"Can I ask you something privately?" Lanche said.

Wenbess nodded, slightly intrigued by his question.

The old mercenary chuckled, "Kid, why not ask what to do if you’ve got no talent? Can you still get stronger?"

This drew every mercenary’s gaze—it hit close to home.

"If that’s your question, I’ll answer now," Wenbess smiled.

"Each race’s talent is set by the gods. Unless you ascend to the heavens and wish to the Supreme God, or gain another power’s blessing, it can’t be changed."

Disappointment spread. They knew fate was fixed, yet still hoped to bend it.

"Is that what you wanted?" Wenbess asked Lanche.

"No," Lanche grinned. "I want to know—have you ever seen a god? Or in your long life, what are gods truly like?"

Silence swallowed the room.

Lanche ignored the others, gazing sincerely at Wenbess.

"Uh... I... I can’t answer that," Wenbess stammered, flustered.

"Lanche, don’t push it," Dais said gently, unlike his harsh tone with the old man.

"Ask elsewhere! Don’t drag us into this!" the old mercenary urged.

"Blast it, I’m leaving—before a light beam strikes and sends us all to meet the gods!" Everyone nervously scanned the ceiling.

"Haha, just kidding! Actually, I wanted your measurements?" Lanche joked, then turned serious.

"That’s fine," Wenbess sighed in relief. "86, 54, 90... wait, no!"

She flushed crimson, glaring at him.

Lanche chuckled—this elf was surprisingly innocent.

He glanced her over: tall, flat-chested, slim-waisted, with a perky rear.

"Haha! Sly Lanche!" the old mercenary roared.

"Seriously, Lanche’s such a pervert," Tahina sighed, shaking her head.

"He’s even married..." she muttered under her breath.

The mercenaries burst into laughter, instantly forgetting the gods.

They had to forget—or they’d need church prayers to calm their nerves.

Wenbess felt tricked, her face burning as she glared at Lanche.

"Alright, no joking about gods from now on," Dais said, smiling but stern with Lanche.

"Got it," Lanche grinned.

"Come out here!" Wenbess demanded.

"Wenbess, spare him—he meant no harm," Dais pleaded softly.

"It’s not that. You wanted to know about gods? I’ll tell you privately," Wenbess said sweetly to Lanche.

"Wenbess, this isn’t a joke," Dais sighed, having warned them repeatedly.

"Let’s see if he dares to listen," Wenbess challenged.

"Of course. Lead the way," Lanche smiled.

He left the tavern first; Wenbess followed.

Inside, the others exchanged uneasy glances.

"He’s done it again," the old mercenary muttered.

Others chuckled helplessly.

They couldn’t fathom why Lanche—a useless guy—was so reckless. In a way, he was talented.

Lanche led Wenbess to a quiet riverside spot with a clear view.

"Alright, tell me," Lanche stopped, turning to her.

"You really want to know?" Wenbess hesitated; he seemed serious.

"Yes," Lanche nodded.

"N-no, I can’t say," Wenbess stepped back half a pace.

Lanche sighed. Even noble Elvenfolk avoided speaking of gods.

Not knowing their nature had always unsettled him.

"Fine, I won’t force you," he said.

"Why ask about gods?" Wenbess glared, flushed with shame. A centuries-old elf, humiliated by a human boy.

"Curiosity," Lanche shrugged.

"I don’t believe you!" Wenbess snorted.

"What else could it be?" Lanche spread his hands.

Wenbess had no reply, but intuition screamed this wasn’t mere curiosity.

She studied him. "I’ll figure out what you are."

"Just a curious, useless human," Lanche declared proudly.

Wenbess snorted, unconvinced.

"I’ve decided to stay here!" she announced smugly.

"You’ve got secrets. I’ve got time," she said, unsure if it was for secrets or saving face.

"Really? Perfect—I haven’t had enough of a beautiful Elvenfolk girl like you," Lanche grinned.

"Tch, smooth talker," Wenbess huffed.

She turned back to the tavern, intent on digging up Lanche’s past.

He’d caught her attention.

Lanche didn’t mind. Her staying meant chances to pry info from her.

At home, he asked Sileus, who agreed, and arranged a fresh batch of malt beer for the tavern—keeping his promise.

He was always generous with surplus.

When prosperous, help others; when poor, cultivate oneself.

Sileus agreed but sighed. "Honestly, we’ve hit another problem."

"What is it?" Lanche asked knowingly.

Sileus smiled wryly. "Production’s still short. Equipment, brewery deals, and workers are fine—but materials failed us."

"Malt beer needs barley and herbs. One herb, ‘Grut,’ is essential. Without it, no brew. Many lords control its trade."

Lanche understood: Gorde had sanctioned them.

"Our brewery can’t buy Grut now. Soon, we’ll run dry," Sileus said.

"What about buying beer from others and distilling it?" Lanche asked.

"No luck. The two big guilds teamed up. Unless we hand over distillation tech, we can’t buy Grut or beer," Sileus sighed.

"The young lady hasn’t slept from worry," he added sadly.

Lanche shrugged helplessly. "I can’t fix that."

"Alright, I was just informing you," Sileus smiled, not asking for help. He bowed politely and left.

But it was clearly intentional.

"Don’t expect me to fix it," Lanche thought.

Aren’t I just a useless guy wanting a useless life?