Chapter 151: The New Gospel
When the Dwarven miner pushed open the heavy timber doors of the tavern, the familiar, heady scent of frothy ale and roasted fat rushed to meet him.
But something was off. The atmosphere was wrong.
There were no brawls. No sound of shattering glass. Not even the usual loud-mouthed boasting of mercenaries.
There was only laughter. A rhythmic, infectious wave of hysterics that seemed impossible to suppress.
He looked around. At several tables, his usually barrel-chested, grim-faced coworkers were huddled together like Goblins over a hoard of shiny trinkets. Their heads were pressed close, eyes glued to a thin, flimsy-looking pamphlet.
Then, without warning, a burly man slammed his fist onto a table and exploded into a fit of wheezing laughter.
"GAHAHAHA! This Goddess! Is she a total moron?!"
"She used a Divine Blessing to perform street magic?! Just to scam a few coppers for a bottle of cheap booze?! My sides! Hahaha!"
Immediately, the rest of the tavern erupted into a symphony of bizarre, unexplained guffaws.
The miner tilted his head, stepped back out, and closed the door. He looked up at the sign hanging above the threshold.
[The Bone Tavern]
Yep, right place. Is my brain malfunctioning?
He pushed the door open again. The scene remained unchanged. Even the bard in the corner hadn't touched his lute all day. Instead, a group of illiterate residents—those who had dodged the "Mandatory Literacy" classes at the Academy—were staring at him with wide, pleading eyes.
The bard cleared his throat and began reading the text from the pamphlet aloud. As the story progressed, the circle of listeners began to double over, some laughing so hard tears tracked through the soot on their faces.
The miner stood there, a total outsider in an ocean of joy. He shook his head and marched to the bar, slamming his palm onto the wood.
"Old Buck! What the hell has gotten into everyone?!"
Old Buck, the tavern keeper, didn't even look up. He was currently cradling a copy of the same pamphlet, giggling to himself. Hearing the miner, he reached under the counter and tossed a duplicate booklet across the surface.
"It's that 'Novel' thing they were handing out today for free."
The miner snatched up the pamphlet and pulled a crumpled copy from his own grimy pocket—the one he'd almost thrown away earlier. He compared the two.
"They're exactly the same."
He ordered a massive flagon of ale and found a secluded corner. He took a heavy swig, then scanned the room. Everyone was submerged in the world of the book; no one spared him a glance. A prickle of "Fear Of Missing Out" began to itch at the back of his mind.
With a skeptical scowl, he began to read.
Games? Like the 'make-believe' children play?
Shut-in? Like that pathetic loser three doors down whose wife left him and now he refuses to see the sun?
Full of doubt, he turned the first page.
And then, his expression began to undergo a subtle, terrifying metamorphosis.
When the protagonist bragged to the Goddess, only to be mocked with a look of pure "useless" pity, the miner's lip curled into a smirk. When the protagonist used a loophole to drag the screaming Goddess into the other world with him, he let out a short, sharp snort of amusement.
But when that "High and Mighty" deity reached the other world, realize she had zero coin, and began weeping for the protagonist to buy her a meal... he lost it.
SPUTTER—!
A spray of ale erupted from his mouth.
"Hah... hahah... GAHAHAHAHA!"
The miner clutched his stomach, his entire frame vibrating with such force he nearly fell off his stool. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He finally understood!
This is bloody brilliant!
There was no "Hero of Radiant Justice" here. No "Sacred, Untouchable Divinity." There was just a miserable bastard and a Goddess who was a bigger disaster than he was. Their behavior was a perfect mirror of his own unreliable, drunken friends!
This isn't a story, he realized. This is real life!
The miner was hooked. He forgot the time. He forgot his ale. He flipped page after page, greedily devouring this absurd, vibrant world. He watched the protagonist hauling bricks at a construction site. He saw the Goddess performing "Water Spectacles" for change only to be chased off by the City Guard. He read about them screaming at each other over whether to buy meat or cabbage for dinner...
He was reaching the peak of his excitement, his finger habitually reaching to flip to the next page.
Nothing.
The end of the parchment. The back cover.
The story had reached the point where the protagonist finally saved enough money to register at the Adventurer's Guild—only for the Goddess to accidentally blow the entire budget on the way there. And then, it simply... stopped.
"..."
The miner froze. He blinked, turning the last page back and forth in frantic disbelief.
It was over.
A gargantuan, soul-sucking sense of emptiness washed over him.
"THAT'S IT?!"
He slammed his table with the force of an earthquake. The laughter in the tavern died instantly.
"WHERE'S THE REST?!"
His roar acted as a catalyst. A dozen other people who had just reached the final sentence looked up with identical masks of agony.
"Dammit! Mine's finished too!"
"You can't do this to me! I was right there! I was invested!"
"What did that airhead do next?! Did the guy ever register as an adventurer?!"
"I was literally at the best part!"
The bard was the first to leap to his feet. He slammed the novel onto the table with a look of profound artistic betrayal. "This is a crime against literature! A literal soul-curse! How can anyone cut a tale at such a critical juncture?!"
A merchant, who had been laughing at the characters' poverty moments ago, turned a violent shade of red. He snatched a handful of silver coins from his pouch and slapped them onto the bar.
"Who has the sequel?! Ten silvers! No! Twenty!"
"I'll pay thirty!"
"I'll trade my private stash of Dwarven Stout for the next chapter!"
The tavern devolved into madness. The "joyous" atmosphere of a free handout was gone, replaced by a collective, desperate hunger for more.
The Dwarven miner felt like thousands of ants were crawling under his skin. He snatched his book, stood on his chair, and roared:
"WHY ARE WE SITTING HERE?!"
"Those undead lords who gave these out! They must have the rest of the pages! We march to the plaza and we buy them out!"
"YES! FIND THE DEAD MEN!"
"TAKE OUR MONEY!"
"CHARGE!!"
In an instant, every patron in the Bone Tavern abandoned their ale, snatched their "love-hate" manuals, and burst through the doors.
When they hit the street, they realized they weren't alone. From the residential blocks, from the factories, and from every storefront, a tide of humanity was surging toward the Central Plaza. Every person clutched the same pamphlet. Every face wore the same look of frantic, cliffhanger-induced desperation.
Soon, they spotted the crude wooden stage in the square.
The Ghoul in charge was currently directing several skeletons to pack up the empty crates, preparing to call it a day.
"HALT!"
"LORD UNDEAD! STATE THE PRICE FOR THE SEQUEL!"
The Ghoul froze, his jaw hanging open.
Price? Sequel? What the hell are these meat-bags talking about?
He was just a low-level clerk from the Ministry of Literature. He had no idea he had just unleashed the continent's first case of "Binge-Reading Withdrawal."
☆☆☆
-> 20 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Hollowborn
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you