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When the man behind the counter reveals himself in a clearer light, a blurry fog clouds Rozell's mind. His face isn't that unfamiliar to him; maybe he is from Mountkirk Village? Lots of villagers grow thin stubble as he does. And almost every man cuts their hair to the point it nearly gets bald.

But he doesn't bring any weapons with him, which Mountkirk's men are best known for. And he also doesn't reek with the smell of Borealm; from the snow, the musty dirt, to the fragrant trees. Which means that this man isn't a hunter.

"D-Do you mean that?" The lean, slightly older man looks to both sides and lowers his voice into a shaky whisper. Rozell steps back with his heart crackling in rapid beats. A few streaks of blood stain the man's fingers, but he doesn't wipe them away. "Because there is someone—or rather, something—I would like to dispose of. And it troubles me a lot, you see."

Rozell tries to calm down by breathing deeply for a few counts, ignoring the man's unfocused brownish-green eyes. The sound of crinkling glass almost makes Rozell dart back to his table and tug Mielle out of this man's sight, but a part of him wants to know more about his curious question.

Is he under the influence of dark power? Or did he drink something from 'Harmful Fizzles'? But he doesn't smell anything like them either.

Rozell shouldn't have said those silly words; was he out of his mind? Why did he sound like an awkward gecko?

"Uh, I'm just here to get some beer," Rozell stammers, grabbing his satchel for additional support. He glances at the rack before continuing, "A cup of beer, please."

Wait, what did I just say?

Rozell's cheeks heat up with embarrassment. The furious dragonflies in his stomach tempt him to bury himself under the frozen lake, but an amused chuckle snaps him out of his daze.

The man loses the crazy darkness in his eyes as he softly slaps the counter while he chuckles. Once his gaze lands on Rozell, he gives the latter a small smile. "Sorry for earlier. It's been one challenging day." He picks a clean towel and slings it over his shoulder while heading to the 'Harmful Fizzles' rack. The other bottles clink like music once he grabs a transparent one, which smells as lulling as the snow in the dusk. "Since you just steer my day in a better direction, you don't have to pay for these."

Rozell gawks until the insides of his cheeks hurt once the bartender slides a circular tray onto the counter. Six little glasses stand on it like kingdom soldiers. "What do you mean? How much are these—twenty coins?"

The bartender snickers. "You're not a local, eh?" He pours into each glass gracefully. "It's so hot at our trading partner's town. Maybe you've heard of Archadel before? And if you look closely, you'll see how tons of exotic fruits are lying around this place." His abrupt chugging into the nearly emptied bottle sends Rozell off-guard. He almost bolts back to where Mielle is, but it's like his boots are being tied with unseen roots. "Beer also keeps pouring in. The whole town might as well get drunk with it, yet there'll still be enough to fill the entire lake."

"Um, yeah, I don't know much about how those work. And thanks." Rozell gently lifts a glass and sips the warm, transparent liquid. He always cringes whenever the strong bitterness seeps into his tongue, but still, he craves for the small amount of sweetness in it. "For these common drinks."

The man's smile stretches wider before he lowers himself back to the floor. "Don't mention. As I said, it's been a brighter day since your silly remark came up."

Rozell catches a tinge of sadness in the man's gaze before he turns away. "I'm sorry you've had a bad day."

Just how bad is it that the word 'kill' could even trigger him? Is it far worse than nearly getting pinned down by some deadly weapons?

"Don't mention." The man's voice briefly shakes again. "It's just so hard to deal with loss. You must've had that moment when"—more glass clinks up again under the counter—"you're not ready to bid someone goodbye, but they have to leave. Knowing that it might not even be their time too makes it even harder to accept."

Rozell sips his second glass slower. A memory of his grandma taking him on a trip around Borealm Woods before she disappeared pops up in his head, but it soon changes into an image of the two men in torches who had climbed the mountain when he was heading here. The memory makes the beer on his tongue tastes more bitter.

Instead of agreeing with the bartender, he mumbles out the question tingling at the back of his head, "Anyway, do you happen to come from Mountkirk?"

