Ygor liked to call himself the most virile magician in all of Siberia, though frankly, to many, Ygor looked more like a remote district governor drunk on vodka for three seasons in a row than a respectable sorcerer. Ygor was tall, his shoulders broad like old pine barn doors, his muscles bulging beneath a gray wolf-fur coat that looked ready to rip if he laughed too hard.
Legend has it that when he was only nine years old, Ygor felled a magical bear—no staff, no spells, just his cold little fists gripping the snow. Ygor roasted the bear's flesh on frozen spruce branches in the silent snowy forest, laughing as if summoning the arctic spirits.
It's also said that the parasitic poison and dark spells embedded in the bear's flesh hatched in Ygor's stomach, making him immune to any poison. From then on, poison became his favorite dish, as if every drop reminded him of the snow, blood, and howl of the last bear Ygor ate alive—or so he claimed.
The men in the bar loved to boast about Ygor's tales. That night, as every night before, he told a story—or lied, who knows—about a battle in the Croatian forest. Twenty demonic boars, he said, had surrounded him in a winter cornfield.
His weapons? His hands, covered in wolf bite marks, and his poisonous saliva, which, it was said, could melt a plow blade. Sometimes, between stories, Ygor would grit his teeth, chewing on the tough bark of the northern enchanted tree—said to keep his teeth sharp as a bread knife. As he chewed, his gaze wandered, challenging anyone who dared stare at him for more than three seconds.
At a round table stained with dark beer—a magical beer that tasted like stale mud but was expensive—sat two short trolls, Ygor's loyal listeners that night. Wenlu, a pot-bellied male troll who always held a steel mug as big as his head. Beside him, Grimlek, a female troll with neatly braided gray hair and thick, burn-scarred fingers.
This pair of trolls were legends on the black market—makers of forbidden wands, rare spell scrolls, and cursed amulets that could permanently stiffen a person's back if used without permission. Their business was small on the surface, but under the table, their profits could buy three armies of mercenaries just to collect small debts.
There sat a Western woman—beautiful, young, with gray eyes as sharp as shards of glass. From a distance, she looked like a cheap stage magician at a fringe festival, but by the time people knew who she really was, they'd usually have lost their wallet, rings, and handcuffs.
She was nicknamed the Wonder Woman—an illusion who reportedly escaped from a London prison with nothing more than a hair clip. Handcuffs? Chains? An old iron prison cell? To her, they were merely toys before breakfast. Many said she used magic, when in fact, they said, it was just finger tricks. But at the Bar With No Doors, people were more willing to believe Ygor ate a live bear than this woman was a mere magician.
The Bar With No Doors itself wasn't just a bar. Its walls were sealed with sound-dampening runes, its ceiling covered with fake listening charms—so that false gossip would spread faster, while the real gossip would sink into the secret floor pit that connected to the black market beneath the city.
This is where poison, spells, and the most absurd rumors mingled—poured into glasses, sipped half-consciously, whispered into the ears of men like Ygor Kaoz, who should be called a Siberian berserker rather than a royal magician.
And tonight, amidst the wildly dancing cigar smoke, the cracked glasses clattering against the damp table, and the piles of half-burned spell papers scattered at the troll's feet—new rumors began to trickle down, slowly, wetting the lips of the poison connoisseurs.
In the corner, Lance sipped his beer slowly. His eyes darted over the crazy stories. If the rumors were true, if there was a clue to the treasure trove of longevity here—then the Bar With No Doors might be the first door Lance had to break down.
...
...
...
"Hey~ Isn't this the little sorcerer from Kamar-Taj?" An old, hoarse voice drifted through the air, as if mingled with the smell of stale incense smoke.
Lance turned slowly, his lips quirking up in a polite smile. "Long time no see, Master Chondu."
Well… Master Chondu was indeed just a flying head.
A large, bald head with veins running down his temples was half-submerged in a glass jar filled with a greenish liquid that bubbled up and down slowly. Occasionally, a wire would be attached to the base of his neck—for what purpose, Lance didn't bother to ask.
Lance had been here several times with the Sorcerer Supreme. He was familiar with the strange sorcerers who wandered through the Bar With No Doors—a bar whose doors were never clearly visible.
This Master Chondu, who only had a head, was once notorious among black magicians and mystical criminals. Legend had it that he had been gutted to death, only to survive with forbidden magic. Since then, Chondu has built a new life: becoming the sole bartender at Bar With No Doors. Luckily, Chondu is powerful enough to move bottles and glasses with telekinesis. Otherwise, with just a flying bald head like this, let alone pouring wine—just opening a bottle would be embarrassing.
Meanwhile, from behind the bar, an old cowboy emerged. The dark-skinned man yawned lazily and stroked his thick, gray mustache. His black cowboy hat was crooked on his head, his checked flannel shirt hung loosely, a faded denim vest covered his potbelly, his faded straight-leg jeans, and his pointed boots made a loud thud with every step he took on the wooden floor.
The old cowboy—Monako—chuckled softly, his voice hoarse like splitting wood. "That busy boy's finally old enough to drink, huh?"
Lance pulled up a high stool and sat at the bar, his elbows propped up casually. "Mr. Monaco, you know I'm Chinese. Drinking isn't complicated for us."
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[Announcement: A New Novel Has Been Added!
The Puppet Maker in the World of Naruto
A man who is a scientist, researcher, and expert mechanic in robotics dies in a massive explosion that occurs in his laboratory while developing an advanced robot project. However, instead of experiencing death as he thought, the man awakens in another world—a strange place with vast stretches of desert.
There, the man is surrounded by people who can jump high, calling themselves ninjas. The confusion he initially felt grows as he realizes that this world is not unfamiliar to him. This is the world of Naruto! However, there is one thing that surprises him.
"Isn't this Sunagakure? Why am I not in Konoha? This poorest village... Oh my God, this is serious!"
Now, in the midst of a new life filled with danger and uncertainty, the scientist must find a way to survive in Sunagakure, a harsh place full of limitations. With his robotic knowledge, can the man change his fate in this ninja world, or will he fall along with the village?]
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