Chapter 4: Research, Stew, and a Deal


    The stars blanketed the sky in a sprawling expanse of brilliance as I stood outside the tavern. It was new yet timeless, exuding a sense of both comfort and possibility. The soft, golden glow spilling from its windows painted the stone path with a warm hue, beckoning me to step inside. But something held me back—a nagging sense of unpreparedness.


    I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "What am I even doing?"


    It wasn’t the tavern itself that intimidated me. It was the unfamiliarity of this world. Back in my previous life, I could navigate the complexities of modern society with ease. But here? Here, I didn’t even know the price of a loaf of bread, let alone how to price a bowl of stew or a mug of ale.


    I turned away, glancing at the surrounding mountains cloaked in shadow under the moonlight. “Tomorrow,” I muttered. “Tomorrow, I’ll figure it all out.”


    And with that, I trudged back to the courtyard beside the tavern, rolled out the mat I’d been using as a makeshift bed, and let the cool night breeze lull me to sleep.


    The dawn arrived with a symphony of birdsong, their melodies weaving through the crisp morning air. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above, creating a mosaic of light and shadow on the ground. I stretched, feeling the stiffness of the night leave my body, and took a deep breath of the mountain air.


    “Alright,” I said, brushing the dust from my clothes. “Let’s get to work.”


    I strode purposefully toward the tavern door, only to pause mid-step.


    “How am I supposed to run this place if I don’t even know what things cost?” I muttered to myself, the weight of my ignorance pressing down like a physical burden.


    The realization stung. This wasn’t the modern world, where a quick internet search could solve all my problems. I needed to understand the local economy, the culture, and the people.


    “Research first,” I decided, turning toward the trail that led down to the village. “Tavern later.”


    The village unfolded before me like something out of a fairy tale. Nestled in the heart of the valley, it seemed almost untouched by time. The rooftops of the houses were coated in a thin layer of morning dew, glistening in the sunlight like tiny jewels. The air was filled with the soft murmur of a nearby stream, its clear waters reflecting the vibrant hues of the wildflowers that grew along its banks.


    The houses were a mix of stone and wood, their construction sturdy yet charming. Thick wooden beams supported sloping roofs, some of which were adorned with dried herbs and flowers hanging in bundles. The scent of fresh bread, wood smoke, and earthy soil mingled in the air, creating a tapestry of aromas that was both comforting and invigorating.


    Villagers bustled about, their voices forming a cheerful hum of activity. Farmers carried baskets of freshly harvested produce, their faces flushed from the morning exertion. Children darted through the narrow streets, their laughter ringing out like bells as they played games only they understood.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    For a moment, I simply stood there, letting it all wash over me.


    “It’s like stepping into another world,” I whispered, a faint smile tugging at my lips.


    The market square was the heart of the village, alive with energy and color. Stalls lined the cobblestone streets, each one bursting with goods that ranged from fresh vegetables and fruits to handmade trinkets and tools. Vendors called out to passersby, their voices blending into a chaotic yet harmonious symphony of salesmanship.


    I wandered from stall to stall, careful not to stand out too much. My goal was simple: observe and learn.


    It didn’t take long to notice a pattern. Prices were largely determined by weight and quality, though the occasional bout of haggling added an unpredictable element. Fruits and vegetables were measured in baskets or bundles, meats were priced by the cut, and dried goods were sold in small cloth pouches. The currency was straightforward: small silver coins, worn smooth from use, exchanged hands with a practiced ease.


    One particular stall caught my eye. It was a modest setup, but the aroma wafting from it was irresistible. The vendor, a plump woman with rosy cheeks and a warm smile, stood behind a large pot of steaming stew.


    My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday.


    “One bowl, please,” I said, fishing out a silver coin and handing it to her.


    She gave me a curious look before handing over the bowl.


    The first spoonful was a revelation. The stew was rich and hearty, with tender chunks of chicken swimming in a thick, flavorful broth. Carrots, potatoes, and herbs added layers of texture and taste, each bite a testament to the vendor’s skill.


    I couldn’t help but close my eyes, savoring the warmth that spread through my body.


    “This,” I said aloud, “is art in a bowl.”


    The vendor chuckled. “You’re not from around here, are you?”


    “Is it that obvious?” I asked, grinning sheepishly.


    She nodded. “Your clothes, your accent, even the way you hold the spoon—it’s all different.”


    I laughed, feeling a bit self-conscious. “Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”


    As I wandered further into the market, I came across a butcher’s stall that seemed to draw a steady stream of customers. The vendor was a burly man with a thick beard and arms that looked like they could lift an ox. He worked with practiced precision, slicing through meat with a cleaver that gleamed in the sunlight.


    Curiosity piqued, I approached the stall.


    “Morning,” I said, nodding in greeting.


    The man looked up and grinned. “Morning, stranger. What can I get for you?”


    “Just browsing,” I said. “I’m new to the area, trying to get a feel for things.”


    He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look like the hunting type. What brings you to my stall?”


    “I’m planning to open a tavern nearby,” I explained. “Might need a reliable source for fresh meat.”


    His expression shifted to one of interest. “A tavern, huh? In the mountains?”


    I nodded. “It’s still a work in progress, but I’ll need quality ingredients once it’s up and running.”


    The butcher, whose name I later learned was Feng, stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Tell you what, stranger. You buy from me exclusively, and I’ll make sure you get the best cuts at a fair price.”


    I extended a hand. “Deal.”


    He shook it firmly. “You won’t regret it. I’ll even deliver to your door—no extra charge.”


    “Now that,” I said, smiling, “is what I call service.”


    By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village in a warm golden glow, I felt both exhausted and accomplished. I’d spent the entire day observing, learning, and asking subtle questions, all while enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the bustling marketplace.


    As I made my way back up the mountain trail, the day’s events played through my mind.


    “People are people,” I mused, gazing at the stars beginning to emerge in the evening sky. “Doesn’t matter if it’s the modern world or a world of cultivators. Honesty, good food, and a bit of kindness go a long way.”


    The tavern stood waiting for me at the top of the trail, its light shining like a beacon in the gathering darkness. Tomorrow, I would start shaping it into a place worthy of its surroundings—a haven for travelers, a crossroads of stories, and perhaps, a home for myself.


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