Chapter 14:  The Corrupted Ones

It had been well over a month since the rare guest took up residence at Bron Brothers’ Haven, an inn jointly run by the former mercenary siblings Freeman and Seiker.

By now, he had shattered their record for the longest continuous stay—a feat of no small note for an establishment that mostly saw transient warriors. Mercenaries came and went like the wind—summoned by coin and driven by conflict. Ordinary guests, on the other hand, never stayed long. The rowdy nature of their clientele drove most away.

But this one—Curtis —was different.

Not only had he endured the chaotic presence of other mercenaries without complaint, he seemed genuinely interested in their stories, listening with calm attentiveness rather than condescension or weariness. He was quiet, clean, respectful—not a man of many demands.

It was only natural, then, for Freeman to muse aloud over a mug of ale one quiet afternoon:

“I wonder… what does a man like that really do?”

“What’s this now?” Seiker tilted his head, lifting an eyebrow.

“I was just thinking about our long-term guest.”

“You mean Curtis ?”

“Yeah.”

“He said he’s a traveler.”

“Sure, but Nijerte’s hardly a city worth sightseeing for over a month, wouldn’t you say?”

“Depends on the traveler. Maybe he’s looking to settle.”

“Maybe…”

Freeman fell quiet again, chewing on the thought.

“Well, if he wants to tell us, he will. And if not, it’s not our place to ask,” Seiker said plainly.

Freeman nodded, conceding the point. For all their easy camaraderie, he and Curtis  hadn’t reached the kind of closeness where prying into secrets felt natural. Curiosity aside, pushing too far could sour an otherwise easy rapport.

Ding—

A small bell above the inn’s door jingled. The brothers turned as one.

Speak of the shadow, and he appears—Curtis  stepped inside, his usual composed air undisturbed by the midday bustle.

“Knew it was you,” Seiker greeted him with a grin. “You’ve got the timing of a ghost. Always back right when dinner’s ready.”

“It’s become a habit,” Curtis  replied with a warm chuckle. “I’ve tried plenty of places around town, but none quite measure up to this one—at least, not for the price.”

“You could’ve just stopped at the compliment,” Seiker muttered, feigning offense.

“It’ll stay between us and the kitchen,” Curtis  said with a smirk.

The three shared a short laugh. Then Freeman, ever practical, chimed in:

“Headed to wash up?”

“I am.”

“Water’s ready. Grab a bar of soap. Leave out anything you want laundered.”

“My thanks, as always.”

With a light bow, Curtis  took the soap and climbed the stairs to retrieve fresh clothes.

Behind the inn, a modest communal bath area had been set up—partitioned spaces, large basins of water, and the old-fashioned method of scooping water with a ladle to cleanse the body.

There was the option to pay extra for a private bath, with hot water and all, but in this early summer warmth, such indulgence held little appeal.

Shhhhhhh—

Water gathered from the basin and arced into the air, falling like rain from a conjured spout over Curtis ’s head—the result of fluid manipulation magic, controlled with precision. No more bending and scooping—his hands remained free.

The plain-scented soap lathered quickly, chasing away the sweat and dust of the day. This was, without a doubt, the most refreshing moment he looked forward to.

“Haaa…”

His body felt cleansed—but his mind remained murky, uneasy.

He had kept up appearances with the Bron brothers, always smiling, always polite. But behind those calm eyes, Curtis  had been wrestling with a deeper disquiet.

At least the worry over my family seems to be behind me.

For over a month, he’d kept a low profile—not exactly hiding, but not flaunting his name either. Had anyone been searching for him, they would have found him by now.

No one had come.

That was the whole reason he’d chosen Nijerte. The city was so far removed from the Solar Archipelago, it might as well have been another continent. There was no trade, no gossip, no roads that connected them. It was a dead zone of information.

For the House of Plagius to locate him here, they’d have to unleash an army of spies or spend a fortune on blind searches—and even then, the odds were laughably small.

Still, Curtis  had exercised caution—not because he feared them, but because his luck had never been reliable enough to ignore such threats.

This past month had served as both retreat and trial—living life without servants, without a title, observing the common folk, listening to their tales.

And nothing had happened.

Plagius was in the past.

No, what unsettled Curtis  now was something else entirely.

[Fluid Manipulation – Lv. 39]
[Progress to Next Level: 31%]

He had arrived in Nijerte over a month ago… at Level 39. And here he remained. Still 39. No change.

He remembered clearly: the levels had flowed swiftly during his sea voyage—one per day without fail. Until he reached this one. Until 39.

From that point forward, his growth had all but frozen. No matter how much he practiced, he gained not even a sliver of progress.

At first, he’d shrugged it off. A temporary plateau, perhaps. Mental fatigue. Overtraining. He’d blamed the ship, the lack of challenge.

But a month had passed, and nothing had changed.

His growth had collapsed, falling to less than a hundredth of its former pace.

This isn’t a plateau. This is a wall.

There were two likely reasons.

First—this was his limit. The ceiling of his natural talent. A cruel thought, but not impossible.

Second—this was the limit of training in isolation.

Even in games, you couldn’t level up by swinging at air forever. Practice and battle were not the same. And that truth, it seemed, held firm in this world as well.

Frankly, even reaching 39 through solo training had been absurd.

I can already replicate what the Young Master once showed me…

He had matched Zerion—a mage who had studied since childhood—after less than three months of work.

That alone was ridiculous. The system he possessed was outright unfair.

But perhaps this was the world’s way of nudging him out of the shadows. Perhaps, even the magic itself demanded more than quiet perfection in the dark.

So then… it’s time for live combat.

He didn’t need to advance. Not to survive. At this level, he could play the part of a proper mage, command respect, earn coin.

But to stop now? With such a gift?

No. He had to know.

Could he still earn experience the way he had before—by killing?

Like that assassin, whose death had vaulted him five levels in an instant.

If it worked, great. If not, then he would finally settle. But until he tried…

To be recognized as a mage, battle was inevitable. One way or another, this path could not be avoided.

And so there was no reason to fear it.

Curtis  rinsed off the last of the soap and let the water wash it all away.

Bron Brothers’ Haven—part tavern, part inn—was beloved in the city for offering just enough flavor for just the right coin. A sanctuary of humble excellence.

Fortunately, Curtis  had access to the guest-only tables, separated from the boisterous mercenaries and early drinkers. He could take his time.

“The usual?”

“If you would.”

“One daily special, coming up!”

After over a month of nearly identical orders, they barely needed to speak. The menu changed each day, so Curtis  never had a chance to grow bored.

He savored the dish before him—something coastal, rich with seafood and steam. And as the hour stretched on, the crowd began to thin