Chapter 3: Daily life of reincarnator

The next morning arrived with a soft golden hue spreading across the city of Valerion. Sunlight leaked through the dusty windows of Amon’s small apartment, painting faded streaks on the cracked walls.

Amon yawned loudly, stretching his limbs as he sat up on the mattress.

“Another glorious day in paradise,” he muttered sarcastically.

After a short, barely satisfying bath in his just-manageable bathroom—where the water was only slightly warm and the tap squeaked like a dying rat—he changed into his usual casual clothes and got ready to leave. A plain black shirt and worn jeans. Nothing fancy, but enough to pass through the crowd without drawing attention.

Stepping outside, he locked the apartment door behind him and descended the rickety stairs of his rundown building.

Valerion was slowly waking up.

The streets were beginning to buzz. Merchants opened their shops with wide yawns and louder shouts, children in simple uniforms hurried toward schools, and street vendors arranged their stalls like it was a ritual. The morning air smelled faintly of roasted bread, oil, and city smoke.

Despite everything, Amon found a small sense of peace in the routine.

“Life may be garbage,” he muttered to himself, “but the mornings aren’t too bad.”

He walked along the cracked pavement, dodging puddles and carts, his hands tucked in his pockets. People pushed past each other in the usual rush, but he had gotten used to it long ago. Living in this world for seventeen years gave him a certain numbness, yet he tried to enjoy the little things. A good morning breeze. A freshly baked bun. The sight of a cat stealing fish from a vendor.

Getting out of the backward area of the city he enter the main area.Towering buildings with glass windows reflected the morning sun.The streets buzzed with the sounds of mana-powered vehicles zipping past.While some caravan and carts move slowly in bustling street.

Not everything in Kṣitiḥ was miserable.

In fact, some parts of this world were surprisingly civilized and well developed.

For example, there were public schools for commoner children. Completely free, funded by the city councils. Kids between the ages of 8 to 14 could attend, if they wished to. Amon had gone to school for about four years—long enough to learn basic reading, writing, and a few general subjects. But because he had to work part-time to survive, he couldn’t continue.

But still the world is base on medieval time.

“Still… better than nothing,” he murmured as he approached the market district.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a large building nestled between a magic goods store and a weaponsmith’s forge.

A hanging wooden sign swayed gently above the entrance, etched with the name: “The Iron Mug Tavern.”

This was where he worked part-time—at a place popular with adventurers, mercenaries, and wandering mages. Despite being a monarchy-based society, Kṣitiḥ was oddly modern in many ways. It had adventurer guilds, magical transportation, and even magically powered mobile phones—though very expensive.If Amon had to buy it then he needs to spend his all savings for it.Still it will be not enough.

And taverns like this one? They were the lifeblood of the common folk.

He stepped inside and was immediately greeted by the familiar scent of ale-soaked wood, baked bread, and a hint of lemon polish.

Behind the bar counter stood a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick mustache. He was polishing a mug, as usual, with a white cloth.

“Good morning, Mr. Ellias!” Amon greeted, grinning. “Looking young and dashing as always.”

The older man let out a booming laugh. “Morning, you cheeky brat. You’re full of compliments today, huh?”

“Just stating facts. I mean, look at you—forty-something and still putting the rest of us to shame,” Amon said with exaggerated praise.

“Yeah, yeah. Save that charm for the customers. Now get your lazy ass to work. We open soon.”

“Yes, sir.” Amon gave a mock salute before heading toward the changing room.

He slipped into his work attire—a clean black shirt, vest, and dark trousers that resembled a waiter’s outfit. It was nothing fancy, but it fit the tavern’s old-school charm. When he returned to the main room, broom in hand, he began cleaning the floor with slow, humming strokes.

The Iron Mug Tavern was beautiful in its own way. Its design leaned heavily into medieval fantasy aesthetics—thick wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, entwined with ivy and enchanted crystals that glowed softly, casting a warm twilight hue across the room.

Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with old tomes, maps, and what looked like dusty monster-hunting journals. Ancient weapons hung as decorations—spears, swords, even a rusted great axe that probably hadn’t been used in centuries.

Round tables with polished surfaces filled the room, paired with high-backed wooden chairs covered in dark green cushions. Near the fireplace, glowing with magically sustained flame, sat the most comfortable seats, usually claimed by high-ranking adventurers.

As Amon swept the floor near the bar, the tavern’s heavy door creaked open again.

“Hey, Amon! You’re early today.”

Amon turned to see Leon, a fellow worker just a few years older than him. Leon had curly brown hair, matching eyes, and stood about the same height as Amon—roughly 170 centimeters. He was wearing his work vest half-buttoned, looking like he had either rushed over or just rolled out of bed.

“Morning, Leon. And I’m not early. You’re just late,” Amon replied with a smirk.

Leon groaned dramatically. “Ugh, the cleaning’s already done? You traitor! I was counting on sharing the load.”

Amon raised an eyebrow and gave him a devilish grin. “If you think I’m not telling Mr. Ellias, you’re dreaming. I’m going to suggest he dock your pay just a bit today.”

Leon scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Honestly, he was probably gonna do that anyway, whether you said anything or not.”

Across the tavern, a waitress was wiping down one of the round tables.

She looked to be around Leon’s age, maybe a bit younger. Her maroon hair was tied back in a tidy braid, and she wore the tavern’s standard waitress uniform: a burgundy dress, fitted at the waist with a leather corset belt that held a few small pouches. Over the dress, she wore a white apron, slightly stained from the previous night’s chaos.

Her movements were smooth and efficient. She worked like someone who’d done this for years.

“Good morning, Martia!” Leon called out in a playful tone.

The girl turned to them, her expression unreadable at first. Her green eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” she said with a cold smile. “I thought you’d skip straight to the afternoon shift.”

Amon stifled a laugh as Leon raised both hands in mock surrender.

“Oi, why are you scolding me already? Amon’s the real troublemaker!”

Martia raised an eyebrow. “Maybe, but he doesn’t give me nearly as much trouble as you do.”

Amon watched the two with mild amusement, leaning against his broom. He knew this routine well—it was their usual back-and-forth. Leon flirted. Martia acted annoyed. Rinse and repeat.

He also knew the truth.

’Leon’s got it bad for her,’ Amon thought, rolling his eyes. ’And Martia definitely has a soft spot for him, even if she won’t admit it.’

It wasn’t jealousy that kept Amon out of it—just practicality. Martia often vented to him about Leon’s antics. It was always Amon who had to deal with her complaints, shoulder her sighs, and listen patiently while sweeping floors or wiping mugs.

’Honestly, they’d make a good couple. If they’d just stop being idiots and talk about it already.’

With a small sigh, Amon pushed off the wall and resumed sweeping.

Another day at the Iron Mug Tavern had begun.

Same people. Same routine.

But somehow, it never felt boring.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep