"Dear, hurry up, we already need to open, or the money won't earn itself." Ben, a sturdy man of fifty with gray in his dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, stood at the door. He wore a light brown shirt with rolled-up sleeves, dark trousers, and a leather innkeeper's apron, worn from time. His brown eyes, framed by wrinkles, expressed impatience.
He waited while Maria, his forty-five-year-old wife, brought a large wicker basket filled with fruits, vegetables, and a small amount of raw meat. Maria had chestnut hair gathered into a practical bun from which unruly strands escaped, and lively green eyes sparkled with indignation.
She was dressed in a simple dark purple sundress, over which a white apron with light cooking stains was worn. On her feet—comfortable flat leather shoes. The woman's skin was slightly tanned from working in the garden behind the tavern, and she sharply cut off her husband:
"Don't rush me, I still have to clean the rooms!" Her voice sounded loud, but the tone carried more habitual irritation than real anger.
They were in the spacious kitchen of the tavern, where wooden cabinets and shelves lined the walls, cluttered with dishes, spices, and kitchen utensils. In the corner loomed a massive red brick stove; nearby stood a cutting table polished by years. Bunches of dried herbs and strings of garlic hung from the ceiling, filling the air with spicy aromas. Morning light, penetrating through two small windows, illuminated the wooden floor polished to a shine.
Approaching her husband, Maria threw him an angry glance, shoved the basket into his hands, lightly elbowed him, and with a sarcastic smirk slipped out the door. Ben, wincing from the push, muttered under his breath:
"Evil woman."
Then, smiling, he went out into the corridor and headed for the main entrance.
The tavern building was a three-story structure of light gray stone, adorned with intricate wooden carvings. The ornament ran along the entire facade, and in the center proudly stood a huge bird with outstretched wings, spanning no less than three meters. Its feathers were carved with such care that they seemed real, and the eyes, inlaid with dark wood, seemed to follow every passerby. For the owner, this was a symbol of freedom and new opportunities.
The main hall greeted guests with high ceilings and massive wooden beams. Cozy niches with sofas upholstered in dark red leather lined the walls. Twelve oak tables surrounded by carved chairs filled the space. The walls were decorated with ancient tapestries of hunting scenes and bronze oil lamps creating soft lighting.
Ben headed for the entrance door of light ash, which even in the dark stood out with a pearlescent sheen. On either side of it were stained glass windows with geometric patterns.
The bar counter, made of dark wood with copper inserts, gleamed with cleanliness. Behind it, bottles of all shapes and sizes lined up in a row, and the copper taps for dispensing drinks shone like new.
When sunflower oil hissed on the red-hot cast iron pan, Hol began descending the spiral staircase adorned with forged railings—a young man of about twenty-five with an athletic build. His clothes were sewn from sturdy gray fabric produced on a spider farm, and the protective plates on his arms, made of a light alloy of titanium and aluminum, gleamed like a mirror.
Wheat-colored hair fell carelessly to the side, revealing expressive facial features with high cheekbones and a straight nose. Gray-blue eyes looked attentively, and light stubble gave his appearance a slightly careless look.
"Hey, Ben!" Hol lazily headed for the bar counter.
"Good morning. As usual?" the innkeeper smiled and tossed the sliced vegetables onto the pan.
"Oh, yes, Ben, that would be great." Hol sat on a high stool, leaning on the counter. "Heard the news?" he drawled lazily.
"No, what happened?" Ben briefly distracted from the meat and, turning his back, took a jar of coffee beans from the top shelf.
"A group of researchers that went missing during the expedition to the foot of the mountain." Hol stretched, shaking off the remnants of sleep. "According to official data, there were four of them. You know Jack, right?"
"Yes, we crossed paths during the migration." Ben leisurely brewed the coffee.
"He died, Ben. Went missing with the whole team." Hol sighed heavily. "They say the expedition was supposed to open a path to new lands. But you can't approach the mountain—it's surrounded by some creepy fog. Many have already laid down their heads there, and now it turns out that it's unsafe under the mountain too... Horrible."
"Not the most pleasant news," muttered Ben, lowering his eyes. "So many people died during the resettlement. It seemed the worst was behind us, but this world... It's probably even scarier than the one we left."
He began to stew the meat, already brought to readiness.
Several hours had passed since opening, and visitors began to trickle into the tavern little by little. Some rented rooms, others came to rest in silence, and the third—to drink and discuss the latest events.
