Chapter 22 - Trouble at the Pub

"Something not too heavy… and something to drink," I said. 

That royal lunch was a lot. I don't think I can handle another heavy meal.

"In that case, would you like our recommended bread with orc meat soup?" the waitress suggested. "And for the drink, how about a good cold ale?"

"...Sure…" I replied, not really sure what I just agreed to.

She took the order and left, telling me it'd be ready in a few minutes.

Soon enough, she returned with a wooden tray—two bowls of steaming soup, thick bread loaves, and a tall mug of chilled ale.

"Thanks..." I said, taking it all in.

Now that I think about it… did I just order orc meat and a beer? 

Am I even allowed to drink this? 

Then again, if a sixteen-year-old can work jobs here, I guess drinking isn't a big deal either. 

Forget it. New world, new rules. Who cares?

I slowly started eating the meal. The soup was rich, the bread crusty, and the ale… surprisingly refreshing.

"Man, this is good. Might make this my go-to meal."

_STOMP_

The front door of the pub slammed open with a loud _bang_—someone had kicked it in.

A man strode inside aggressively, glaring around. 

Ah yes… the classic medieval-fantasy pub moment. Bar doors flying open, angry man storming in. 

Real genre-core stuff.

"WHERE IS THIS ALVE PERSON?!" he roared.

...Me?

The man scanned the room, then locked eyes on me.

"Those weird clothes… You're Alve, aren't you?"

Great. Should've known this suit would make me stand out like a sore thumb.

As he stomped closer, I raised an eyebrow. 

"Who even are you? Do we _know_ each other?"

He held out a paper and barked, 

"You're the one who ratted me out! Do you even know who you messed with?"

Bad temper, huh? Let's see what this is about...

I glanced at the document. 

A royal letter. Official. Stating that his service as a royal accountant was no longer needed, and he'd been summoned to the palace tomorrow morning.

"Okay, first of all, you don't need to yell. Second, this letter doesn't even mention me," I replied, calm as ever.

"Shut up! I already _know_ it was you! You think it's funny messing with me? I'll teach you what happens when someone crosses **Luke Ironart**!" he shouted, drawing his sword.

...

At first, I thought he was just a loudmouth. 

But drawing a sword _inside_ a public pub?

"Go back. The knights patrolling outside will be here any second," I said, casually taking another sip of my ale.

He narrowed his eyes. 

"Don't worry. You'll be dead before they even arrive..."