The Immortal's Secret Tavern

Chapter 5: The Tavern Defense

The door swung wide, not by Shen’s hand, but by the sheer, brutal momentum of an armored shoulder. The wood groaned, the iron hinges shrieked in protest, and Shen Ruichen stumbled back, his feet skidding on the dust-covered floor.

Standing in the threshold was a man who looked like he had been carved out of jagged granite. Han Zhiren wore blackened steel plate, his cloak stained with the grime of the mountain paths. Behind him, a dozen men bristled with polearms and rusted longswords, their eyes scanning the tavern with the hunger of wolves.

"You’re the one," Han Zhiren spat, his voice like gravel grinding in a mill. "The 'miracle brewer.' Give us the source, and maybe you get to keep your hands."

Shen took a steadying breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He kept his face blank, leaning back against the counter and picking up a polishing rag with trembling, yet precise, fingers. "You’re late. Closing time was ten minutes ago. And you just broke the door. That’s five silver pieces for the repair, up front."

Han blinked, his thick brows drawing together. "Are you deaf, tavern keeper? I don’t care about your door. I want the liquid. The stuff that makes men ascend. Hand over the vats."

"Vats?" Shen let out a short, tired laugh, buffing a spot on the counter that was already clean. "You mean the berry wash? You want a cup of that? That’ll be one gold coin. And since you’re being rude, the price just doubled for you lot."

"You want a coin?" Han laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. He drew his blade, the steel shimmering with a dull, sickly yellow aura. "I’ll take your head instead. Kill him, but don't touch the jars."

"Wait!" Shen shouted, holding up a hand. "You really want to fight in here? The jars are fragile. You knock one over, you lose the 'treasure.' You want to be the reason your payday spills onto the floorboards?"

Han paused, his blade inches from Shen’s throat. The mercenary leader hesitated, his greed warring with his tactical awareness. "Fine. Then move. Step aside and let us take the inventory."

"There’s a queue," Shen said, his voice dropping into that maddening, polite tone he used for unruly customers. "I don’t care if you’re a general or a bandit. You want the drink, you sit down, you pay, and you wait your turn. That’s the rule."

"Rules?" One of the mercenaries behind Han snickered, stepping forward. "I’ll show you a rule."

"Careful where you step," Shen muttered, glancing toward the corner near the damp, rotting support beam. "The floor is a bit soft there. I wouldn't want you to fall."

The mercenary ignored him, lunging toward the counter. As his heavy boot struck the third floorboard from the threshold, Shen pulled a hidden lever beneath the bar—a remnant of the tavern’s old, rickety construction. The floorboard hinged upward with a sharp snap.

The mercenary’s leg plunged into the hollow space below, his momentum carrying him forward. He tripped, crashing face-first into a pile of empty earthenware jars Shen had stacked specifically for this moment. CRASH. The sound was deafening, the shards flying everywhere.

"Oh, look at that," Shen sighed, shaking his head. "That was three jars. That’s going to be expensive. You’re definitely going to have to pay for those."

Han Zhiren roared, his face turning a dark, dangerous red. "Kill him! Tear the place apart!"

"Gentlemen, please!" Shen ducked as a mace swung over his head, smashing into the back shelving. He grabbed a ladle and dipped it into a large, open jar near the sink—the one he’d spiked with his most potent, over-fermented batch of bitter-root. "If you’re going to be guests, at least have a drink! It’s on the house!"

He flung the liquid in a wide arc. It wasn't an attack; it was a distraction. The potent, pungent aroma filled the room, sweet yet nauseatingly strong.

"What is this slop?" a mercenary shouted, wiping his eyes.

"It’s an acquired taste," Shen said, backing toward the storage cellar. "Very popular with the locals. Helps with, uh, the digestion of greed."

The men were agitated, swinging their weapons wildly. Shen used his knowledge of the tavern’s layout, weaving through the tight space, dodging polearms and heavy boots. He knew exactly which floorboards squeaked, which pillars were unstable, and where the light hit the windows to cause glare. He led them in a merry, chaotic dance, ensuring they bumped into each other, tripped over the uneven terrain, and wasted their energy in the confined space.

"You’re fast, little rat," Han Zhiren snarled, cornering Shen near the brewing station. "But you’re running out of room."

"I’m not running," Shen said, his voice cold. "I’m just waiting for the infusion to take effect."

"What infusion?" Han sneered, closing the distance.

Shen pointed to the air around them. The mercenaries had been breathing in the vapor of the fermented root for several minutes. Those who had gotten a splash of the liquid on their skin were already starting to sway.

"The berries aren't just for the drink," Shen whispered, a small, genuine smile finally reaching his eyes. "They’re for the atmosphere. You’ve been breathing them in since you broke the door."

Han blinked, his head suddenly dropping. He gripped his sword, trying to hold it steady, but the metal felt heavy, like lead. "What... what did you do?"

"Just a little bit of hospitality," Shen replied, watching as the mercenary leader’s knees buckled.

One by one, the men began to drop. They weren't dying—they were simply falling into a deep, heavy slumber, their bodies succumbing to the overwhelming, sedative nature of the concentrated mountain essence. Han Zhiren struggled, his eyes rolling back, his massive frame shaking as he tried to resist the pull.

"You... you think this... this is over?" Han mumbled, his voice thick and slurred. He slumped against the counter, his sword clattering to the floor.

"It’s over for the night," Shen said, standing over them and wiping his hands on his apron. He looked at the wreckage—the broken door, the splintered floor, the ruined shelves. "You guys really are a nightmare for business. I’m going to be cleaning this up until dawn."

He walked over to Han Zhiren, who was now snoring softly, and unbuckled the mercenary's belt, sliding a heavy, enchanted dagger from its sheath. He checked the other men, collecting a small pile of weapons and coin purses.

"Consider this the repair f*e," Shen muttered, tossing a pouch of gold onto the counter. "And the cost of the lost jars. And the trauma to my nerves."

The tavern was silent once more, save for the heavy, rhythmic breathing of a dozen sleeping mercenaries. Shen stood in the middle of the mess, the weight of the night pressing down on his shoulders. He reached into his pocket and touched the cold, black copper token, feeling its pulse against his skin.

He was safe for tonight, but he knew the truth: these were just the scouts. The real trouble was still coming.

Just as he turned to retrieve his broom, the bell above the door chimed.

It was a soft, melodic sound, completely at odds with the carnage in the room. Shen froze. He hadn't heard any footsteps. He hadn't heard any armor.

A figure stepped through the ruined doorway, silhouetted by the pale, drifting mist. It was a man, dressed in the pristine, flowing robes of a high-ranking sect official, his hair tied back with a silver ribbon that seemed to glow in the dim light. He looked at the bodies strewn across the floor, then at the broken door, and finally at Shen.

His expression wasn't one of anger or surprise. It was one of profound, utter boredom.

"A mess," the official said, his voice cool and detached, as if he were critiquing a poorly painted landscape. "I expected a bit more finesse from someone supposedly brewing the nectar of the gods."

Shen gripped the handle of his broom, his knuckles white. "We’re closed for the night, sir. If you want a drink, come back tomorrow. Assuming I still have a roof."

The official stepped over a sleeping mercenary, his boots barely touching the ground. He glanced at the jar on the counter, his eyes narrowing with a flash of terrifying, sharp intellect.

"I don't want a drink, innkeeper," the man said,

turning his gaze toward Shen. "I want to know where you hid the rest of the batch."