Ben continued with his affairs, trying not to interfere in the conversations at the bar counter. He only silently listened, poured drinks into mugs, and delivered orders, occasionally preparing light snacks to the drinks. The stew he had prepared was still warm, but besides Hol, who had ordered it in the morning, there were no takers for this dish yet.
The hall was filled with people in armor of every taste. Hunters in worn leather jackets with numerous pockets and reinforced shoulders occupied several tables. In the corner, a group of mercenaries in light composite armor with a matte sheen, adorned with battle scars and symbols of their guilds, had settled. Some guests sported combined armor of reinforced fabric with metal inserts—a popular choice among scouts and caravaners.
Particular attention was drawn to a gray-haired veteran in luxurious plate armor of titanium, sitting at the bar counter. His perfectly fitted armor, adorned with intricate engraving and inlay of rare metals, was a sign of status—in these times, few could afford such. Next to him modestly settled two guards in chainmail with ceramic plates—standard equipment of the city watch.
By the fireplace, a company of trackers warmed themselves in practical armor of reptile skin reinforced with metal plates. Their gear, covered with scuffs and homemade improvements, eloquently testified to long journeys.
Each visitor brought their own news: some boasted of artifacts obtained in dungeons, others—of successful deals, the third simply listened, assessing others' stories.
Hol, sitting at the counter, animatedly conversed with the guards. Taking a sip of alcohol, he loudly asked:
"Heard about the sole survivor from that expedition?"
The hall fell silent for a moment—many listened attentively, not hiding their interest.
"They say he barely escaped with his life," someone shouted from the hall.
This comment sparked a wave of discussions. Some claimed the survivor had gone mad, others built theories about the true purposes of the expedition. Ben silently wiped mugs, only occasionally glancing at the heated visitors.
The noise was interrupted by the sharp shout of the guard captain, already quite drunk:
"Shut up if you want to know the truth!"
The hall instantly quieted.
"The survivor's name is Fiona. She's in the rehabilitation center now," the guard began, pausing for effect. "According to official data, their squad fell into an ambush. The monsters killed the healer first—meaning they're not just beasts, but thinking creatures. Then Jack fell. Yes, that very Jack who was among the pioneers. According to Fiona, he didn't last even a minute against their leader. She and the archer named Heinrich tried to flee, but in the caves they parted ways. Heinrich didn't make it... Fiona barely escaped, receiving a severe abdominal wound. To survive, she had to cauterize the wound and stagger for two days to the nearest camp."
The hall froze while the guard captain took a long sip of wine. "But that's the official version. There are rumors that there was a fifth member in the squad," he shrugged, "maybe Fiona was delirious from the wound."
His story was interrupted by the creak of the door. A short figure entered the hall—a teenager of about fifteen, barely reaching one hundred sixty centimeters. All eyes turned to him. Some, especially those sitting at the counter, noticed his gaze... Dead, empty.
The boy slowly surveyed the hall. His ragged clothes—a T-shirt and pants from the old world—hung on him like on a hanger. In his right hand, he dragged a short sword resembling a tulwar—an Indian weapon of the 18th century. The blade scraped the stone floor with an unpleasant screech. In his left, he held a battered hiking backpack, spacious enough to fit himself inside. But most striking was the smell—a mixture of rotting flesh and unwashed body. However, in this tavern, they were used to such.
In a few moments, the boy was at the counter, squeezing between Hol and the guards. Ignoring them, he stared at Ben with dead eyes. Then he raised his hand and pointed a finger at his open mouth.
Ben froze. The boy's appearance—especially how he dragged the sword and that gaze—gave him goosebumps. He couldn't even imagine what this child had been through. The gesture demanding food brought him back to reality.
"Do you have anything to pay with?" asked Ben, though the answer was obvious.
In response, the boy threw the backpack onto the counter. Trying to climb onto the high stool, he did not release the sword from his hand.
Finally seated, he untied the backpack and pulled out a rag bag from which a corpse smell emanated.
Ignoring the displeased glances of those around him, he pushed the bag toward Ben.
The latter already guessed the contents, but the weight of the bag frightened him. Holding his breath, he untied it and froze. Inside lay ears—dozens, if not hundreds, of various shapes and sizes.
"How many...?" Ben's voice trembled.
The boy slowly raised three fingers.
A deadly silence fell in the hall. Three hundred ears. Three hundred killed monsters.