"Only my wife remains there. It's where I was born, though." As he heaves himself off the floor with a towel full of shattered glass in his hands, his forehead slowly creases in suspicion. "You can't be from there; I always visit every week, but I never see you around."

Rozell reaches for his third shot as he forces out a smile. "I live in a cottage in Borealm Woods with my grandpa."

"Well then, you must be the little ink-haired boy. Now all grown up, aren't you?" He marches out of the counter and whooshes past Rozell, who now struggles to keep himself steady. After dumping the broken glass, the bartender returns to his spot as stealthy as a fox. "I used to see you carrying a basket around. Once, I even brought you home after Mr. Clam mistook you for a whistling bird and almost shot through your skull."

The tiny friendship eagerness in Rozell's heart wilts. While the man's selflessness and friendly upbringing tempt Rozell to befriend him, he might be responsible too for the dead animals on the Day-Lynx's back.

But didn't he say 'used to'?

"But here I am now, mixing some drinks rather than deciding which traps should I use." The man averts his gaze away from the silently shivering Rozell. Propping his elbows on the smooth counter, he drones on, "Well, it was hard to stop at first. Yet after some time, it gets bearable. But, you know"—when Rozell is about to grab his fourth shot, the man's blank eyes almost make him jump since he looks like a talking statue—"what just happened recently tempts me to return."

Rozell is yet to process the man's words when a slammed glass on the counter grabs his attention. Rozell stops sipping his beer in fear that his sister will do something stupid to make him spray it all over his face.

"Why do you two leave me out of the fun?" Mielle quirks an amused eyebrow at the bartender, who replies with a sheepish smile. But once she turns to Rozell, she turns her sweetness into a sour grimace. "And you. Even though the ice on my drink had melted, you still didn't come back."

"Sorry." Rozell returns his fourth glass to the tray, mustering a guilty grin. "I thought you wouldn't like me drinking these in front of you." Once Mielle's gaze sharpens at the six little glasses as if they're filled with coins, Rozell stammers, "You can't have them yet. You're still a kid."

"A sixteen-year-old kid?" She rolls her eyes, wearing a sly grin on her face. Turning to the bartender again, she gestures at her empty, brown-stained glass. "I'll have one-sixth of what you gave him, Oxen."

The bartender—Oxen—gives Rozell a guilty smile as he treads back to 'Harmful Fizzles'. "Sorry, bud. My second income depends on her and her future sightings. Your sister—or lover?—here has a good trick of 'robbing' people's pockets."

"Lover?" Rozell chokes on his saliva, spitting out the remaining bitterness out of his tongue. His chest now feels too warm, as if a lantern lights it up. And his eyelids are getting heavier than the animals he carries daily on his back. "She just happens to be a household's critter."

"Huh. This critter is planning a scheme for you, Brother." Once Oxen places her glass back in front of her, she immediately finishes it in one gulp, causing both the men to gasp. She even licks her lips after drinking it, to Rozell's horror. "There's another reason why I brought you here. Still related to art, though."

"Related to art?" Oxen leans forward on the counter, his droopy eyes fluttering intensely. "We trade some fine arts here. Not my part of the deal, though." He slowly tilts his head to the left side of the counter, where a hidden door is wedged against the wall.

Rozell can only wait with bated breath as Oxen claps a few times, the sound echoing like thunder splitting the sky. When he gingerly picks his fifth shot and sips the beer, he no longer feels comforted by the warmth. Instead, the dragonflies from earlier bat their wings against his middle, as if urging to burst through along with bits of his anxiety.

The hidden door opens, allowing an old, thickly-mantled woman to waltz out. Her steps are fragile as if she might crumble into dust any time. Once her lizard-like eyes rest on the pair of visitors, then to Oxen, her voice rings firm and bold. "Welcome to Oxen and Celine's Replenishing Drinks—"

"Come on, Mother C, they've been here for a while. This boy has something to offer."

"What? No." Rozell almost spits out his beer but quickly swallows it. He slams his glass back on the tray, trying to focus his blurring view on the plump, older woman. "I... I meant to visit the local display—"

"And let them underpay you?" Mrs. Celine approaches Rozell with her narrowing eyes. No white hair has poked out of her head; she's not old enough to be Grandpa's suitor.

