The Foggy Fisherman hadn’t always been a tavern.
It began as a smokers’ den—until its patrons either died from lung-rot or quit the habit. Then a retired navy veteran, his career cut short by a lost leg, bought the place and reshaped it into what it was now.
This veteran—Alan Alice—was no deadbeat like Charles’ biological father in this world. The man had connections.
From the City Guard and Amazon mercenaries to shadowy intelligence networks and the Sannath Guild—even rival pirate fleets on the high seas—many owed him favors.
Now, with those contacts holding positions of power, they kept in touch. Retirement hadn’t severed his web of influence.
Need two factions to parley without bloodshed? Alice could provide neutral ground and a trusted witness.
Over the years, he’d mediated countless disputes, earning respect as one of South Harbor’s most reliable middlemen.
Even gangs owed him favors. So despite his disability (his combat skills now worse than a commoner’s), the Foggy Fisherman was arguably the safest spot in the slums.
Hence Charles’ choice to wait here for Hattie.
Pushing through the door, he immediately locked eyes with the drowsy bouncer—a two-meter-tall female half-ogre with a tree-trunk club leaning beside her.
Her bulk blocked the entrance, the stench of ogre musk thick in the air. Beady eyes scanned him before dismissing the scrawny human as no threat.
Charles had no desire to test whether half-ogres found humans attractive. (He didn’t want to know.)
Past her sprawled the tavern proper. A central longtable hosted lone drinkers—currently occupied by day-drinking louts and one muscular, brown-skinned half-orc woman.
Along the walls, round tables accommodated groups—some occupied by veteran smokers exhaling clouds near the windows, others by idlers engrossed in dice games.
Scattered throughout were a few more tables where gang members sat quietly. Their sweat-stained shirts exposed scarred arms; makeshift weapons hung at their belts as they snacked on peanuts.
The moment Charles stepped inside, the stench assaulted him—tobacco smoke mingled with the briny tang of sea fish and the cloying sweetness of dried vomit. His nose wrinkled, but he pressed on.
If I’m to survive here, I’ll have to get used to worse.
At the far end stood the bar, flanked by stairs leading to guest rooms. Behind it, a middle-aged man with a copper complexion and stern features polished glasses.
This, of course, was Alan Alice—the tavern’s owner.
Though he appeared forty or fifty, his pointed ears betrayed his half-elven heritage. His true age could be decades older.
"A plate of boiled peanuts," Charles said, placing a silver coin on the counter.
It would be rude to loiter without ordering, and peanuts were cheap enough.
Alan looked up—and his eyebrows shot up in clear surprise. But his voice remained steady as he pocketed the coin. "One moment."
As the man limped toward the kitchen, Charles spotted the full set of plate armor propped against the wall behind the bar.
An animated guardian. One word from Alan, and it’d attack.
Just like in the game.
In-game, Alan had been a quest-giver. Befriending him unlocked slum-related missions with generous payouts—a lifeline for struggling new players.
Some players even devised optimized "friendship routes" to breeze through early-game hardships.
(The reckless ones killed him. But then they had to face the half-ogre bouncer and the armor.)
Alan returned with a heaping plate of steaming peanuts—far more than Charles expected. The gesture warmed him with nostalgia.
No wonder new players loved him. Easy quests. Good rewards. And those random, earnest compliments...
But this wasn’t a game. Charles wouldn’t trust a slum-rooted fox so easily.
Peanuts in hand, he scanned for seating—only to realize his options were grim.
The round tables to the left? Either chain-smokers or dice gamblers. No.
The central longtable? Drunks liable to vomit on him. Hard pass.
The right-side tables? Gang members—a dozen at least. One bald brute in the corner sported a glaring eye tattoo.
Wait—is that the Sannath Guild’s mark?