In the heart of a bustling city within the Mortal Realm, there stood a tavern unlike any other. Known simply as “The Mortal Tavern,” it was a place where travelers, warriors, merchants, and all manner of folk gathered to share stories, drink away their troubles, and perhaps learn a piece of information worth more than gold. The tavern’s wooden walls were dark with age, the air thick with the scent of strong ale and the warm glow of dim lanterns. It was a haven for those seeking solace from the harshness of the world outside.
Among the many patrons who frequented The Mortal Tavern, one stood out, not for his grandeur, but for the stark contrast he presented to his surroundings. Slumped at a corner table, a lone drunkard sat, his presence both familiar and unsettling to those around him. His robes, once perhaps rich and finely woven, were now tattered and stained, hanging loosely off his thin frame. His hair, long and unkempt, fell over his face, partially obscuring his features that bore the marks of countless years, each wrinkle telling a story of its own.
The drunkard was muttering to himself, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carried just enough to be heard over the din of the tavern. Those who listened closely, and there were always a few, could hear snippets of his ramblings—disjointed fragments of a mind burdened with knowledge too vast for mortal comprehension.
“…and the stars, they weep when the Celestial Armies march… armies of gods, their armor forged from the bones of dying stars…” He paused to take a long, slow sip from the wineskin in his hand, the liquid inside gleaming with an unnatural, almost ethereal light. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, flickered with a strange intensity as he continued. “They clash in the Nine Heavens… oh, the horrors and the wonders… to see a world born from chaos, to watch it crumble into nothingness with just a thought…”
The other patrons barely paid him any mind. They were used to this strange man and his drunken tales. Some dismissed him as a madman, a relic of the past who had lost himself in drink. Others, however, were not so sure. There was something about the way he spoke, the conviction in his voice, that hinted at a truth far beyond the reach of ordinary men.
A grizzled old mercenary, sitting at the bar, chuckled to himself as he downed another tankard of ale. “There he goes again,” he said to the barkeep, a middle-aged woman who had long since stopped trying to make sense of her peculiar customer. “That old fool’s been telling the same stories for as long as I can remember. Celestial this, immortal that… next he’ll be telling us he’s the Emperor of Heaven himself.”
The barkeep smiled wryly as she wiped down the counter. “As long as he pays for his drinks, he can be whoever he wants,” she replied, her tone light but her eyes watchful. She had learned to respect the old drunkard, if only for the odd quiet that seemed to follow him, the way the air around him felt different, charged with something she couldn’t quite place.
At his table, the drunkard took another swig from his wineskin, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible even to himself. “They think I’m mad, but they don’t know… they don’t see… the Devourer stirs, and soon… soon, it will come for us all.”
As the words left his lips, the atmosphere in the tavern seemed to shift, just for a moment. The warm, comforting glow of the lanterns dimmed slightly, and a chill ran through the air, unnoticed by most, but felt deeply by those sensitive to such things.
A young scholar sitting nearby, his curiosity piqued by the old man’s words, leaned in closer. “What did you say, old man? The Devourer? What is that?”
The drunkard looked up, his eyes locking onto the scholar’s with an intensity that belied his inebriated state. For a brief moment, the haze of drunkenness seemed to lift, revealing a sharpness and clarity that was almost frightening. “The Devourer of Nihility,” he said, his voice clear and steady. “An ancient terror… older than the stars, older than the heavens themselves. It was vanquished long ago, or so we believed. But it’s stirring again, and when it wakes…” His voice trailed off, the clarity fading as the drunkenness reclaimed him. “When it wakes… everything will be undone…”
The scholar frowned, unsure whether to dismiss the man’s words as the ravings of a lunatic or to take them seriously. But before he could ask anything more, the drunkard’s head lolled forward, and he sank back into his seat, lost once more in his private world of wine and memories.
The tavern slowly returned to its usual buzz of activity, the moment of unease passing as quickly as it had come. But for those who had heard the drunkard’s words, a seed of doubt was planted, a lingering sense of unease that something far greater and more terrible than they could imagine was on the horizon.
And in the dim corner of The Mortal Tavern, the drunkard—Zui Tian, the Immortal Drunkard, the Last Eternal—lifted his wineskin once more, taking solace in the drink that kept his powers, and his memories, at bay. For he knew the truth of what was coming, and he knew that soon, he would no longer be able to hide from it.
The Devourer was awakening, and the time for Zui Tian to face his destiny was drawing near.