The boy listened to the bard sing in the tavern.
He no longer chose to spend his weekends in Simon's Pure Land; it had become quite boring for him.
Jonas now preferred the tavern's tunes.
He would sit on the bench to the left of the counter, with his back to the table, eating snacks he'd brought from the food shop: steaming hot buns, richly flavored rock-baked toast, or sugar cakes and shortbread, all paired with a mug of cider.
He'd watch the bard across from the hearth.
That Breton was very kind to him, sometimes playing famous tunes from his homeland, High Rock, providing a shared emotional anchor for the two wanderers.
At the beginning of the New Year, Winterhold was so cold it could freeze the soul out of a person.
Everyone either stayed home or chatted in the tavern.
Apart from the Guards patrolling outside, the streets were deserted.
Simon pushed open the door and walked in, and people greeted him one after another.
The Troll nodded to everyone and walked straight to Jonas, sitting down beside him.
"There's something I need to tell you," Simon whispered into Jonas's ear, as if discussing something illicit.
"What is it?"
"I think I've gotten you into some trouble."
The boy was startled, losing his grip on the bun, which fell onto his thigh.
He fumbled for a moment, finally catching the bun before it hit the ground.
He picked it up, took a bite, and asked vaguely, "What do you mean, you got me into trouble?"
"You remember that drunkard, Ranmir, right?"
"Of course, I remember him.
What about him?"
"I told him he was too weak, couldn't even beat you.
If he comes looking for trouble, don't use magic, just give him a good beating."
"With a sword?"
"No, with your fists."
"But I only know swordsmanship!" the boy exclaimed, and everyone around him turned to look.
Jonas quickly lowered his voice, "He's an adult, and I'm just a kid.
How could I possibly beat him?"
"If you practiced properly, you could definitely beat him.
Don't let his size fool you; he's actually frail from years of drinking.
You just need to be careful not to kill him."
"Oh?"
"If you're still worried about not being strong enough, I'll teach you a set of unarmed combat techniques.
Go back and practice it, and you won't be afraid of him at all."
The unarmed combat technique Simon spoke of was actually an unranked form of Shaolin Long Fist, even inferior to ninth-tier.
It sounded very unglamorous, and in fact, it truly was.
Even an idiot could achieve something with persistent practice.
Such martial arts are the most common, yet also the most remarkable.
At the Coastal Stake Forest, after Simon taught Long Fist to Jonas, he rode away on his second-generation Necromantic Motorcycle.
His silhouette vanished, and the Morning Star month was also about to end.
After sleeping at the Wolf Pack Resting Place, Simon decided to revert to his human form to see how tall he was now.
The Troll was already nearly seven feet tall, very strong, and if he continued to grow so wildly, he might not even fit through the tavern doors.
However, to Simon's despair, his human form was less than four feet tall, even shorter than Jonas.
The Breton Boy was about to hit puberty, at which point his height would surge.
If Simon was in his Troll form, that would be fine, but if he was in human form, he would be a total runt.
Thus, once his Troll form grew to a certain extent, he would no longer be able to show himself to people.
Simon had also considered creating a puppet robot for remote control, but that would mean many changes.
If he no longer appeared in person, his shop in Winterhold would need regular restocking, and Jonas would need him to teach him skills.
Once he showed himself in the form of a puppet, the residents of Winterhold would fear him, distance themselves from him, and regard him as a complete anomaly.
No one liked cold machines; everyone liked the living Troll, with his ugly face, who breathed, greeted them, and drank with them.
He didn't want to do that.
Simon had to think of new methods.
Or simply not think of a method, and let nature take its course; everyone would get used to a big friend.
The Nord barbarians had given their sincere affection to the Troll, even if he was strange and mysterious, they had accepted him.
As long as Simon didn't act in a way that repelled them, he wouldn't be rejected by the Nords.
Always Nord brothers!
…
A few Guards were browsing in Simon's food shop, and many others were gathered around the shelves, carefully selecting the food they wanted.
The Troll was hunched behind a long table, which served as his counter.
There were two chairs, but no other furniture in the rather large room.
Customers who had chosen their goods would place them on the table, sit opposite the Foodie, and watch him tally the bill and give change.
A female Guard walked to the table and placed a bag of refined flour under the Troll's nose, "How much?"
"Five coppers."
The Guard counted out five copper coins, lined them up, and slapped them on the table.
The childish gesture made Simon laugh.
Simon reached for the money, but his hand was caught in mid-air by the woman, "White Mountains, do you want to go somewhere fun?"
"Somewhere fun? The tavern?" Simon flicked the Guard's palm with his index finger.
The woman winced and pulled her hand back, then she smiled sweetly, a clear, cheerful delight showing through her helmet visor, "You're assaulting a Guard! I should take you to Bitter Prison for a while to cool off!"
Simon laughed heartily, unconcerned, "By the way, you're not from Winterhold, are you?"
"Indeed, we Guards are all Imperial soldiers.
I grew up in Solitude, but my father was from Winterhold.
Later, when they said they needed to send Guards to Winterhold, I was the first to sign up."
"Torine, isn't it?"
"Yes, of course, you know my name?"
"Winterhold isn't big.
If I just sit in the tavern for half a day, I'll know all your names!"
"Alas, do you know, I'm going back to Solitude soon, not just me, but the other Guards too."
"What happened?"
Torine's words surprised the idlers in the food shop, and they all eagerly asked for the reason.
"Our tour of duty is over.
A message came from Solitude, telling us to return for our performance review.
New Imperial soldiers will be here soon, don't worry, they are all excellent."
No one disliked these young, lovely female Guards, and everyone offered their blessings.
The young warriors initially maintained a dignified silence, but soon cheerful laughter emerged from beneath their helmets.
"It's fine, we've agreed to retire after we go back there and still come to Winterhold to live!
We'll still see each other every day then!" a young girl couldn't hold back and directly exposed her colleagues' secret.
People spontaneously let out a collective "Hah!" of disapproval, and both the Guards and the common folk burst into laughter, a warm camaraderie tightly connecting everyone.
Torine removed her strange bullet-shaped helmet, letting her flowing golden hair cascade down.
A rosy, well-proportioned face, like a precious fruit dewy from the thick, cloud-like hair, was revealed.
Her smile was gentle and generous, and her sea-blue eyes fixed on Simon, "Foodie, seriously, Bitter Prison is a rare and interesting place.
Let's go see it, just the two of us."
"Of course, no problem." The Troll stood up, clapped his hands, "Everyone, at the invitation of our beautiful Miss Torine, the shop owner will be leaving for a while.
Take whatever you want, the money jar is under the table, just put your money in there!
I'm off!"
Someone let out a loud whistle.
"Hahahaha—!" Everyone laughed, showing their back teeth, "Have fun! Old friend!"
-------------------------------
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