CHAPTER ONE.

FOR SIX YEARS, you have been living in a game.

An adventurer game, at that, with all its flashy, exorbitant graphics, healers and the necromancers at the guilds. A game where there's all those levels you need to climb to reach its pinnacle, a game that pretty much has a loose plot to abide to that is peppered with quests. You reckon that you got lucky with this whole isekai and transmigration thing—you could have become a washed weak adventurer constantly walking the tightrope between life and death, but when you wake up, you find yourself...

...as the Bartender. You got lucky. The only mishaps you have to fix are angry, drunk customers when they are short of a few coins to pay, or the customers that carry the big axes with an unpleasant scowl on their faces. Several have attacked you in their drunken stupor over their years—you can tell from their alcohol sodden breath, pink cheeks and swaying feet that they're too gone to really know what they're doing. So a quick hit in the back of their neck slumps their bodies down and renders them immobile.

You're now [Name], a character who somehow shares the same name as you. The ID you found on the bed when you woke up told you that. Bartender, [Name]. Simple words. Hard job.

The first time you tried to mix a drink, it didn't work out well. In your previous life you remembered hating chemistry with a burning passion—and to be a bartender, it sort of required a knowing of mixology and certain liquids. How to add a couple herbs to another, the works—and yes, you had failed spectacularly before, serving dried Ox's heart all sloshed up in a grape concoction—but after a few months, you got the hang of it.

And now six years later, you're twenty four. You joined the game at eighteen, you've established connections, intended or non intended, and you've made your peace with the life you lead. Your previous life was nothing short of stagnant: it was dull, almost, not unhappy, per se, but mostly boring, with your average grades, your average family; your average friends. And now thrust into a world where there's dragons and princes and bounties—

—It isn't too bad. It really isn't. You could have been in a situation a lot worse. People say being isekai'd to an adventurer game seems pretty life threatening, but really, you beg to differ. The worst part of the job is babysitting the adventurers, really—there are some regulars around that stick to you like glue, chattering your ear off while you just clean the glasses. Some days are annoyingly busy to the point you actually have to rush—other days, slow, like today.

One thing doesn't really change in between worlds, however—is the fact that people underaged try to sneak a drink or two. And now in front of you,  there's a scrawny, pimpled teen wearing lousy armor cowers with his metal braces on his teeth, stammering as he tries to pass you an obviously fake ID. Every time you try to reach out for that flimsy paper he has in his hands, he flinches, and crumples the ID even more. You start to be irritated.

"Give me your Guild-ID," you say impatiently. "I don't have all day. You look underaged. Aren't you a newbie? Rank G."

The boy starts to tremble now. He's obviously fourteen? Fifteen? So you're about ten years older than him, and age is a huge factor in intimidation. You do acknowledge that the body that you've reincarnated to tends to be a little scary to some—a small tattoo on your neck, a rose, which is pretty darn amusing to you—scars laden and scattered across your skin, one crossing through your eye. Whoever [Name] was, he must have been a top class adventurer before he became a bartender— he's muscular, tall, and has a stern voice. The scars on his body tells you he's been through some hard shit that you don't know the exact details of—this game wasn't one you played often.

You didn't know who [Name] was then, and thus you didn't know how to replicate his personality. You continued your life like normal.

No one questioned the change, and you slipped into the daily life of [Name]. If you didn't know that you were obviously not the person you had inhabited the body of, you would think you actually were [Name]. Technically the name was the same, but surely, wouldn't the personality be different in the eyes of others? But as far as you were concerned, there were no slip-ups, none whatsoever. No one ever interrogated you for an apparent change in your behavior. You got the occasional strange look when you didn't know much about the basics of the world ("That's a silver coin I have you. You got to give me change."), but you learned to adjust with the help of some.

You tried to find some clues about [Name]'s background, but you found that he didn't have a family that seemed connected to him.

The game did speak of [Name] before—yet it was more of a position than a character. If [Name] truly was a NPC, he wouldn't have gotten such detail in his looks. Almost handsome—more hot and sexy than anything else. You feel embarrassed by the body you have taken over sometimes. Your old one had been skinny and clumsy, and now you marvel at your strength when you carry several beers on a tray with one hand.

"Look, kid," you start to say, "I don't have all day. Cough one up. Your real one. Your name isn't really Alex, right?"

The teen now starts to shake. "Well, I..."

"I'll give you juice." You say placatingly.

Technically you aren't even that old—you're only twenty four, after all—([Name]'s ID told you that he was eighteen when you first reincarnated. The same as you, basically)—but for some reason the six years here has aged you considerably mentally, and the years have eclipsed your mind.

The young man reddens but he can't say anything. "Thank you." He murmurs instead. A group of his friends give cackles at the back. You frown at them, and they immediately stop and disperse, all muttering excuses. They aren't even that much better: they're carrying jugs of water. So cold you can see the condensation droplets. But then again, perhaps they have an upcoming mission and they're trying to stock up.

But then one swivels to you. "Let's not make this difficult. Do you know who my parents are?"

You really don't care.

The guy presses on. You see his ID peeking out. Holland, his last name says. Sounds vaguely familiar—his family must be fairly important—but you can't be bothered right now. "No."

"Who are your parents?" That Holland dipshit continues.

There's an awkward clanking. "I'm an orphan."

The guy pauses, taken aback. You smile, because there is a certain amusing eccentricity in this warped power you hold over their heads—you can deny them at any time. And your connections are far greater than theirs. Some of the adventurers you tend to babysit—they are powerful.

"Just get me the resurrection services," the guy sputters after a while. He seems to have analyzed you, and has deduced that he can't win. "We got a guy down."

You roll your eyes. He could have said that earlier.

