I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World
Chapter 140: Bar

Chapter 140: Bar

The tavern sat just two streets down from the guildhall, nestled between an apothecary and a blacksmith’s shop. By day it served stew and ale to apprentices and wandering traders, but by night, it belonged to adventurers.

Tonight, it was full.

Full of noise. Full of smoke. Full of stories that grew taller with each drink.

And now, it was full of Inigo’s squad.

The door swung open with a heavy creak as the group stepped inside, still bearing the grime of battle—some had cleaned their faces at least, others didn’t bother. They were too tired, too proud, too alive to care about appearances.

The barkeep, a thick-armed man named Gerren, looked up from polishing a mug. His expression changed when he saw them—equal parts surprise and recognition.

"Well, gods damn," he said. "Thought I heard fireworks. That was you lot?"

Sark grinned. "You could say that."

"I heard you cleared the Ruined Temple." Gerren glanced toward the kitchen and shouted, "Rika! Bring out the big trays!"

Lyra stepped forward and gave a sheepish wave. "Just something light."

Gerren raised a brow. "Light? You people just murdered a Herald."

"They started it," Meryl muttered, settling into a bench near the hearth.

Tables were pushed aside to give them space. Other adventurers scooted over without complaint. Some even raised their mugs in salute.

Hal dropped into a chair with a satisfied groan. "My back’s still sore from hauling Sark’s big ass up the cliff."

"Excuse you," Sark replied. "I climbed that cliff like a nimble mountain goat."

Brenna snorted. "A goat with bricks strapped to its legs, maybe."

Plates began arriving within minutes—heaping portions of roasted venison, buttered root vegetables, thick-cut bread, and bowls of herbed stew. Jugs of ale followed, frothing at the brim. It smelled heavenly.

Inigo took the head of the table out of habit, letting the others fan out to their usual spots. Lyra took the seat beside him and handed him a tankard.

"Drink," she said simply.

He did. The bitterness hit first, then the smooth, rich finish. It wasn’t ration water, or trail wine. It was real. Earned.

The first few minutes passed in simple silence, everyone digging in. No speeches. No toasts. Just chewing, slurping, and the occasional grunt of satisfaction.

Until Feron cleared his throat.

"I reviewed the rune data while we were walking back," he said, licking broth from his fingers. "The Herald’s glyphs—they weren’t native to this plane."

Inigo raised a brow. "You saying it came from another world?"

"Or dimension," Feron replied. "There was layering in the etchings, recursive designs that only occur in transplanar magic. Someone wanted that thing imprisoned. But also... ready."

Lyra leaned forward. "Ready for what?"

Feron hesitated. "Resurgence. Revival. Maybe even resurrection of that dead pantheon. The orb we recovered was only one node in a larger network. My guess? There are more shrines. More Heralds."

The table went quiet.

Inigo set his mug down. "So we’ve only just started."

Meryl stabbed her fork into a potato. "Sounds like job security."

Brenna raised her mug. "To future nightmares!"

Everyone groaned, but they drank anyway.

It was Hal who broke the mood. "You know... I didn’t think it would work. The guns, I mean."

All eyes shifted toward him.

"I mean, sure, they’re loud, powerful, flashy. But this world—it runs on mana. On elements. I always thought we were just pretending. Like kids with toys trying to play soldier."

He looked at Inigo.

"But we won."

Inigo didn’t smile. "We didn’t just win. We adapted. That’s what matters."

Lyra nodded. "Old ways don’t always fit new threats."

Sark clanked his tankard against Inigo’s. "You were right, boss. The drills, the formations, the gear... they saved our asses."

"I’ll drink to that," Hal added.

More tankards met in the air.

To the side, other adventurers leaned in, eavesdropping openly now. Some had already seen the aftermath at the guild, the posting of Inigo’s squad’s promotion to S-Rank. The rest would hear about it tomorrow.

A younger adventurer from a nearby table leaned over. "Hey... uh... sorry to interrupt. But was it true you shot it with some kind of launcher? Blew the Herald into a wall?"

Inigo glanced sideways. "Yes. Twice. Didn’t stop it."

The young man blinked. "Twice?"

Lyra added, "Regeneration. The thing needed to be taken apart piece by piece."

The adventurer sat back, stunned. His companion whispered, "Told you. Guns work."

Another voice piped in. "Can anyone learn that stuff? The formations? The tactics?"

Sark turned in his chair. "Anyone can. Most don’t."

"But we’re thinking of offering lessons," Inigo said, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. "Formations. Fire control. Proper reload cycles."

More heads turned.

Feron leaned over to Inigo and whispered, "You’re starting a school now?"

"Not a school," he murmured back. "A movement."

"Gods help us," Brenna muttered with a grin.

The door opened again, and Gerren returned with a final tray—meats smoked in spiced oil and honey-glazed bread slices. He plunked it down at the center.

"On the house," he said. "You all earned it."

"Thanks," Inigo said sincerely.

The barkeep shrugged. "One condition."

Everyone paused.

"You come back alive next time too."

There was a beat.

Then Sark raised his mug again. "Now that’s a toast."

"To coming back alive," Lyra said, touching her mug to his.

They drank.

The night stretched on.

More adventurers joined the circle. Some asked questions—what’s a suppressive fire line? What’s the best way to breach a cursed tomb with only five rifles? Is it true RPGs can kill a dragon?

"No idea," Inigo answered that one. "But I’d like to try."

There was laughter, and talk, and food. It didn’t matter that they were sore, or that the world was still filled with hidden horrors. For tonight, they had each other. And something else too.

Recognition.

Respect.

A new way of doing things had been born—and everyone could feel it.

Lyra nudged Inigo after the third refill. "So. Speech time?"

He blinked. "Now?"

"Gerren said you’d give one," she lied.

The barkeep waved from behind the bar, clearly not denying it.

Inigo sighed, stood, and raised his mug.

The room slowly quieted.

"We went into that temple expecting ruins. We found hell. And we survived—not because of luck or divine blessing—but because we fought as one."

He let the silence stretch.

"I don’t care if you use a bow, a blade, or a bullet. What matters is that you train. You prepare. You cover your squad, and they cover you. That’s how you survive."

He lifted the mug higher.

"To adaptation."

"To victory," Sark called out.

"To the new era," Feron added.

They drank one final time.

And when Inigo sat down, Lyra smiled. "Not bad. A little dramatic."

"I’m tired," he muttered. "Leave me alone."

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Never."

Later that night, they left in pairs—some stumbling, others walking straight but quiet. The city was calm, stars peeking out above the watchtowers.

Tomorrow, the work would resume.

New recruits.

New threats.

New tactics.