Ulrich Verren

Lennox recognized the old man immediately.

Ulrich Verren.

A well-known figure in Greywater—the man in charge of the Greywater Exchange.

Officially, his shop was one of the most prominent trading houses in town, dealing in rare goods, magical trinkets, beast cores, and artifacts. It was the place where adventurers could sell off their spoils or browse for valuable finds—if they could afford them.

But there were rumors.

Whispers that Ulrich wasn't just a merchant. That he was a subordinate of Greywater's mayor, Lord Edwin Rathmore. Some even claimed that he was the mayor's hidden knife—handling shady dealings, coercing desperate adventurers and merchants into selling valuables for dirt-cheap prices. And those who refused?

Mishaps followed.

Accidents. Sudden disappearances.

Now that Lennox knew all this, he couldn't help but see the old man in a different light.

But back when he first arrived in this world?

Back then, he had no idea.

In fact, Ulrich was the first person he ever made a deal with.

The memory surfaced unbidden—Lennox, still struggling to process his reincarnation, barely holding himself together as he desperately searched for a way to make gold. He had needed funds to purchase a Rank-One Magic Beast Core in order to upgrade the Mystic Tavern from Level 0 to Level 1. And with no connections, no strength, and no knowledge of the world, he had taken the first obvious route—selling off some of his late mother's keepsakes.

He had stepped into Greywater Exchange, clueless about its owner's reputation.

Ulrich had welcomed him with a natural air—too natural, in hindsight—and had readily bought Lennox's valuables, all while wearing his usual thin-lipped smile. At the time, Lennox had been too focused on getting the deal done to question whether he was getting a fair price.

With the gold he had received, he had gone straight to One-Eyed George to purchase the beast core.

Only to be ambushed by thugs on his way back.

Three lowlifes had tried to rob him blind, seeing an easy mark in his then-weak and unfamiliar self. If it hadn't been for One-Eyed George stepping in, Lennox might not have made it back to the tavern that day.

And now, here Ulrich was.

Strolling into his tavern.

Like he owned the place.

The old man's bony fingers tapped against the counter as he slid onto a stool, settling in with a slow, deliberate ease. Then, he patted One-Eyed George on the back—a gesture far too familiar, bordering on condescending.

George tensed immediately, his scarred face twisting into a subtle scowl.

But Ulrich either didn't notice—or simply didn't care.

Instead, he turned to Lennox with a broad, thin-lipped grin.

"Ah, so you're Lennox," he said, his voice smooth and polished, as if each word had been carefully chosen. "It's been a long time. I've been hearing quite a bit about your fine establishment here. Quite the reputation you've built."

Lennox met his gaze evenly, keeping his expression cool and unreadable.

A fine establishment, huh?

Funny. Ulrich had never once stepped foot in the Mystic Tavern until now.

"What will you have?" Lennox asked, his tone polite, but distant.

Ulrich's grin stretched a little wider as he adjusted his spectacles, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Oh, nothing too fancy," he said, his voice laced with intrigue. "Just a mug of Emberbrew Ale to begin with. I've heard whispers about it—seems like the drink of choice around here."

Lennox met Ulrich's gaze, his expression unreadable as he reached for a mug and filled it with Emberbrew Ale. The faint crimson liquid caught the light, its rich, spicy aroma curling into the air. Without a word, he slid the mug across the counter.

Ulrich's thin, bony fingers wrapped around the handle, his grip oddly firm for a man of his frail appearance. He lifted the mug with deliberate ease, pausing just before taking a sip to offer Lennox a knowing smile.

"Ah, much appreciated," he murmured. "I must say, you've built quite the reputation in such a short time. A rising star in Greywater's little market… and yet, so few know the true worth of what you're offering."

Lennox didn't respond. He simply folded his arms, watching.

Ulrich took his first sip.

And then—his body jerked.

It was subtle at first. A faint tremor in his hand. A twitch in his fingers. But then it intensified—his shoulders stiffened, his entire frame trembling as though a current of raw energy had just surged through him. His breath hitched, his spectacles flashing under the tavern's warm lighting as his eyes widened behind them.

