The SSS class adventurer is a divine cleric

The Ashen Boar Tavern was thriving.

Not thriving like modest prosperity or consistent crowd flow. it was overflowing. The kind of success that spilled into the streets. The kind where customers fought for chairs, and lineups curled down the hill like a festival parade.

Kaelen had to start handing out wooden tokens to track orders.

Derek, for the first time in years, had a ledger that required extra pages.

Neal was getting tips just for glaring at people who tried to sneak in line.

And Alira? She'd appointed herself the official Wyrmleaf Guardian, personally inspecting every leaf they used with the judgment of a high priestess and the flair of a butcher.

"We need more space," Derek said one evening, rubbing the back of his neck while scanning the crowd.

The tavern, built for thirty, now hosted over a hundred.

"We could push the walls out, open a second floor, maybe an outdoor kitchen,"

Kaelen slammed a half-empty bottle of seasoning on the counter. "Let's turn the shed into a private VIP room! Put traps around it so they know it's exclusive."

Neal gave him a deadpan look. "Traps?"

"Mana ones. Or bees."

Alira sipped her wine. "Let's not traumatize nobles with insects, please."

But their happy moment was cut short was cut short.

Because that's when the letter arrived.

The messenger was polite, young, and trembling slightly. His armor bore the crest of the Duke of Westhold, one of the oldest and most influential nobles in the Frahein Empire.

The letter was written in elegant script, but the message was cold steel wrapped in silk:

"The Duke of Westhold has taken interest in the Ashen Boar Tavern and its unique culinary legacy.

It is requested, expected, that ownership be transferred to House Elrath. You shall, of course, be compensated generously.

His Grace will arrive tomorrow to complete the agreement.

Please prepare accordingly."

— Steward of Westhold

The paper still smelled of violet ink and arrogance.

Kaelen stared at the letter for a long time.

"…Did he just try to buy us like we're a sheep market?"

Derek folded the letter slowly. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable.

Alira's smile was sharp and dangerous. "Oh, so now nobles just take what they want again."

Neal cracked his knuckles. "I'd love to see him try."

"Wait." Kaelen glanced between them. "Did it say 'ownership transfer' like… the whole tavern?"

"All of it," Derek confirmed.

"But he didn't even taste the food!" Kaelen exploded, voice rising. "He hasn't sniffed a damn Wyrmleaf! He didn't even ask.."

"He's a Duke," Derek interrupted calmly. "He doesn't think he needs to ask."

Neal leaned back in his chair. " I've heard that the Duke of Westhold is Elrath. He's one of the Empire's most powerful men. A former military hero. And…"

"…an Epic-ranked warrior," Alira finished.

Kaelen raised a brow. "That's supposed to scare me?"

Derek didn't smile. "It should."

The next morning, the Duke arrived.

No fanfare.

Just a dark carriage, plated in tempered mithril, bearing the crest of twin serpents and a sun. Flanked by eight knights and a single woman in priestess robes.

The Duke stepped into the tavern like it already belonged to him.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in imperial crimson and lined with shimmering mana-thread. His aura oozed pressure, not wild or chaotic, but disciplined and merciless.

His eyes scanned the tavern. He didn't even stop to admire the woodwork.

"You must be Derek Maglor."

Derek nodded. "That's right."

"I expected more from the great 'Stalwart' of Starfall." His voice was smooth. Dismissive. "You've fallen quite far, haven't you?"

Kaelen took a step forward.

But Derek's hand shot out.

Not now.

The Duke continued, looking around with disinterest. "You've made a name for yourselves. The people sing praises. Your food… does something strange. Useful. That's why I'm here."

"Not to taste, but to take?" Alira asked.

He turned to her. "Everything has a price."

Kaelen, arms folded, gave a lazy grin. "What if we're not for sale?"

The Duke's eyes sharpened slightly, but his smile didn't fade. "You misunderstand. This isn't a negotiation."

"Then you misunderstand, Your Grace," Derek said, calmly. "You're in our tavern. This plac, this family, isn't for sale."

There was silence.

Then the Duke chuckled. "I could take it by force, old wolf. I'm an Epic. You're a shadow of what you were."

Then he turned to leave.

"But I'll be generous," he added over his shoulder. "I'll give you one week to reconsider. Oh and one more thing don't think of escaping, I've got eyes everywhere."

And that very night.

Beneath the soft candlelight in the Ashen Boar's back room, Kaelen paced like a restless flame. His boots thumped softly against the worn wooden floor. Neal sat on a barrel, arms crossed, firelight glinting off his eyes. Alira leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, her gaze sharp and unreadable.

"The people love us," Kaelen said, voice low but fierce. "If we stir enough attention, if we raise our prices for nobles, if we expose his threat… "

Neal didn't even lift his head. "This isn't a republic."

Alira added, "It's the Frahein Empire, Kael. Nobles can burn a village to ash if they call it 'strategic relocation.' The commoners will mourn, not revolt."

Kaelen looked between them, frustration swelling like a tide. "So we just let him take it?"

"No," Neal said. "We don't let him. But we also don't charge straight into a dragon's den holding a kitchen knife."

Just then, the door creaked open behind them.

Derek stepped in.

No apron or towel over his shoulder. Just the old, worn leather cloak he hadn't worn in years, still bearing the faded crest of his lost house.

His expression was firm. Grave.

"I've made a decision."

Kaelen froze.

Derek looked at each of them in turn. "We're leaving the Frahein Empire."

"…What?" Kaelen blinked, voice cracking with disbelief. "Just like that?"

Derek didn't flinch. "This isn't cowardice. It's survival. I've seen men like Elrath. He's not just a duke. He's Empire-bred. Military-forged. And worse, he thinks he's untouchable. He won't negotiate. He'll crush."

"I'm not afraid of him," Kaelen said.

"You should be," Derek said, eyes narrowing. "You're strong. All three of you. But you're still young. You've tasted war, not politics. You think life's all about honor and justice. It's not."

His voice softened. "It's rot wrapped in roses."