Chapter 7: A Name in a Bottle
He had a theory. Back when Fenrir had mentioned a "grandmaster," the title alone had been enough to make that massive snake hesitate. Someone capable of intimidating a creature like Nythra had to be some kind of a legendary figure, right? A wise sage clad in flowing robes, exuding ancient power? Maybe a battle-hardened warrior who commanded armies with a single word?
But alas... what greeted him was—
'...Seriously?' he thought, blinking at the sight before him.
A disheveled old man was lay sprawled on a worn sofa, with his robes that were rumpled beyond recognition. Half-empty bottles of liquor surrounded him like a personal fortress, and his hand loosely held another drink that swayed with his snoring. His beard was unkempt, his hair was an unruly mess, and he looked like someone who'd lost both a bar fight and his dignity... decades ago.
Fenrir let out a deep, exhausted sigh and padded closer. Without ceremony, he opened his jaw and bit down—not gently—on the old man's foot.
"OW!"
The old man's eyes snapped open as he jolted upright, knocking over several bottles with a clattering cascade. He flailed for a moment before steadying himself, blinking blearily at Fenrir.
"Bloody—! You again?! I've told you there are plenty of ways to wake me up without chewing on my damn foot!"
"Forgive me, Grandmaster." Fenrir rumbled, sounding anything but apologetic.
"We require your guidance. This is... important."
The old man rubbed his face, grumbling under his breath.