Morning chill lingered, not yet chased by sunlight. Puffshroom Home’s tavern hall sat quiet, with only a few diners at breakfast.
As a newly opened inn, sparse guests were no surprise.
Old Dylan sat behind the counter, rough fingers clutching a quill, poring over an open ledger. He muttered numbers, tracking recent food purchases and tool repairs, prepping for reports to the higher-ups.
A freckled face poked from the kitchen curtain.
“Boss!” Bianca called. “Guest room lamp oil’s running low, and we’re short on firewood!”
“Got it. I’ll hit the market later,” Dylan replied, eyes fixed on the ledger.
Bianca, the inn’s only worker, handled cooking and cleaning. Dylan stuck to greeting guests and bookkeeping.
Business was slow, manageable for now. If guests surged, they’d hire more. Mushroom Town never lacked people.
As the human forces’ rear base and mushroom hub, new faces arrived daily, fleeing war-torn homes.
Bianca came with her mother, escaping their ravaged hometown. Her father fought under Duke Brennus in the northwest against demons, she said.
Jobs were plentiful in Mushroom Town.
Strong folks joined the guard, sturdy ones the logging team, and nimble ones tended mushroom fields. But none hired girls like Bianca.
So, she treasured her job with Dylan, especially needing coin for her mother’s health, and Dylan paid well.
Creak—the tavern’s wooden door groaned open.
Dylan frowned. A new door shouldn’t sound like that.
Two guests entered. The man, cloaked in dark travel gear, moved steadily, wary.
Behind him trailed Rita, the demon spy from before, in a plain gray-brown dress, like a family member.
Dylan’s eyes met Rita’s briefly, then shifted to the man, voice steady. “Staying?”
“One room, quiet,” the man said, low and curt.
“Left end, hot water’s a copper per bucket, self-serve.” Dylan handed over Room 109’s key—reserved for “special guests,” far from others, with a secret tunnel to the underground.
Passing the key, he added casually, “Relax, friend. You look tense.”
The man’s face twitched, a flash of embarrassment. He snatched the key and hurried to the room.
Rita shot an apologetic glance, following.
Dylan sat, muttering to himself, “Geez… newbies these days. Sloppy.”
His glance with Rita confirmed the man was a demon spy, likely her junior.
After losing so many spies, replacements were needed, but these newbies were rough, in Dylan’s view.
That stiff posture, overly alert eyes—practically screaming “I’m trouble.”
Mushroom Town’s chaos gave him cover, but elsewhere, he’d never pass the gates.
So unprofessional, Dylan had to point it out.
He mulled a new rule: greenhorns must pass observation before entering Puffshroom Home, or they’d drag everyone down.
Creak—
The door opened again. A familiar face, not a spy.
“Vera? What happened to you?” Dylan asked, shocked.
He knew Vera’s crew from way back, when he shared “level five攻略.” They had history, though he hadn’t met that stunning elf girl in their group, that harem-building kid…
Now, Vera looked rough. His leather armor was scorched, and worse, his handsome blond hair was half-burned, a bald patch dragging his looks below Dylan’s!
Vera gave a bitter laugh. “Tried exploring level eight. Big mistake.”
Dylan scanned Feline and the elf. Their robes had faint scorch marks too, but on less obvious sides.
Easy to guess: in danger, Vera took the brunt, shielding the others.
Dylan nodded. “Staying?”
Surprisingly, Vera shook his head. “Nah, I bought a house in Mushroom Town. I’m a local now.”
“You didn’t come just to say hi, did you?” Dylan raised a brow.
Feline stepped forward. “Big Boss Dylan, look at poor Vera! Don’t hold out—hand it over! It won’t cost you a silver!”
Dylan got it. He crouched, rummaging under the counter, clinking bottles, and pulled out a small glass vial of deep green goo.
“Hair growth potion?”
“May I inspect it?” Elf Cyrian stepped up, polite.
“Go ahead.” Dylan slid the vial over.
Cyrian gently uncorked it, wafting the scent to his nose, sniffing carefully.
Moments later, his eyes flashed with surprise and approval. “Genuine hair growth potion! Didn’t expect to find it here. May I ask, do you know the alchemist?”
“No comment,” Dylan said.
Feline cut in. “Enough! Who cares who made it? Vera’s hair’s saved! How much?”
After sending the four off, Dylan stood behind the counter, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
He’d sold one potion by chance, and word spread fast.
Occasional sales were fine, but regular trade needed cover.
At least a solid, scrutiny-proof story for the materials’ source.
He’d need to talk to the boss.
That night, Dylan met the two spies in the basement.
The man was Rita’s new partner, here to show his face.
Since they were here, they swapped intel.
Dylan cared most about the frontlines:
Humans lost another northwest city. Duke Brennus’s battered forces fell back. The Sword Saint, with reinforcements, headed to support.
(End of Chapter)
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