away. That isn’t just wine, Luo. That’s pure, bottled breakthrough." He turned his attention to Shen, his smile sharp and predatory. "And you, innkeeper. You’re holding quite a lot of power in those dusty old pots, aren't you?"

Shen sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look, I’m just a guy selling drinks. If you want to fight, go find a forest. If you want a drink, get in line. But if one more person breaks a plank of wood, I’m locking the doors and turning the 'closed' sign around for the next decade."

"A line?" Qiao Zhenyu, a hulking man behind Gu, scoffed. "Do you have any idea who we are, shopkeeper? We don’t wait in lines."

"I don't care if you're the Emperor himself," Shen said, his voice cold. "I care about my floorboards. You break it, you pay for it. If you can't behave, you're not getting a drop. It’s that simple."

"This is absurd," Gu snapped, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his blade. "I’ll take the barrel by force if I have to."

Shen didn't blink. He reached under the counter, pulled out a heavy iron poker, and tapped it against the edge of the bar with a rhythmic clink, clink, clink. "Try it. And while you’re at it, imagine how much of that precious 'enlightenment' you’re going to get when the only thing left of this tavern is a pile of rubble and a very angry innkeeper. I’m the only one who knows how to keep this brew from going sour. You want the drink? You play by my rules."

The tavern went dead silent. Outside, more footsteps crunched on the gravel, and the shadows of a dozen more figures stretched across the threshold. The smell of the brew was leaking out, sweet and intoxicating, and it was driving the crowd mad.

"The innkeeper is right," Luo Tianze muttered, his hand finally dropping from the ladle. "If you destroy this place, the connection to the source is severed. You’d be fools to risk it."

Gu Wenhao glared at the jar, then at Shen, his face contorted in a struggle between greed and caution. "Fine. A queue. How does this work, then?"

Shen pointed toward the door. "One by one. You pay the fee—something of value, no 'secrets,' and no funny business. You get one cup. You drink it here. Then you leave. Next person comes in. If you start shoving, you lose your spot and your deposit. Any questions?"

"This is insulting," Qiao Zhenyu growled, stepping forward. He went to shove past Gu to get to the counter first, but Shen slammed the iron poker down so hard the counter shook.

"That’s one!" Shen barked, his eyes flashing. "One more move like that, and you’re banned. Do you want the breakthrough, or do you want to be a stubborn corpse?"

Qiao pulled back, his face turning a deep, bruised purple. "I’ll take the seat. But this had better be worth it."

"Take the stool in the corner," Shen directed, gesturing to a wobbling wooden chair. "Sit down. Be quiet. And don't you dare touch anything else."

The next hour was a frantic, nerve-wracking blur of logistics. Shen found himself acting as a bouncer, a bartender, and a mediator for men who were used to dictating the fates of villages. The tavern was packed to capacity, the air thick with the tension of dozen cultivators clutching their cups as if they were holy relics.

"My leg," one of the younger cultivators whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at his own hand. "It’s... it’s knitting back together. The old scar from the border war... it’s just gone."

"Quiet!" Shen hissed from the counter, where he was busy cleaning a spill. "No talking. Just drink and get out."

The pressure in the room was immense. Every time someone finished their cup, a soft, vibrating hum would emanate from their chest, shaking the walls of the tavern. Shen kept his hand firmly on the iron poker, his knuckles white. He watched the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. Every time a new person entered, the atmosphere tightened.

"You," Shen said, pointing at a man who was lingering too long after his drink. "You're done. Out. Next."

"But I need more," the man pleaded, his eyes glassy. "I feel so close to the next stage."

"You already paid for one," Shen said, unyielding. "Rules are rules. Out."

The man grumbled but stood, his legs unsteady as he drifted toward the door. He didn't even look at the others; he was lost in the internal storm of his own cultivation.

As the sun began to dip behind the jagged cliffs, the room finally thinned out. The last of the rowdy crowd had drifted away, leaving the tavern smelling of stale sweat, ozone, and that lingering, ethereal scent of the berries. Shen slumped against the counter, his knees feeling like jelly.

"Almost out of the batch," he muttered to himself, checking the level in the jar. He looked up, ready to flip the sign to 'Closed' for the night, when he noticed someone still sitting in the shadows of the very back corner.

She hadn't moved once. She was dressed in black silk that seemed to absorb the dim light, her face partially hidden by the high collar of her robe. She hadn't participated in the shoving, hadn't argued about the queue, and hadn't made a sound.

"Hey," Shen said, his voice raspy from exhaustion. "We’re closing up. You’ve had your time."

The woman didn't move. She just tipped her cup, finished the last drop, and stood up with a grace that made the rest of the day’s customers look like bumbling oafs. She walked toward the counter, her steps completely silent.

"You're very efficient, innkeeper," she said. Her voice was cool, like water running over river stones. "Most people would have been trampled underfoot by those wolves."

Shen gripped the iron poker tighter, though he felt an odd, calming sensation radiating from her. "I don't like my floorboards broken. It’s a matter of principle. That’ll be one artifact, please."

The woman smiled—a small, cryptic flicker of expression. She reached into her sleeve and placed something on the counter. It wasn't a hairpin or a jewel. It was a heavy, blackened copper token, etched with symbols that seemed to shift and crawl whenever Shen tried to focus on them. It felt ancient, cold, and heavy as a mountain.

"This covers the whole barrel," she said, her eyes meeting his. They were dark, deep, and unnervingly intelligent. "Keep the change. I suspect you’ll need the protection when the Sects realize exactly what you’ve been brewing."

Shen looked from the token to her face, a chill running down his spine. "What are you talking about? It’s just berries."

"Is it?" she whispered, turning toward the door. "Be careful, Shen Ruichen. The mist in Swallow’s Hollow is thinning, and the things that have been waiting on the other side are starting to wake up."

She walked out into the evening, leaving Shen standing alone in his silent,

shattered tavern, the black token still pulsing faintly beneath his hand.