NOVEL WEB Chapter 7: Until They Roar
The streets of Ironpeak buzzed with morning life. Market stalls bloomed like wildflowers—canopies stretched out, voices rising in a harmony of bartering, bargaining, and barking.
Ren walked through it all with steady eyes, scanning, weighing, measuring.
He wasn't the kind of man to flash gold and accept the first price shouted at him.
"Four silvers for a bundle of green onion?" he raised an eyebrow. "That's too much. I'll give you two."
The seller—a stocky woman with hands like old leather—scowled. "That's barely what I paid for it!"
Ren shrugged. "Then you got scammed. I can go two stalls down and get it for a fair rate."
A moment passed. She relented. "Two silver and five copper."
He nodded. "Deal."
By midday, his pack was growing heavy. Radish, turnips, spinach, carrots, green onions. Enough seeds and samples to begin crop trials in the Wasteland.
His boots clacked softly against the cobblestones as he wandered the deeper parts of the city.
A map. I need a map. Ren murmured to himself.
So far, he'd only bought food and tools for construction. But as a rural planner in the world he came from, a map of the area he intended to build on was essential—vital, even.
Knowing the land's contours, the key points to prioritize, and where resources might be scarce or abundant… that was how a foundation should begin.
In the middle of his search—past the fresh produce stalls and drifting smithy smoke. Ren's eyes landed on a tavern located between two narrow brick buildings.
A hanging wooden sign creaked overhead, swinging slightly in the breeze.
"Black Boar," it read in bold, carved letters beneath the image of a tusked beast mid-charge.
Ren chuckled under his breath. Felt like something out of the stories he'd watched back home. A place that belonged in anime stories, not reality.
He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
The tavern was warm, noisy, and full of life. Laughter mixed with the clink of mugs and the sizzle of something hearty on the grill. The scent of roasted meat, ale, and sweat filled the air. Wood beams above were carved with names and notches — memories of the countless adventurers who had passed through.
Ren found a seat near the wall, close enough to listen, but far enough to stay unnoticed.
A loud group of adventurers sat at the table beside him, already a few pints in.
"I'm telling you, this batch of heroes ain't like the last ones in the kingdom's history," said a grizzled man in leather armor, thumping his mug on the table.
"Yeah, yeah," a woman muttered, rolling her eyes. "Every time they summon someone, people act like it'll finally bring peace to this cursed world."
"Well, the last bunch did slay the Crimson Wyrm—and vanished back to their own world in a flash of divine light. Don't tell me you weren't impressed."
Ren's fingers froze around his mug.
"I heard the Kingdom gives them divine keys," added a younger man. "Only the chosen get to return home once the Demon King is killed."
"Or so they say," the woman said darkly. "The rest? Forgotten. Or exiled. Or worse."
"But no one's ever seen these so-called keys," the grizzled man grunted.
"For all we know, the damn thing drops from the monster's corpse." He took a long drink from his mug, then added, "And the Kingdom just spins the story to make it sound noble."
"Yeah, true. Story is just a story. No one ever see it anyway. Can be they all killed by the Demon King but the kingdom just said they just did it."
Ren didn't speak. Just stared down into his drink, expression unreadable.
"Still," one of them said, "must be nice, huh? Chosen by the gods, given power, status, coin, a way home…"
"I'd give a leg for that kind of fate," someone muttered.
"Too bad the gods don't choose drunks," another laughed.
Ren smiled faintly at that, though his heart felt heavier than the drink in his hand.
Ren took another sip, letting the murmur of tavern chattered blend into the background. The stew in front of him had long since gone cold, barely touched. His thoughts lingered on the world's divine keys... chosen ones… forgotten.
"You don't seem like the drinking type," came a calm, older voice from across the table.
Ren looked up. At some point, an old man had sat across from him — long gray beard, travel-worn cloak, and a wooden staff leaning against his chair. His eyes, though cloudy with age, felt sharp — unnervingly so.
Ren hesitated.
"And you don't seem like someone who just appears without being noticed." The old man chuckled.
"Observation is a skill most folks forget to hone. You've been listening to those adventurers, haven't you?"
"Hard not to." Ren leaned back.
"Is it true? That summoned heroes always get to go home after the Demon King is killed?"
"Mostly true," the man said, swirling his drink. "The gods choose well. A hero appears, gains fame, power, allies… then vanishes back to their world with a flash of glory and a clean conscience."
"Sounds like a rigged game," Ren muttered.
The man smiled knowingly.
"And what about the ones not chosen? The ones brought here by mistake… or on purpose… for reasons even the gods fear?"
Ren's gaze sharpened.
"You're saying that happens?"
The man didn't answer. Just stared into his cup and said,
"Not all summoned souls shine with divine light. Some are made to walk in shadow, reshaping the world without anyone knowing."
"And when they finally rise… even the gods will tremble."
Ren blinked.
"…You speak like you've seen it happen."
The man stood slowly, gathering his staff.
"Let's just say… I've read more than the average tavern prophet."
He turned to leave, but paused.
"Careful who you show your cards to, Ren of the Wasteland. This world forgets the quiet ones… until they roar."
And with that, he disappeared into the crowd — like smoke.
Ren stared after him, jaw tight.
He never gave his name… did he?
The old man was gone, and so was Ren's appetite. He left a few bronze coins by the bowl of stew and stepped back into the daylight. The chattered and warmth of the Black Boar faded behind him.
The sun was above the head—he had shopping to do. Plans to lay. A future to build.