"You need to be a platinum member to get the resurrection services—or get yourself some healing potion from the apothecary," you tell him. "Jesus, I'm not the fucking receptionist here. I'm here to get you drunk and get you fucking bankrupt. Well, you can't get drunk, you're a minor, and you aren't even supposed to be here."

"You aren't even that much older than me!" He cries out. "Should a service person be cussing so much?"

Your face twists with discombobulation and disbelief. "I do what I want. I'm an adult. Piss off. It's none of your business."

The boy gives up. He walks away depressingly to his subdued group of friends. One gives you the middle finger as they flounce away to terrorize another bunch of people. Your problems don't end here, though—next time you know, you're seeing a barbarian stride up to you, the bill in his meaty hands. His words are a snarl and his viciousness is so strong it can probably knock the mug of coffee in your hands out and make it clatter to the ground.

You raise an eyebrow as you lean on the desk. "Yes?"

The barbarian frowns. "Don't you think that price is a little—well, exorbitant? I'm not paying three gold coins for a mere drink! Other guilds have it way cheaper!"

"This bar tends to be a lot more expensive," you shrug, "the quality's a lot higher, and it belongs to the national guild. What do you think?"

There are a lot of guilds peppered around the world, but this one takes the cake. It makes sense why children of rich parents are here trying to worm their way in—it is, after all, wealthy and drenched with money. The guild master happens to be extremely rich and powerful. He's one of those glitch players that has managed to earn two attributes, and has a few artifacts that are ridiculously powerful.

In fact, the world you live in consists of players. And you aren't sure if they are even aware of what they're doing, or if they're sentient, like you. Overall this whole situation is weird, in a sense that everyone feels so alive, and yet you feel like you are the only one in the world. You feel detached most times from the events that happen. Because you aren't sure who's a machine with lines programmed and codes weaved inside seamlessly within, or who's truly human.

"Hey, and this isn't my drink!" There is a clatter. "You got me the wrong drink on purpose, dipshit! I can have you reported. You're encroaching on the rules."

You sigh. "Check the receipt. You ordered wrong."

"For a top class guild like this, I expected the service to be alot better."

You scowl. "Go argue with the guild leader, then," you spit at him. Anyways, you highly doubt the guild leader will punish you. He's too biased to you. You didn't rack up your affinity points with him for no reason. Right. Affinity points. The first month or two you had some stupid screen in front of you, dictating your moves—you remember the guild master's one being strange, for it started pretty high from the start. Each person had a heart symbol floating across their head, and with every gesture you did towards them, it would go to positive or negative. And in your case, with the guild leader, you happened to max out his points since it was far easier to do so. You remember offering him a glass of water and his points shot up by ten. Your relationship was...

...Platonic, obviously, you think. He hasn't made any strange advances to you. The guild master's name is Sora, and he happens to be a necromancer. You've seen him shape bodies out of corpses from thin air. You've seen that terrifying army he has beneath the ground, the shadow that slinks around him. It doesn't help that he has the beauty of an Emperor: long lashes, purplish eyes, long black hair, and an aura that emanates off him. He reeks of power and death.

Sora claims he's a God. His ego is unmatched—but then again, he can back it up. There are few—or in fact, no one— that can ever match up with him. He's unparalleled in power, and there's some sort of gracefulness he has when he kills everyone else ruthlessly. He makes death look like a thing that should be worshiped and revered, but it's far from that.

The Barbarian is ready to give a retort, and yet his words seem to freeze in the air. You raise one eyebrow, before you notice everyone in the bar seems either to be in awe, or positively terrified. You already know who's behind you. You cross your arms, and you don't bother to greet him. Instead, you busy yourself with making his regular order.

Grapefruit paired with dragon berries, with a dash of honey and lime.

His voice is as soft as you remember. Lilting, sweet, almost music like. "How are you, [Name]? Anyone giving you trouble?"

"You sure know how to make an entrance, Sora," you stir the last of the drunk before you place it in front of him. "You're making everyone nervous."

"That person seems to be giving you trouble," Sora smiles at you, but it is entirely without mirth.

"Nothing you need to worry about." You say honestly.

You've met Sora a while back. The first year of your reincarnation, actually, where you were still confused, hysterical, almost, and brimming with novelty. Sora's one of your oldest—and most powerful—friends. And now his purple eyes seem to muffle and engulf the place around him, blips of shadows now circling him like a vulture ready to hunt. The barbarian makes a comical sight, with his nervous face and his shivering frame. You mouth for him to leave, and he scrambles away eagerly.

"The drink is as wonderful as I remember. Your skills are always the best," Sora says with a little sigh. "Why don't you let another person take over your shift and you can come with me? We can go chasing those guys who tried to torment you."

"Torment is a little of a strong word. You're busy. Go back to work."

"Ever so cold, [Name]. I'm just here for a little break."

"I'm sure they are better places to be," you say, exasperated. "Go, Sora."

But still Sora clings to you. His hand loops around yours, and he interlaces your fingers together. Such a movement has become common, and so you let him be. Instead, you merely shut your eyes, relaxing. No one will dare to order any drinks now that the guild master is here. And besides, Sora and you are just friends. It isn't too strange for two friends to hang out together.

But then again, there's a lot of other places one can take a break in besides the bar. So...

...Nevermind. You won't allow your mind to stray too far.

Sora's just a friend, is he not?

A/N; adventurer fic! had this in my drafts for a long time lol

thank you for 5k! hope everyone enjoys. don't worry, there's an actual coherent plot but my fear is that I won't be able to articulate it out properly—I'll include scenes of the reader's past that will show his earlier transmigration years and his relationship developments <3 everything bit by bit' this chapter was to show some of the setting and character: treat this as a little of a slow burn

how was it? (remember to add it to your library!)