Wait, what did I just think? Am I slowly going mad?

As if answering it, a sharp headache briefly slices through his forehead.

The beer must drive me mad. It sure is some harmful fizzle.

"The local display won't be so kind to youngsters like you. They already have some well-known experts to provide them with daily displays; they won't expect much from the younger ones unless you've had a sprouting name already."

The words send a huge jab to Rozell's chest. As much as his tongue begs to differ, he knows that Mrs. Celine is true. These past few years, the most he can earn on a piece of paintgraph is fifteen coins—at least one-third of the display's usual deals. Yes, it has no paintgraphs in their collection yet, but they haven't reached him any further.

He used to think that his paintgraphs aren't that unique. But if he can still grow fond of them after not seeing them for so long, the display might be the one to blame.

In the end, after setting his ego aside and gulps down a big lump of saliva, he mumbles weakly, "You're right about that." He doesn't dare to face her possibly triumphant face, so he stares at the floor instead. "But why won't you underpay me as well? I don't have a name yet. And wait until you see what I've got."

When Mielle nudges his elbow and hints at him to look up, he finds himself drawn into the older woman's abundant smile—the one with the eyes closed. "Because I'll pay equal to my first impression on your art. And if I pay far above my standard, your art deserves its corner in this hut."

It's all Mrs. Celine needs to clear the disturbing fog from Rozell's head while brushing away the remains of Oxen's curious behavior from earlier as well.

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"Could this day get any better?" Mielle treads with light bounces in her steps as if the air lifts her slowly. "Not only I got at least thirty coins from the match, but you also got one-hundred-and-fifteen!" She giggles, imitating the clinking of the coins. Not even the bumbling people around her and Rozell can snap her out of her mood. "Can you imagine how the local display will react, knowing she spent all that on you?"

"Quit it." Rozell swats her slapping hand away, still grinning to himself. He also walks a lot lighter than usual, though his satchel is heavier than before. It now contains additional forty coins for the Day-Lynx, another forty for both Avoridge Town and the cliff, nineteen for the lined-up trees and the hunters in Borealm Woods, and sixteen for the view outside his bedroom window.

Not even his wildest imagination dares to venture this far. Forty coins are now the record for an individual paintgraph. He had felt like soaring to the sky once the number left Mrs. Celine's lips.Once they reach the front porch of their cottage, which is a lot smaller than Grandpa's, Mielle bursts through the door like a storm. When Rozell peeks through, he meets Grandpa and Ma's startled faces, as if they've just seen a ghost turning into a human.

But no one steps forward to hug him for coming this far so late at night. There's something wrong, and Rozell slightly tenses up. Their eyes hold concern, with bits of worries in their unfocused gazes.

Not even Grandpa climbs off the couch to ask him what brings him here. Or if he has prepared the ingredients for a deer sandwich.

Once he closes the heavy door, Mielle is ready to unload her cannon of a mouth before Rozell steps in, "Is something wrong with you two?"

Mielle's childish joy retreats from her face as she stares at Grandpa and Ma's exchanged glances. "Uh, you two don't seem like yourselves. Aren't you supposed to ramble on something that needs fixing here, Grandpa?" She offers them a dry chuckle, but none of them picks the bait. "Don't you always scold me whenever I come home this late, Ma? Something like 'where have you been'?"

But it's like the two barely have souls left in their bodies. They stare at the siblings like sitting statues, whose tongues have been made of stone as well. Only Grandpa's fidgeting on his shirt and Ma's restless eyes show that they're still alive.

Rozell's heart no longer beats with anticipation but with dread. They must be preparing to break the terrible news. When Grandpa told Pa and Ma that Grandma was gone, he had worn a similar expression.

"Haven't you heard? The streets are all buzzing with it," Ma only whispers, yet it sounds like the entire cottage can hear it. "Mountkirk Village just lit some candles at the top of the mountain. They've just reported an unusual death—the first one after Grandma's. And this time, the name starts with O."

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Total Word Count: 14,425