The innkeeper watched the young man, who couldn't have been more than twenty, lean in and extend his hand. In his palm sat a single potato, steaming, golden-brown, and... strangely inviting. Something about it called to him. The wild stories he'd heard only minutes ago began to fade, blurring like a half-forgotten dream. It was as if he'd been offered a drug—one too irresistible to refuse.
"F-For me?" he stammered, reaching out with trembling fingers. His hand shook—not from fear exactly, but from the tension of approaching something sacred.
The young man rolled his eyes. "Duh."
Without waiting, he gently pushed the potato straight into the innkeeper's mouth. The heat radiated against his tongue, and flavor flooded his taste buds. The taste hit like a divine revelation.
The man's eyes widened in stunned bliss. His lips parted in a soundless gasp. Tears welled up and rolled freely down his cheeks. The expression that followed… could only be described as ecstasy. Absolute, unfiltered pleasure. His knees nearly gave out from the sheer overwhelming flavor.
[Potato successfully consumed by the target: +50 Mana]
[Eater Satisfaction: 95%]
[Permanent Ability Granted: Enhanced Vision]
[Chance of Follower Conversion: 49%]
[Current Mana: 10,300 / 10,350]
[Total Followers: 203]
[Devoted Followers: 1]
[Quest Progress Updated:]
["Spread the Potato Path – 203 / 500 Followers"]
A glowing screen appeared before the young man's eyes, unseen by anyone else in the room. Brown and green, like rich soil, glowing with runes etched in golden light—so bright it could've blinded a lesser man. Yet, he didn't even blink.
Phew... another potato delivered...
His thoughts drifted lazily, echoing through the familiar system haze.
It's exhausting... I just wanted a drink after a long day in the fields… and this whole town acts like I'm some kind of cursed spirit. They run the moment they see me... At this rate, nobody's going to eat the damn things and the village will suffer... ugh... So tiring... I just want to sleep...
He let out a long, heavy sigh and stared blankly at the shimmering interface. His green eyes didn't even twitch.
Meanwhile, something strange was quietly unfolding beneath the counter...
The innkeeper wore glasses that he had had his whole life—thick, cracked at the edge, always slipping down his nose. But the moment he ate the potato, his eyes started to hurt, and everything became blurry, distorted as if someone had smeared oil over his lenses. He quickly shoved the glasses away in a panic, and when he opened his eyes again, he stared in disbelief at the young man, who was already crouched by the alcohol shelf, casually browsing for his favorite drink as if nothing in the world was strange.
A small potato suddenly flew out of the sack on his back and landed on a glass bottle. It didn't have any arms or legs, didn't say a word or glow with spells, but it clung to the bottle like it was alive, sticking to it like glue—and then another one followed, this one moving faster, darting under the counter before popping back up with a glass like it had done this a hundred times before.
The innkeeper froze, unable to speak, just watching this magic show unfold in front of him. He was no stranger to magic, he'd seen mages cast firestorms, seen healing circles glow so bright they hurt your eyes, hell, he could even use a few spells himself, but this? This wasn't normal. This wasn't anything.
The potatoes danced across the counter with a kind of grace that didn't belong to vegetables, twirling around each other like they were performing some kind of practiced routine, popping the cork, pouring a glass of steaming potato vodka, and then balancing the shot perfectly in front of the young man like obedient servants.
And then, with a lazy flick of his finger, a golden coin flew across the room, spinning once before landing right in the stunned innkeeper's palm.
"Ahh! Good stuff," the young man who called himself the Potato Man let out a deep breath, licking his lips, the warmth spreading down his throat like sunshine after rain, and honestly? He couldn't be more satisfied. After a long day working the fields, farming his potatoes like always... this was exactly what he needed.
His smile was now as wide as the sky, and the innkeeper watched him with awe and worship, his mind blank for a moment longer, unable to fully process what had just happened here, in the middle of the night, under dim light that made this young man look almost like a prophet—yet, when he looked closer, he saw only a simple farmer.
"Just... who are you...?" he managed to whisper through lips that barely parted, unsure if he even had the right to speak, afraid his words might disturb the one who had just healed his sight without casting a single spell.
"Potato Man. The pleasure... is mine," the young man replied simply, downing another shot of vodka and staring blankly into space—or at least, that's how it looked to the innkeeper. In truth, his eyes were fixed on something else entirely, something no one else in that room could see. He was browsing through his system.
"No, I mean... who are you exactly? Are you... even human?" the innkeeper asked, the words trembling out of him, fragile and uncertain, but he had to know. He needed to summon the courage to understand what kind of being now stood before him.
"Me? Heh..." Potato Man knocked back another glass, his cheeks now slightly red, the potatoes that had danced for him earlier gently returning to his pouch like obedient children. "I'm just a local farmer from the Golden Shire Village. Have you heard of it?"
He said it so casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, completely unfazed by the fact that the innkeeper was now on his knees before him, eyes wide with something between reverence and disbelief.
"That's…" the innkeeper began, but the words caught in his throat. Golden Shire was on the other side of the continent. A place so far from here it would take weeks by caravan, and yet here he was—this young man with dirt still under his fingernails, most likely from harvesting potatoes earlier today.
That thought alone made his spine go cold.
"Oops… time for me to go," Potato Man muttered, suddenly flinching, as if something in the distance had called to him.
Before the innkeeper could ask another question, the sack on his back began to rumble. Dozens of potatoes spilled from it like a flood, surrounding him, swirling like a current of earth-born magic—and then, in the time it takes to blink five times, he vanished.
Gone... Vanished into thin air... Only fifty potatoes remained on the floor where he had been sitting. And the innkeeper, still kneeling, staring at that pile, couldn't help but wonder… had he simply drunk too much tonight? Or had he truly met a god? Because no other explanation made sense.