Chapter 15: village elder

Mentos bypassed a series of permissions, moving directly from elementary to junior high, then to high school, finally unlocking university-level access for Lane.

That sounded impressive, but at this stage, neither Lane nor Mentos felt it was truly useful. It was merely a restriction lifted, not a direct pathway. The computing power and operating permissions of the smart brain remained locked at an elementary school level.

In other words, while future [university-level course completion] might prove beneficial, Lane didn't want to dwell on that for now.

"So, you're the village elder of Oridun, Alan?" Lane asked, tilting his head as he brushed rain from his brow in the dimly lit pub where a murder had occurred.

Despite the heavy downpour outside and the dark clouds blanketing the sky, the inn's interior was illuminated by a single flickering candle, casting weak light over half the old man's frame. Yet, Lane's downcast eyes still caught a wealth of details.

A typical northern farmer: his weary, wrinkled face spoke of fatigue, fingers thick with calluses bore witness to hard labor, and his body, slightly hunched from years of toil, had one shoulder higher than the other. Even as the village elder, his modest means allowed him only a pair of worn, pointed leather boots and a tobacco pipe.

"I am. Bill, you run the pub! Don't just stand there—pour the customer a glass of water."

It was clear the elder had no desire to engage with Lane. However, upon noticing the roaring bear head necklace around the young man's neck, he pursed his lips and begrudgingly took a seat at the same table. Yet he perched on the edge of the bench, ready to flee at any moment.

"Sorry, Demon Hunter. But we haven't issued any commissions recently. I don't know what you're here for," he said. A few villagers in the pub immediately distanced themselves from Lane, regarding him with wary, distant glances, as if he were some infectious threat. The bartender, Bill, kept wiping his hands after setting down the water.

Lane sensed their disgust and fear, feelings he had encountered many times before. Although his time in this world had been brief, he grasped its sickness—a reflection of the "racial hatred" he had experienced in his previous life.

Vaguely, Lane felt this atmosphere had been deliberately stirred. Though he hadn't read the history here, his previous education had provided ample examples to draw from. Thus, he felt a mix of pity and disdain for the villagers before him, lamenting their readiness to be incited, and wishing they could realize they were being manipulated.

"Of course, you haven't given me a mandate, and I didn't come here for one," Lane replied flatly, avoiding eye contact with the villagers to ease their fears. His thoughts raced after acquiring the intelligence brain, yet they wandered; he struggled to gather his focus, though outwardly, he appeared unaffected.

"So what about you?" Elder Alan asked hesitantly, the smell of cheap alcohol wafting toward Lane.

"A while ago, a Demon Hunter wearing the same necklace as mine killed two people here, right?"

His tone remained even, but it incited a fierce reaction in the tavern. A commotion erupted among the crowd, and the fearful, hostile stares directed at him now shimmered with ferocity.

"Is he here to cause trouble? Trying to intimidate us in the pub?!"

"We should take revenge! It's that mutant b*st*rd who killed two people here!"

"He's just one man! We can all go after him together and throw him in the lake!"

Lane heard the whispers but maintained his composure. Elder Alan was already rising from the bench, looking ready to escape. But, being the elder, he was more cautious than the others.

"Demon Hunter, we cannot interfere with Lord Viserade's wanted order. It's pointless for you to come here," the old man urged, attempting to avert bloodshed—not out of love for peace, but because every village relied on its young, able-bodied men.

As adrenaline surged, the villagers' breaths quickened, and they began searching for hidden weapons.

Lane didn't wish to witness any bloodshed either. After entering, he finally looked up, glancing at the increasingly agitated crowd. Then, those villagers felt as if a bucket of cold water had been splashed over them.

In that dim light, the cat-like eyes of the demon hunter glowed ominously. Magic existed in this world, but it was rare and unpredictable, beyond the reach of these farmers.

The medieval villagers were suddenly confronted by a man with glowing cat eyes, leaving them momentarily speechless with fear and shock.

"The demon hunter responsible for the deaths in this area is dead, and I'm not here to settle his affairs," Lane spoke to Elder Alan in a calm, almost icy tone. He knew how to modulate his voice to command respect, in stark contrast to the casual ease he had shown with Mandor.

"The Supreme Bear School Master heard of Bordon's evil deeds here. He also recognized the importance of the local jazz, so he invoked the sacred tradition within the Demon Hunter and sent me to make amends on his behalf."

This was a lie. There wasn't even a ghost left in Hain Kaveh Castle, yet he had no qualms deceiving the uneducated villagers; he felt no loyalty to his school or his status as a Demon Hunter.

Old Alan hesitated but finally sank back onto the bench.

"Thank you very much. Bill! What are you daydreaming about? This is a pub! If I ask you for a glass of water, do you really bring a glass of water? Bring something flavorful!"

He berated the innkeeper to vent his fear, yet when he turned back to Lane, he became noticeably cautious again.

"I haven't yet asked your name?"

The young man paused imperceptibly at the question but answered smoothly, "Lane of Sintra." This was Bordon's full name when he was out and about—Bordon of Sintra.

"Very well, Mr. Lane. But I've never heard of a variant. Would a Demon Hunter really do such a thing?"

Lane's reply was cold and curt. "Didn't you hear what I said? 'The importance of local jazz.' Viserade is the lord of Wyrun, and we must consider his emotions if we hope to operate on this land in the future. Do you think we can make amends for killing someone just anywhere?"

Lane's tone had grown harsher this time, yet Elder Alan relaxed considerably. The villagers behind him followed suit, as this aligned with their worldview.

Doing good equated to a loss, and those who suffered losses should be resentful. If someone was forced into a disadvantageous job, harsh words were only normal.

The bartender, initially reluctant, had been pouring his own home brew slowly, but now hurried over with a full glass for Lane.

"Oh, is that so? May the Meretrix bless you, Demon Hunter. We're just fishermen by trade, not educated folk, so please don't take offense."

"Bill! You fool! Don't try to deceive your customers with cheap swill! Bring out your Royal Wiggumma!"

Turning back, Elder Alan's tone suddenly shifted to one of familiarity and eagerness.

"How much Aurum are we talking about for compensation?"

The elder's face brightened, his cigarette holder perched in his mouth as he scanned Lane's body for signs of a bulging money pouch, his hands rubbing together eagerly.

But in response to his beaming smile, Lane merely raised an eyebrow in surprise. "So, Elder Alan. You can arrange for me to eat and stay."

"..."

"Excuse me?!"

The elder's eyes widened in shock as he locked gazes with Lane's glowing cat eyes. Something about this logic felt off!

Meanwhile, Mentos let out a thoughtful "oh" in Lane's mind. To the intelligent brain that shared the plan, Lane's actions appeared not only morally satisfying but also beneficial in a utilitarian sense.