CHAPTER 145: [144] NARROW-MINDED PEOPLE (3)

After his crushing victory at the gate, Ren’s name spread like the dry desert wind—fast, hot, and biting. In the city of Eks, strength was law, and today, a foreign human had silenced a veteran beastman with nothing but his bare hands.

"That guy... is he a giant’s descendant?"

"They say he used a weird technique, stood on one leg, then... wraaagh! Elbowed the guy in the head!"

"Looked like a weird dance... but deadly..."

Ren caught all that in passing as he walked through the city’s main corridor toward the inn. His eyes stayed forward, his steps steady, though inside, he sighed deeply.

_(If I have to throw hands every time I enter a city, maybe I should just get Alfred to put up ads in advance.)

The "Twin Horns" inn stood not far from the bustling center, a wooden building with a spacious backyard usually used as a stable. That’s where Ren finally parked his vehicle—a silver metal van disguised with tattered cloth, pulled by the most out-of-place creature for this region: a Penal Tiger.

As soon as the van stopped, Alfred nudged the back door open with his head. His body shimmered with sweat and sand. Bella and their three cubs followed behind, stretching and yawning wide like a family of oversized cats.

"Alright, big boys... Here it is, your paycheck." Ren opened the cooler box—his modified low-temp storage space. Inside, large chunks of meat marbled with fat looked mouthwatering even in the desert heat. Alfred got two full pieces, which earned him a sharp glance from Bella.

Ren immediately raised both hands. "Hey, hey! He’s the one who pulled the van for ten kilometers—I’m not playing favorites." He handed out extra portions for Bella and the cubs. "This is meat democracy, okay?"

The plains tiger family quickly gathered on the dry straw, licking their fur and nestling close like a pride of giant cats. Ren patted Alfred on the shoulder—dodging slightly as the tiger’s tongue nearly grazed his cheek—then turned toward the main building.

The "Twin Horns" inn had a rugged style: dull wood, a slanted roof, and a softly glowing magic-stone sign that flickered at night. When Ren pushed the door open, a small bell chimed.

And silence greeted him.

One second. Two seconds. Every eye in the bar turned his way.

"Look... that’s him. The kid who made Grag bleed from the nose with his knee."

Ren gave a slight nod, no more than a dip of the chin. He walked to the bar without expression, letting curious and admiring stares wash over him without returning a single one. All he needed was a room, a meal, and a bit of information.

However, the server who approached him was unique enough to catch his attention.

A beastkin girl, long furry ears twitching, her tail wagging fast like a puppy seeing its owner come home. Before speaking, she sniffed at Ren—approaching shamelessly, drawing in the air right around his shoulder.

"Mmmhh~... dust and iron, with a hint of dried blood." Her smile was wide, eyes narrowing as if appraising the price of meat. "Welcome, Sir~! One room? Beer? Hot meal? Or... special service?" She bumped his shoulder playfully with her own, teasing.

Ren chuckled softly, politely. "Just one room, the city’s specialty dish, and clean water. I also need a quiet place. Today... there’s too much on my mind."

"Ohh~ you’re the serious type, huh?" she leaned in, her tail curling flirtatiously. But before she could say more, Ren tilted his head, meeting her eyes directly.

"If I may, I’d like us both to keep our dignity tonight." His tone was gentle, but firm.

The waitress paused. Then smiled. "Fufu~ Alright, Mr. Cold. I like a challenge."

From the corner of the room, rough laughter echoed. "Ck, he turned Lulu down? This kid... trying to act all cool or what?"

"Even if he beat Grag the fraud who only picks on the weak, heh... I bet Lord Trek would crush him in two seconds," another said, voice dripping with mockery. "But hey... maybe he’s got a tiny ’sword.’"

Laughter exploded. Glasses clinked against tables, the jeers piling up like a cheap concert of mockery.

Ren didn’t flinch.

He accepted the key from Lulu with a slight nod, then turned away. The old wooden stairs at the edge of the room creaked softly under his steps. One by one. Each step carving distance between him and the crowd below.

(Trek, huh...) he thought, staring at the key in his hand. (They’re naming the city’s champion.)

The city of Eks was no ordinary town. In the southern reaches of the Raghaleth continent, far from the western kingdom’s core, Eks stood as a semi-autonomous entity that ignored feudal systems or bloodlines. Here, strength wasn’t just respected—it was law.

Its government was determined by one simple rule: whoever remained standing in the colosseum would become the leader.

The Eks Colosseum was a massive arena with room for tens of thousands, located in the city’s center like a heart that kept beating from one generation to the next. Every year, a festival of blood and steel was held. Hundreds of fighters from various kingdoms, tribes, and even monster races came to claim one thing: the title of The Champion.

