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Immortal Freeloader 12
🕑 Added 2023-12-16 15:47:22 +0000 UTC“It’s shocking just how good it feels to finally be clean, and slept in a proper bed,” I said even as I checked myself in the mirror, making sure nothing was out of order. The first set of clothing I had ordered arrived while I slept, and now I was about to go out.
It was barely evening, and I slept less than I had been dreaming … unfortunately, the physical improvement from Martial Arts meant that ten hours of sleep was more than enough to get rid of the exhaustion I accumulated several days.
At least, the physical portion. The same didn’t apply to the mental part, but I had never been someone who could relax by staying locked in a room.
… not when I was alone.
“Have you reserved a table at the Blossom teahouse?” I asked the waitress once I went downstairs, the book about the poems I had ordered already in hand. A little nerdier than I preferred, but in a world filled with Martial Artists, I doubted wearing a tight t-shirt would give me my usual mileage.
I wasn’t stupid enough to ignore Marana’s suggestion and reveal my knowledge of Tiger Fist. Not unless it was a literal life-and-death situation.
“Yes, sir, it’s arranged, along with a carriage,” she said, smiling happily. She certainly should with the amount of tip I had been dropping. Looking rich and irresponsible was not a cheap affair. The clothes, the room, the tips, I had already spent over twenty gold before I even stepped out.
Getting the attention of a rich and beautiful woman was not a simple process. Looks weren’t enough. In a way, especially during the first steps, I was holding the same function as an expensive handbag. Technically functional, but really about the branding value.
For the same reason, I ignored the subtle signs from the waitress, implying she would be happy to serve me in a more intimate manner. A reputation for sleeping around would only reduce my value.
If I was going to be a trophy, I needed to be the one to be chased.
A five-minute ride in a four-horse carriage cost me another half of a gold coin, but once again, it was needed.
It was already evening, but the streets were not dark, with several torches that were spread around the road, though they were too bright and uniform to be normal. After a glance, I ignored them, and focused on the book of poems. With one good, and bad thing.
The good thing, apparently poems, ancient sayings, and parables were culturally a very important part of the language, enough for the language jade to include a general understanding of them. I could feel that it was nowhere near the level an actual scholar had to possess … but then, I was supposed to be a rich kid with the title of a scholar.
Equivalent to a guy who was admitted to Harvard because his father granted the school ten million dollars. Title was compulsory, and competency was optional.
The problem lay in the poetry book. Apparently, it was written by one of the previous city lords, about the beauty of the city. Even with my limited understanding, I could see their terribleness, but I couldn’t say that.
“Welcome, young master,” someone greeted me at the entrance of the tea shop, leading me to a table on the second floor, some kind of balcony that allowed me to look down at the first floor. The lighting was designed carefully to highlight the people that were seated, to reinforce the subtle message that they were superior to the guests on the first floor.
An interesting trick.
I ordered a pot of tea, ignoring the annoyance I felt from the price. Two gold coins … and that was when I ordered one of the middle-grade ones. Tea was similar to wine in this new world, pointlessly expensive, but important to distinguish the classes between rich people.
So, when their equivalent of a sommelier came with a steaming pot of tea, and served me a cup after a small ceremony that lasted about a minute, I took a sip. It had a bitter and sharp taste. It was layered and strong, even more complex than some of the more expensive wines I drank while I was dining with my rich lady friends.
I hated it, just like I hated those expensive wines that required years of classes to appreciate. The teas of this new world were clearly the same acquired taste that required a lot of studying to appreciate.
A waste of time, but I couldn’t say that without ruining the fake persona of a traveling young master. Unfortunately, the waitress also expected some kind of comment.
“Passable,” I said and made a dismissive gesture, doing my best to channel the attitude of a snob who didn’t find his favorite vintage, and had to settle for an inferior one. I couldn’t take the risk of describing in detail even if I had some classical phrases, because I did not know which aroma overlapped with which part.
It was not a problem distinguishing the aromas. That part was handled by my Martial Cultivation, which increased my tastebuds. Not to the level of my direct strength, but the improvement was still decent.
Maybe in the future, if I could find someone to give me a lesson as a gift, the System could handle the rest.
I sipped the tea slowly while reading, acting like I was too focused on the book to pay attention to my surroundings, especially the gossip about me. There weren’t many customers on the second floor, but the few were focusing on me, throwing theories about which city I had come from based on my looks and behavior.
The people on the first floor were even more reckless, creating theories about why a rich young master was traveling alone, confident that I couldn’t hear them when they whispered. Well, I could, easily. Some thought that I was running away from an arranged marriage, some guessed some kind of internal family issue, and some even claimed that I was clearly a true scholar and wanted to experience life.
A few even theorized that I was a hidden Martial Arts master, but deliberately hiding to get inspiration. I was glad that those had been silenced easily.
An hour later, my pot of tea was long cooled down, untouched other than a half-finished cup. A waste, but I hated the taste, so I wasn’t in a hurry to finish it. More importantly, even if I truly enjoyed it, I wouldn’t have consumed more than one cup.
I needed to be a rich young master who’s slumming, ‘giving face’ by drinking garbage — even if that garbage cost more than the yearly income of an entire village.
The income gap in this new world was truly ridiculous.
Soon, the waitress came again, carrying a new pot of tea, the smell even more bitter and disgusting, but from the fancy material of the teapot, it was clearly more expensive than what I had purchased earlier. “A welcome gift from our valuable guests,” the waitress said as she pointed downstairs, where two women in their forties had been sitting. They were dressed well, but from the way the other people glanced at them, I guessed their social class was not particularly high.
The moment I touched the pot, a notification appeared.
[Pity Bonus - 4]
[4x Return - Blue Pear-Blossom Tea, Mortal Low-Grade]
“Generosity is always appreciated,” I said. “May this scholar Arthanum read them a poem in return,” I said, but made no move to actually stand up and join them, which I also used to finally give them a fake name.
“That would be the honor of this poor establishment, young master,” she said.
“Excellent,” I said, loud enough for the people on the first floor to hear. I could see the older ladies who sent me that gift looking disappointed. They clearly hoped for me. Unfortunately for them, they were neither rich nor strong enough to make it worth it.
And I didn’t work hard on my bait to settle for canned tuna.
“Let me read a poem that was written by one of the past lords of the city.” I took a deep breath, putting the cadence of my voice to perfection — another thing my Martial cultivation helped — let my magically-sourced language capabilities channel into my voice, and spoke.
“Stone walls rise, tall and steep; defying wind, and frost, they will not yield. Bricks and stones stacked, strong as iron; protecting Markas, peace and joy they keep.”
Honestly, I didn’t need my extra magical context to know the poem was bad, but no one could say that and insult one of the old lords of the city. Also, as a foreigner, reading a poem glorifying their city was always good. A little nod to their hometown pride.
What did the work was my perfect cadence and delivery. My voice was smoother than I could ever thought possible, conveying the emotions that the writer tried to create but failed.
The place fell silent for a moment, shocked before they started clapping. Once that ended and I returned to my reading, the gossip was more heated than ever.