He exhaled sharply, then—without hesitation—took another sip. And another.

By the time he downed the entire mug, his breathing had steadied, but a faint sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. He slowly placed the mug back on the counter, tapping his fingers against the wood as if reacquainting himself with reality.

Then, he turned to Lennox.

"That," he said, his voice laced with something deeper—something intrigued, something hungry, "is some damn fine ale."

Lennox smirked. "Glad you enjoyed it."

Ulrich adjusted his spectacles, his sharp eyes gleaming. "I wonder… would you be willing to sell me an entire bottle?"

Lennox's smirk didn't falter. "The ale is served by the mug," he replied smoothly. "Not by the bottle."

The old man let out a chuckle, tapping his cane against the floor. "Then I'll make a bolder offer."

He leaned forward slightly, his grin widening. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in selling me the entire tavern?"

Silence stretched between them.

One-Eyed George let out a quiet snort, shaking his head in disbelief. A few of the other customers who had overheard stiffened slightly, their gazes flickering between the two men.

Lennox, however, didn't even blink.

"No."

It wasn't just a refusal—it was absolute.

Ulrich studied him for a moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. Then—he grinned.

It was a knowing expression, one that carried layers of hidden meaning. But he didn't press the issue.

Instead, he tilted his head. "Very well. What about just one bottle of Emberbrew Ale?"

This time around, Lennox arched a brow but remained silent as he mentally reached out to the Mystic Tavern's System for confirmation.

[The customer may purchase a full bottle of Emberbrew Ale, provided they can afford the price.]

A price promptly flashed before Lennox's eyes.

[10 Gold Coins.]

He turned back to Ulrich. "Ten gold coins for a bottle."

The old merchant didn't even flinch.

His bony fingers reached into his robes, retrieving a small leather pouch, which he placed onto the counter with a soft thud. "There's ten gold coins in there."

Lennox picked up the pouch, flipping it open. A quick count confirmed the amount. He casually tossed the coins into the cash cabinet, listening for the system's confirmation.

[Payment received.]

Satisfied, Lennox reached for one of the large, unopened bottles of Emberbrew Ale from the shelf behind him. He set it down in front of Ulrich, who accepted it with cunning grace, his fingers gliding over the glass as though he were inspecting a rare artifact.

Then, just as smoothly as he had entered, the old man stood up and turned toward the door.

But before stepping out, he paused.

Over his shoulder, he cast Lennox one last glance, his spectacles glinting.

"You've got quite the stock here, Tavern Master," he said, voice laced with amusement. "And quite the business. I imagine we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."

With that, he strode out, the door swinging shut behind him.

A long exhale came from Lennox's left.

One-Eyed George shook his head, crossing his arms. "That's a troublesome bastard you just did business with."

Lennox glanced at him. "Oh?"

George's one good eye darkened slightly. "You should've just ignored him. Ulrich is like a snake—you never see his fangs until it's too late."

Lennox appreciated the warning, but deep down, he wasn't too concerned.

Between the Mystic Tavern's Safe Haven feature and Garrick—a Peak Rank One Warrior, he wasn't exactly worried about Ulrich or even his rumored backer, Mayor Edwin Rathmore.

After all, the mayor himself was only a primary-stage Rank One powerhouse. If push came to shove, Lennox doubted he'd be the one who needed to worry.

So, he merely nodded at George in acknowledgment before returning to business.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. A few more customers came and went, some indulging in multiple rounds of Emberbrew Ale, others simply lingering for conversation.

By the time the last traces of dusk had faded, night had fully settled over Greywater. The dim glow of lanterns bathed the tavern's interior in a warm, flickering light, contrasting against the cool darkness beyond its walls. Shadows stretched long across the wooden floors, and the distant sounds of the town winding down for the night drifted in through the tavern's entrance.

Yet inside, the Mystic Tavern remained lively yet serene. The steady murmur of voices of the few patrons, the occasional clink of mugs, and the rich scent of spiced ale filled the air.

And through it all, Lennox continued to run his tavern—completely unbothered.