Mrs. Higgins surveyed the pouch of one hundred silver coins with the shrewd, avian intensity of a hawk weighing a field mouse. She extracted a singular coin, the metal glinting under the dim hallway lantern, and sank her remaining teeth into it. Satisfied by the resistance of honest silver, she swept the bounty into the depths of her apron.
"The debt is settled, Leonard," she croaked, her gaze darting to the three towering figures blocking her threshold. "But heed me: if that iron-clad leviathan of yours decides to perform another midnight percussion set against the floorboards, the rent doubles. I'm too old for 'earthquakes' at two in the morning."
"Sleepwalking, Mrs. Higgins," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "A common affliction among the martially gifted."
In truth, a midnight lag spike had transformed a dream of a plummeting turnip into a kinetic catastrophe. My brain had misfired, sending a "dodge" command to Leon, who had promptly somersaulted out of bed and through a solid oak wardrobe.
The door slammed with a finality that rattled my teeth.
"And just like that," I sighed, the sound echoing through my three throats, "the Syndicate is once again the wealthiest group of paupers in Sameroth."
"Lord Leo?"
The voice was a tiny, crystalline chirp. We turned in a clumsy, rotating phalanx—a movement so poorly coordinated that my main body shouldered the Knight, who staggered into the Mage, creating a rhythmic clatter of leather and mythril. Clara stood at the base of the stairs, her silver hair shimmering in the gloom, her eyes wide with a devotion that bordered on the fanatical.
"In honor of your... your transcendental display at the Temple," she squeaked, "I humbly request the honor of hosting a celebratory feast! The Boar & Barrel is just a stone's throw away!"
My survival instinct screamed a refusal. Socializing with a fractured psyche is like performing surgery with a sledgehammer. But then, the void within us spoke. A cavernous, subterranean growl erupted from my stomach. A millisecond later, Leon's midsection roared in response, followed by the high-pitched gurgle of Leonel's empty gut. The acoustic resonance of three starving bodies in a narrow corridor sounded like a funeral dirge for a shipwrecked whale.
"A tavern," I (Leo) declared, wrapping my hunger in a cloak of solemnity. "A suitable arena for reflection."
The Boar & Barrel was a riot of sensory violence. It smelled of scorched hog, stale yeast, and the desperate sweat of low-rank mercenaries. When the Cerberus Syndicate crossed the threshold, the roar of the crowd dipped into a respectful murmur, only to surge back into a cacophony of clinking glass and raucous laughter once we claimed a corner booth.
Clara arrived at the table bearing three massive, iron-rimmed tankards, the foam cascading down the sides like a miniature avalanche.
"Dwarven Fire-Ale!" she announced, her face flushed with pride. "The strongest vintage in the province! A draught worthy of legends!"
I stared into the bubbling, amber abyss of the liquid.
The [Trinity Soul] is a biological trap. We share a neural architecture; we share a chemical destiny. If I drink a cup of tea, I feel a gentle lift. If Leon drinks a cup, the caffeine hits my central brain a second time. If all three of us partake, my heart begins to beat with the frantic rhythm of a hummingbird trapped in a glass jar.
Alcohol, therefore, was a forbidden sorcery.
One sip, I coached my fractured mind. Maintain the fiction. Be the legend.
I lifted the mug. The first draught was magnificent—a liquid sun of fermented wheat that burned a trail of warmth down my throat.
"Ah," I exhaled, the tension in my main body beginning to thaw.
"Is it to your liking?" Elara beamed. "Please, Sir Knight, Sir Mage—do not let the ale go flat!"
Under the scorching heat of her expectations, I crumbled. I couldn't insult the girl's meager silver. I commanded Leon to drink. I commanded Leonel to swallow.
The moment the Fire-Ale touched their tongues, the chemical signals converged in my shared consciousness like three runaway freight trains colliding at a junction. A single mug of Fire-Ale is enough to stagger an ogre. Three mugs, processed simultaneously by a single brain, was a neurological apocalypse.
The tavern music slowed, stretching into a low, underwater thrum. My vision began to fray at the edges, dissolving into a kaleidoscopic blur. A profound, weeping affection for the world surged through me.
"We..." I slurred, my tongue feeling like a heavy, wet sponge. "...are fundamentally... excellent."
Leon offered a deep, resonant grunt of agreement. Leonel simply stared at the grain of the wooden table as if it contained the secrets of the gods.
"Indeed you are!" Clara cried, oblivious to the fact that my pupils were currently the size of inkwells.
