The next morning arrived with a soft golden hue spreading across the city of Valerion. Sunlight seeped through the dusty windows of Amon's small apartment, painting faded streaks across the cracked walls.
Amon yawned loudly, stretching his limbs as he sat up on the mattress.
"Another glorious day in paradise," he muttered sarcastically.
After a short, barely satisfying bath in his barely functional bathroom, where the water was only slightly warm and the tap squeaked like a dying rat, he changed into his usual casual clothes and got ready to leave.
A plain black shirt and worn jeans. Nothing fancy, but enough to blend into the crowd without drawing attention.
Stepping outside, he locked the apartment door behind him and descended the rickety stairs of his rundown building.
Valerion was slowly waking up.
The streets were beginning to buzz with activity. Merchants opened their shops with wide yawns and even louder shouts, children in simple uniforms hurried toward their schools, and street vendors arranged their stalls as if following some daily ritual. The morning air smelled faintly of roasted bread, cooking oil, and city smoke.
Despite everything, Amon found a small sense of peace in the routine.
"Life may be garbage," he muttered to himself, "but the mornings aren't too bad."
He walked along the cracked pavement, dodging puddles and carts, his hands tucked into his pockets. People pushed past one another in the usual morning rush, but he had gotten used to it long ago.
Living in this world for seventeen years had made him somewhat numb to its hardships, yet he still tried to enjoy the little things.
A pleasant morning breeze.
A freshly baked bun.
The sight of a cat stealing fish from a vendor.
After leaving the backward part of the city, he entered the main district. Towering buildings with glass windows reflected the morning sunlight, while the streets buzzed with the sounds of mana-powered vehicles zipping past. Meanwhile, caravans and carts moved slowly through the bustling streets.
Not everything in Kṣitiḥ was miserable.
In fact, some parts of this world were surprisingly civilized and well-developed.
For example, there were public schools for commoner children. They were completely free and funded by the city councils. Children between the ages of eight and fourteen could attend if they wished.
Amon had attended school for about four years, long enough to learn basic reading, writing, and a few general subjects. However, because he had to work part-time to survive, he couldn't continue his education.
Still, the world was largely based on a medieval society.
"Still... better than nothing," he murmured as he approached the market district.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a large building nestled between a magic goods store and a weaponsmith's forge.
A hanging wooden sign swayed gently above the entrance, bearing the name:
The Iron Mug Tavern.
This was where he worked part-time.
It was a popular establishment among adventurers, mercenaries, and wandering mages.
Despite being a monarchy-based society with a largely medieval structure, Kṣitiḥ was surprisingly modern in many ways. It had adventurer guilds, magical transportation, and even magically powered devices similar to mobile phones, though such devices were extremely expensive.
If Amon wanted to buy one, he would have to spend all his savings, and even that wouldn't be enough.
And taverns like this one?
They were the lifeblood of the common folk.
He stepped inside and was immediately greeted by the familiar scent of ale-soaked wood, freshly baked bread, and a hint of lemon polish.
Behind the bar counter stood a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick mustache. As usual, he was polishing a mug with a white cloth.
"Good morning, Mr. Ellias!" Amon greeted him with a grin. "Looking young and dashing as always."
The older man let out a booming laugh.
"Morning, you cheeky brat. You're full of compliments today, huh?"
"Just stating facts. I mean, look at you. Forty-something and still putting the rest of us to shame," Amon said, showering him with exaggerated praise.
"Yeah, yeah. Save that charm for the customers. Now get your lazy ass to work. We open soon."
"Yes, sir."
Amon gave a mock salute before heading toward the changing room.
He slipped into his work attire: a clean black shirt, a vest, and dark trousers that resembled a waiter's uniform. It was nothing fancy, but it suited the tavern's old-fashioned charm.
When he returned to the main room with a broom in hand, he began cleaning the floor with slow, humming strokes.
The Iron Mug Tavern was beautiful in its own way.
Its design leaned heavily toward medieval fantasy aesthetics. Thick wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, entwined with ivy and enchanted crystals that glowed softly, casting a warm, twilight-like hue across the room.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with old tomes, maps, and what appeared to be dusty monster-hunting journals. Ancient weapons hung as decorations—spears, swords, and even a rusted great axe that probably hadn't been used in centuries.
Round tables with polished surfaces filled the room, paired with high-backed wooden chairs covered in dark green cushions. Near the fireplace, which glowed with magically sustained flames, sat the most comfortable seats, usually claimed by high-ranking adventurers.
As Amon swept the floor near the bar, the tavern's heavy door creaked open again.
"Hey, Amon! You're early today."
Amon turned to see Leon, a fellow worker just a few years older than him.
Leon had curly brown hair, matching brown eyes, and stood roughly the same height as Amon, around 170 centimeters. He was wearing his work vest half-buttoned, looking as though he had either rushed over or just rolled out of bed.
"Morning, Leon. And I'm not early. You're just late," Amon replied with a smirk.
Leon groaned dramatically.
"Ugh, the cleaning's already done? You traitor! I was counting on sharing the load."
Amon raised an eyebrow and gave him a devilish grin.
"If you think I'm not telling Mr. Ellias, you're dreaming. I'm going to suggest that he docks your pay just a little today."
Leon sheepishly scratched the back of his head.
"Honestly, he was probably going to do that anyway, whether you said anything or not."
Across the tavern, a waitress was wiping down one of the round tables.
She looked to be around Leon's age, perhaps a little younger. Her maroon hair was tied back in a neat braid, and she wore the tavern's standard waitress uniform: a burgundy dress fitted at the waist with a leather corset belt that held a few small pouches. Over the dress, she wore a white apron, slightly stained from the previous night's chaos.
Her movements were smooth and efficient. She worked like someone who had been doing this for years.
"Good morning, Martia!" Leon called out in a playful tone.
The girl turned toward them, her expression initially unreadable. Her green eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"Well, look who finally decided to show up," she said with a cold smile. "I thought you'd skip straight to the afternoon shift."
Amon stifled a laugh as Leon raised both hands in mock surrender.
"Oi, why are you scolding me already? Amon's the real troublemaker!"
Martia raised an eyebrow.
"Maybe, but he doesn't give me nearly as much trouble as you do."
Amon watched the two with mild amusement, leaning against his broom.
He knew this routine well. It was their usual back-and-forth.
Leon flirted.
Martia acted annoyed.
Rinse and repeat.
He also knew the truth.
'Leon's got it bad for her,' Amon thought, rolling his eyes. 'And Martia definitely has a soft spot for him, even if she won't admit it.'
It wasn't jealousy that kept Amon out of it. It was simply practicality.
Martia often vented to him about Leon's antics. Amon was always the one who had to deal with her complaints, listen to her sighs, and patiently hear her out while sweeping the floors or wiping mugs.
'Honestly, they'd make a good couple. If they'd just stop being idiots and talk about it already.'
With a small sigh, Amon pushed himself away from the wall and resumed sweeping.
Another day at the Iron Mug Tavern had begun. Same people, same routine, but somehow, it never felt boring.