Reborn as an Adventurer: I Gain a Skill From Every Monster I Eat

Chapter 120: Chapter 120 — Market Town

The town announced itself long before Arlen actually reached it — the trail widening into a proper road, wagon traffic increasing steadily over the course of his twelfth day out, until he finally crested a low hill and found. Millhaven spread out below him, considerably larger than Thistledown, a proper market town built along the banks of a wide, slow-moving river.

He made his way down into the town’s outskirts as afternoon settled over the rooftops, and found himself, walking through streets considerably busier than anything he’d encountered since Greyhaven, genuinely struck by the sheer diversity of faces around him — not just human, but a good number of halflings moving through the market stalls with brisk, practical efficiency, and, considerably less common in his experience, several orcs working alongside human laborers at what looked like a busy grain warehouse near the town’s center.

He found the town’s guild outpost easily enough, a modest but well-maintained building near the market square, considerably smaller than Greyhaven’s own guild hall but carrying the same familiar, unmistakable atmosphere.

”Afternoon,” the receptionist said, a halfling woman with sharp, curious eyes, looking up from her paperwork as he entered. ”Passing through, or looking for local work?”

”Passing through,” Arlen said. ”Though I did want to report something first, if there’s a proper channel for it. Encountered a moor-wraith two days back, out on the misty stretch east of here.”

The receptionist’s expression sharpened with immediate professional interest. ”Confirmed sighting? Those don’t come through official reports often — rare enough that most people who claim to see one are mistaken about something else entirely.”

”Confirmed. Fought it directly, actually — physical strikes barely touched it, but heat-based Aura technique drove it off.” Arlen described the encounter carefully, the same methodical documentation habit he’d built across a year of careful reporting. ”Wanted local travelers to have proper warning, if it’s still active in that area.”

”Appreciated, genuinely.” She made careful notes as he spoke. ”I’ll have this posted for other adventurers and flagged for travelers passing through that stretch. You said heat proved effective?”

”Considerably more than steel alone.”

”Useful detail. I’ll make sure it’s noted properly in the regional bestiary update, credited to your account.” She glanced up at him with renewed curiosity. ”You’re not local. Where are you traveling from?”

”Ashen Frontier, originally. Heading toward Aurenholt, eventually.”

”Long road, taking the scenic route by the look of your pace.” She offered a genuine, approving smile. ”Welcome to Millhaven, then. Rank D confirmed Awakened, I take it, given how you handled that wraith?”

”That’s right.”

”Good. We don’t get much traffic from adventurers your rank passing through purely for the journey’s sake — most are either locals or hurrying toward the capital without a second glance. Refreshing change.”

He thanked her and made his way back out into the market square, the afternoon light slanting warm across the busy stalls, and found himself drawn immediately toward the particular, unfamiliar smells drifting from a cluster of food vendors near the square’s center.

A halfling baker’s stall caught his attention first, the proprietor — a round, cheerful woman with flour-dusted hands — arranging fresh loaves with evident pride.

”You look like a man who appreciates good bread,” she said, catching him studying the display. ”Riverbread, we call it. Uses the silt-grain that grows along the Millhaven banks — different than upland wheat, sweeter, holds moisture better.”

Arlen purchased a loaf, tearing off a piece to sample immediately, and found the flavor genuinely distinct from anything he’d tasted before — a subtle, honeyed sweetness beneath the bread’s hearty texture that paired remarkably well with the memory of Widow Hallon’s hillroot stew.

”This is excellent,” he said honestly. ”I don’t suppose you’d share where the grain itself comes from? I like understanding ingredients properly, not just the finished dish.”

The baker studied him with pleased surprise. ”Grows in the shallows, just past the town’s eastern bridge. Halfling families have cultivated it for generations — secret’s mostly in the timing of the harvest, catching it before the river’s autumn rise.”

He continued through the market with genuine, unhurried curiosity, finding a stall run by one of the orcs he’d noticed earlier — a broad-shouldered man selling smoked river fish, his craft evident in the careful, practiced way he tended the smoking racks behind his stall.

”Fresh catch, smoked proper,” the orc said, his deep voice carrying an easy, professional warmth. ”Name’s Grosk. Been running this stall fifteen years, longer than most Millhaven families been settled here.”

”Arlen. This smells remarkable.”

”Should. Secret’s in the wood — river willow, not the ordinary oak most smokehouses use. Gives it a lighter flavor, doesn’t overpower the fish the way heavier wood tends to.” Grosk sliced off a generous sample, offering it with evident pride.

Arlen sampled it, and found the flavor genuinely delicate, the smoke present but restrained in a way that let the fish’s own character remain clearly evident. ”This is wonderful. Different technique than anything I’ve encountered.”

”Most travelers don’t bother asking why something tastes good, just eat it and move along.” Grosk studied him with genuine curiosity. ”You collect this sort of thing? Recipes, techniques?”

”Something like a hobby, yes. Been documenting food and cooking methods since I first started adventuring properly.”

”Unusual hobby for a man carrying a sword.” Grosk’s expression carried genuine approval regardless. ”Buy a portion, if you’re interested. I’ll throw in the willow-smoking technique for free, seeing as you’re the first traveler all season who’s actually asked a proper question about it.”

Arlen purchased a generous portion, and spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering Millhaven’s market with the same genuine, unhurried curiosity he’d brought to every stop along this journey — sampling unfamiliar spices at a halfling herbalist’s stall, watching orc craftsmen work leather at a tannery near the town’s edge, observing the particular, easy integration of different peoples going about their ordinary business without any of the careful, deliberate diversity he’d sometimes noticed in Greyhaven’s more consciously multicultural guild district.

This just is what it is, here, he thought, watching a halfling child and a young orc boy chase each other through the market square with the easy, unselfconscious friendship of children who’d simply grown up alongside each other. Nobody’s performing tolerance. It’s simply how the town works.

He found lodging that evening at a modest inn near the market square, considerably more comfortable than his usual roadside camps, and treated himself to a proper meal in the inn’s common room — river fish prepared with local spices, riverbread on the side, a meal that felt, after nearly two weeks of trail rations supplemented by whatever he’d managed to forage or purchase along the way, genuinely luxurious.

He wrote at length in his journal that evening, the entry carrying the same rich, detailed quality that had characterized his best reflections since departure.

Millhaven. Reported the moor-wraith properly to the local guild outpost — receptionist seemed genuinely grateful for the confirmed sighting, said she’d flag it for other travelers and credit the bestiary update to my account. Good feeling, contributing something useful even this far from Greyhaven.

Halflings and orcs living and working alongside each other here in a way that feels entirely unremarkable to everyone involved — no performance to it, simply the ordinary texture of daily life. Grosk’s smoked river fish, willow-wood technique, genuinely different from anything I’ve prepared myself. The baker’s riverbread, sweet and hearty, grown from silt-grain harvested by generations of the same halfling families.

I keep thinking about what the weaver in Thistledown told me — that most travelers pass through without a second glance at anything smaller than the capital. I’m glad I’m not one of them. Every stop so far has taught me something I’d have missed entirely, moving faster.

Two weeks out now. A moor-wraith survived, new recipes documented, a proper bed for one night before the road continues. I find myself more certain than ever that this slow, deliberate pace was exactly the right choice.

He closed the journal, the inn’s comfortable warmth settling around him after so many nights spent beneath open sky, and found himself, despite the day’s accumulated novelty, genuinely looking forward to whatever the continued road toward Aurenholt still had waiting for him.