Rise of the Lustful Evil Monarch (Re)-Chapter 219: The Raucous Pub
Third Person's POV
It was her first time standing within the heart of a true society and being surrounded by the lifeblood of a bustling city and its adventuring culture.
After a lifetime in chains, this vibrant world felt overwhelming and foreign to her.
"Mr. Eryndor," the receptionist addressed Ethan, her voice honeyed yet measured.
"I imagine you are wondering why I have brought you here. Don't worry, you will soon understand. For now, please follow me."
She gave a slight bow, and for a fleeting second, the neckline of her dress dipped low enough for Ethan to catch sight of the black rose tattoo nestled between the alluring valley of her huge tits.
His gaze instinctively traced the inked flower and its petals that curled inwardly like shadows in that valley of desire and temptation.
The dark elf straightened though her cheeks were tinged faintly with color, before she swiftly turned and headed toward the entrance.
Ethan followed with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, while Virelle's icy glare bore into the back of the woman's head.
The receptionist kept her expression calm, though inside, a raging storm churned in her chest.
Why did I do that? she thought while being totally flustered inside.
I am obviously not one of those frivolous or slutty women! I am no tavern wench who bats her lashes at patrons.
Why did I bend just now—just to make that vampire jealous? Just to catch his gaze?
Her hands clenched briefly before she steeled herself.
Even though that boy or better to say man is the most handsome and charming man I have seen in my life, it doesn't mean I have to do such things to get his attention.
Yes, I am not like that and I will never be.
Her practiced composure returned as they entered the establishment.
Inside, the pub was alive with chaotic energy.
The air was thick with the scent of spiced meats, aged ale, and the sharp tang of sweat and smoke.
Laughter and jeers reverberated across the tavern which mixed with the occasional lilting giggle from women scattered among the rough crowd.
Dim, amber-hued gemstones were embedded into the walls and ceiling, casting a soft glow that flickered like candlelight.
It created an atmosphere that was neither too bright nor oppressively dark but just enough to foster a sense of secrecy and revelry.
Wooden tables and chairs were arranged haphazardly across the stone floor though they were worn smooth from years of use.
Yet, in the heart of the tavern, an open depression housed a large circular fighting pit, perhaps twenty or thirty meters across.
Ethan's sharp gaze immediately settled there.
Two bare-chested demonkin brawled on the platform with their claws raking and fists pounding as blood spattered the sand beneath them.
Around the pit, adventurers roared in excitement, slammed their fists on tables, and waved elemental crystals in hand as they placed bets on the outcome.
The cacophony of the scene was deafening.
Yet amidst the chaos, Ethan could see the purpose of all this. This wasn't just a drinking hole.
This was where adventurers came to forget the sharp edge of their struggles, to drink, fight, and gamble away the weariness of life beyond the city walls.
Beyond the pit, a long bar stretched across the right side of the tavern.
It was carved from dark, volcanic stone that was polished to a mirror sheen and was cool to the touch despite the heat radiating from the press of bodies.
Behind it stood an elegant bartender. He was a gaunt, middle-aged man with a silver goatee and two small, obsidian horns curling back from his temples.
His sharp and predatory gaze swept the room, all while pouring drinks with practiced ease.
Shelves behind him displayed an impressive array of bottles, They were common ales, exotic liquors, and shimmering flasks of magical brews that faintly glowed.
Some adventurers lounged at tables and were lost in quiet conversation, while others scanned the room with their sharp eyes flitting over the chaotic scene and ever-alert for threats.
Their wariness spoke volumes and revealed the hardened instincts of those who lived and bled by the sword.
Ethan caught it instantly—the subtle tension beneath the revelry. The paranoia wasn't baseless but it was the most basic but important principle of survival.
In the far corner, a small raised stage stood beneath a weathered tapestry with its edges frayed and colors dulled by smoke and time.
A lone bard perched there and plucked at a lute as he sang a tune both lively and laced with a tinge of sorrow.
The notes weaved through the cacophonous air like ghostly smoke and threaded between the laughter and roars of the crowd.
Ethan exhaled slowly as he took in the raw and unfiltered essence of the place.
It was chaotic and loud while also smelling of sweat and ale.
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Yet it pulsed with a kind of wild energy that no finely polished ballroom or royal court could ever hope to match.
This... this is the heart of an adventurer's world. He thought with fascination.
Virelle wrinkled her nose in clear distaste and her crimson eyes narrowed as she surveyed the crude environment.
"A barbaric spectacle," she muttered, and her tone was clearly laced with thinly veiled annoyance.
"Barbaric, but profitable," the receptionist replied, her voice calm and matter-of-fact as she led them further inside.
She gestured toward the bar where the horned bartender worked and deftly filled mugs carved from obsidian stone cups with frothy, dark ales.
"The Guild taxes every wager, every glass of ale, every brawl that happens here. Chaos, for them, is just good business."
Ethan arched a brow but said nothing as she led them toward a table near the betting pit, where a thin and wiry old demon sat hunched over a battered ledger.
He frantically recorded the names of the betters while elemental crystals clinked into a pouch by his side.
Upon noticing the dark elf's approach, the old demon abruptly announced the closing of the bets.