And that title wasn’t just a symbol of strength. The Champion held absolute authority over the city—controlling trade, taxes, law, even military alliances. That title was a crown, a throne, and a sword all at once.

Ren had done his research. Trek... was a monster.

A mixed-blood minotaur beastkin who hadn’t lost in ten consecutive years. Every duel ended quickly. Some called him "Bonebreaker," because on average, his opponents needed over six months to recover—or never fought again. This brutal figure was Eks’ symbol of absolute power, a living legend who defended his seat with blood and flesh.

After entering his room, Ren sat on a rickety chair by the window. He unwrapped the food Lulu had brought—Eks’ specialty, she said. Fragrant steam rose from the clay bowl: thick boiled meat in a rich, brown broth, laced with the scent of wild ginger, cinnamon, and desert cumin.

Spices. The true power of the south.

This region wasn’t just fertile—it was green gold sprouting from sun-scorched red earth. Beyond the wild plains and sandy hills stood the Penal Plains—a vast stretch running from the mountain base to the southern edge. It was here that exotic plants, rare herbs, healing roots, and pungent seeds grew wild. The soil was mineral-rich, the air dry and harsh, and that very brutality gave the plants here a flavor unmatched by any other land.

Eks, standing in its center like a gatekeeper, was the hub of all southern spice distribution routes. Even the Samsara Sultanate—known for its pride and wealth—had once sent three consecutive military expeditions just to claim a fraction of its territory. All failed.

Ren spooned up more of the thick spiced broth. Its savory flavor wasn’t just about cooking. Within each scent lay buried history: blood, sweat, and resistance.

Eks was no ordinary city. It was born of battle.

In the past, western kingdoms—especially from the northwestern borders like Faldmere and Gethen—frequently tried to seize control of these southern trade routes. They built forts, deployed cavalry, even formed trade alliances with monster races to conquer Eks from the outside. But one thing always drove them back: the people of Eks could not be subdued.

Not because of numbers. Not because of tactics.

But because of madness.

The people of Eks believed in one ancient doctrine, instilled since childhood: Defeat is a shame to the soul. Defeat is dying with your eyes open.

And all of it came from one figure they worshiped: Gorthar.

The God of Battle. King of Beasts. A deity who asked for no offerings—only victory. It was said that Gorthar was the first being to beat his own chest and challenge the heavens, then carved his words onto the first stone: Never surrender to defeat.

Those words weren’t just a motto—they were a law of life. Every child in Eks memorized them before learning to read. Every soldier in Eks etched them into their weapon handles. Even the elders shouted them with their final breaths on the battlefield.

"War with Eks," said one proverb from the north, "is like swinging a sword at a river of fire—you’ll burn before you ever touch the bottom."

Ren leaned back slightly on the wooden chair, its age creaking beneath him. His black-gloved hand cradled the bowl, now filled only with broth, the spices still warming his tongue and throat. His eyes stared into the shallow pool at the bottom, but his thoughts drifted far.

Trek.

That name couldn’t be avoided in this city. Not just because he’d held the championship title for ten straight years, but because he had become a pillar of Eks’ faith. A figure respected, feared, and idolized in a single breath. In a city that worshiped strength like religion, Trek was their prophet.

But Ren hadn’t come to challenge him.

"My goal isn’t to conquer this city... just to return those tigers to their homeland. At the mountain’s foot, in the eastern Penal Plains." His voice was quiet, more to himself than anyone else.

Outside, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air again. But Ren remained still, his body blending into the shadows cast by the bar’s worn-out ceiling lamp.

His task, as usual, was simple on the surface but complex within. He had merely been asked by someone to return the Penal Tiger family—Alfred, Bella, and their three cubs—back to their original habitat on the eastern side of the Penal Plains.What made him suspicious was who had made the request.

Elanor.

A graceful madam from Viscount Veldmort’s domain, in the northern region of the Eldoria Kingdom. A figure who seemed like nothing more than an eccentric aristocrat with a fondness for animals. But Ren knew better than anyone: there was no such thing as innocence in this world—especially not in a world that had become a stage for interdimensional conflict.

Eldoria—the grand western kingdom that summoned Ren’s class to this world, deceiving them with promises of "defeating the Demon King" and saving the world.But this world no longer had a Demon King. The Gate of Hell was destroyed two centuries ago, and the remaining demons blended into the ruins of their own fate.

What remained wasn’t a war between light and dark—but a game played by bored gods. This world had become a chessboard, and every piece was a human, a beastman, a surviving demon, and now... children from Earth.

"A war between gods"—that’s what people called it, but to Ren, it was nothing more than the ego battle of beings too powerful and too hollow.