"Well, well. If it isn't the 'gods' of the turnip patch."
A voice like grinding gravel shattered my drunken euphoria. I turned my head with the agonizing slowness of a tectonic plate. Three men stood over us, draped in the crimson pelts of wolves, their faces etched with the scars of a dozen unnecessary brawls.
"The Crimson Fangs," Clara whispered, the color draining from her face. "A-Rank bullies..."
The leader, a bald titan with a battleaxe strapped to his back, leaned over the table, his breath a sour cloud of onions and spite. "I heard a rumor, Leo. I heard the SSS-Rank Vanguard spends his days pulling roots for peasants and fainting at the sight of a common hornet."
The tavern fell into a breathless hush.
Danger, my pickled brain registered. Defend. Stand. Look... intimidating.
I attempted to send a global "Stand and Draw" command. But the neural pathways were submerged in Fire-Ale; the file was corrupted in transit.
"Listen, friend," I slurred, my words bleeding into a single, incoherent stream. "Turnips... have... essential... micronutrients. Respect the... fiber."
The leader blinked, his sneer faltering. "What?"
"Furthermore," I continued, attempting to lurch to my feet.
My main body pushed. My Knight pushed. My Mage pushed. But our centers of gravity had abdicated their thrones. Instead of standing, the three of us pitched forward in a single, synchronized arc of total unconsciousness. My brain had reached its chemical limit and simply pulled the master switch.
We descended with the grace of a falling curtain.
My main forehead connected with the leader's groin with the force of a battering ram. Leon's steel helmet slammed into the second Fang's kneecap with a sickening crunch. Leonel's mythril staff, slipping from his nerveless fingers, whipped upward and caught the third man squarely in the jaw.
CRACK. THUD. WHAM.
"MY FRUIT!" the leader shrieked, collapsing into a fetal heap.
"MY PATella!" the second wailed, toppling over him.
The third simply folded like a house of cards.
In less than three seconds, the A-Rank bullies were neutralized. And the Cerberus Syndicate? We remained draped over the table, snoring in perfect, rhythmic harmony, our faces pressed into the spilled ale.
A lone adventurer in the back of the room lowered his mug, his voice a terrified whisper. "D-Did you see that?"
"They didn't even twitch a finger," the bartender gasped, his hands shaking as he polished a glass. "They used a simulated collapse to strike three critical meridians simultaneously."
"The Drunken Slumber Strike," an old monk murmured, crossing himself. "A mythic technique. They ingested the Fire-Ale specifically to mask their killing intent! A flawless, non-lethal execution!"
Clara sat in the center of the carnage, her pen flying across her notebook.
Rule #4: To conquer the world, one must first conquer the pillow. The turnip provides the fiber; the ale provides the mask.
I awoke the following morning to the sensation of a thousand tiny hammers pulverizing the inside of my skull. My mouth tasted of copper and fermented regret.
I groaned, trying to lift my head. To my left, Leon echoed the sound. To my right, Leonel leaned over a bucket. The sensory link ensured that I experienced the Mage's nausea with three times the intensity. It was a symphony of biological failure.
"Never again," I croaked. "Water. We are a cult of water now."
A sharp knock at the door sent a spike of pain through my shared brain.
"Rent is paid!" I yelled, my voice cracking.
The door creaked open to reveal Marie, flanked by two Royal Guards in shimmering gold plate.
"Lord Leo!" Marie beamed, stepping over my prone Knight. "The city is buzzing! Your display at the Boar & Barrel—defeating the Fangs without even deigning to stand! It was magnificent!"
I blinked, my vision swimming. "I... I did what?"
"You humbled them so completely they've applied for agricultural licenses this morning!" She clapped her hands, presenting a scroll sealed with the royal crest. "The King is so moved by your 'pacificist mastery' that he has summoned the Syndicate to the Royal Banquet this Friday!"
My heart stopped. Leon's heart stopped. Leonel's nausea briefly ceased.
A Royal Banquet. Fine china. Complex etiquette. Five courses of sensory minefields under the watchful eyes of the nobility.
"Marie," I wheezed, "tell the King I have... the screaming ague."
"Oh, Lord Leo, always the jester!" Marie giggled, placing the golden invitation on the table. "He said if you decline, he'll be forced to name you a Duke to ensure your attendance. See you Friday!"
She vanished, leaving the three of us in the silence of our impending doom.
"I am going to leap from the parapet," I whispered.
"I'll scout the landing," Leon grunted.
"I'll cast slow-fall... and miss," Leonel groaned.
Truly, our coordination was unparalleled.