3x Cloning System: The Fleshmancer's Undead Army is full of Heroes-Chapter 38: White Prince, or Brick Sh*t-house?

Five liters of beer in, Clayton started feeling drowsy.

Initially he felt that this beer was too strong, mainly because he hasn’t had a drink in four decades, which was quite the pricey achievement, but then he started paying attention to what the system kept chirping in his ear.

[-15 Life Essence Points]

[-9 Life Essence Points]

[-5 Life Essence Points]

"Are you kidding me?" He blurted.

[Sorry.]

[It looks like your body registers the brain, and liver damage of the beverage you’re drinking as a threat. A subtle point waster.]

’So I can’t get drunk?’ He fell quiet as he sobered up. ’That’s cruel.’

"I’m going to go buy some horses," He said, and stood up from the stool.

"You can sure hold your liquor!" The Inn Keeper cheered him on, and then let out a burp loud enough to wake the dead. "Good for you, bald sir."

"B-biould sir," Rufus chuckled, his speech slurred. "Hahahehehe!"

Clayton lost his balance as he walked, but just for a moment. He regained his composure quickly, as his body kept healing itself, in turn sobering up faster than any cup of coffee would.

He turned around, and said, "Look after my friends for me. Don’t let them leave."

"Don’t worry about them," The Inn Keeper said as he poured the fifth glass of beer for himself. "They’re not going anywhere."

Clayton walked out of the local Inn, and headed towards the fields. He was still a bit drunk, so it took him a while to figure out where the fields were.

At some point, he swerved in place like a panicking cartoon character. Like the fool that every religious book described, but he found his way.

Granted, a sweet little old lady had to stand up from her comfortable chair, and point towards the fields. She did not see him as a fool, but she had lived here long enough to know what travelers were after.

Once he made it to the field, the system informed him that he was no longer drunk. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

[Remaining Life Essence Points = 2,700]

[Congratulations! You’re probably the first man in history who sobered up in an hour after five liters of beer.]

"Maybe I should celebrate by pissing a river?" He sighed. "By the Gods... is it disrespectful to piss in the fields? I have to piss like a Race Horse."

[Quit talking about your penis. It’s odd.]

"I wasn’t..." He sighed.

Clayton had to hold it in, as he spotted a farmer. The farmer was looking back at him, and squinted as he tried to study his face.

"Greetings!" He called out, "How are the fields treating you sir?"

"Don’t call me sir, sir, you look twenty years older than me." The farmer said as he walked over.

"I’ll take it as a compliment, then," He smiled, "I’m 64."

"Hello, 64," The farmer stretched out his hand, a devious smile on his dirty, thirty-something face.

"Humerous," Clayton put on a fake smile, "I like that."

"So you’re looking for horses?" The farmer asked.

"Yes," He said, "Four of them."

"Uff... that’ll put you 12 gold coins behind." The farmer said.

"Oh?" He hung his mouth agape, and tried to act surprised, "They’re more expensive than I remember."

"They’re fine steeds, White Princes from the Anubin Desert." The farmer raised up his arms sky high, "Tall motherfuckers, built like a brick shit-house."

"Am I missing the metaphor?" He asked, "Does shit-house mean they’re slow?"

"Oh, no, not at all! They run like the wind!" The farmer said, "Come on, follow me, and let me show you."

Clayton was led to the other side of the field, to a stable, far too big for a village like this. It had to house fifteen horses at the very least. Ten of them were on the fields, away from the adolescent corn stalks.

Within five minutes, the horse trader walked out with a fine steed. Hoof to nose, he was a 7.5ft/228cm tall, muscular unit.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d confuse the horse with a beast of legends!

"By the Gods..." He held his breath, and looked up only to see the horse’s chin. "So this is what a White Prince looks like? You’re giving those Royal folk too much credit, they’re usually very short from what I know."

"No kidding?" The merchant let out a light, forced chuckle. "Did Collin tell you about the prices? We don’t sell 50 silver coin horses here."

"I can afford them," He answered, "I need three more."

"You’re buying four?" The merchant jerked his head back in shock. "May I ask who you are?"

"I am but a mere man," He answered, "My family is simply rich. We own ten hectares of fields back in the City of Fik, but our horses got sick along the way."

The merchant could tell that Clayton may not be telling the whole truth, but after Clayton fished out a bag full of gold out of his armor, the merchant did not care to ask any further questions.

He bit every single one of the twelve gold coins, to check their validity, and he was quite excited! No one has ever bought four horses at once from him before.

"Thank you for your patronage," The merchant said, his face as radiant as the sun above them. "I’ll fetch the three other horses now."

"Take your time," He said, "I don’t think we’ll be leaving your lovely village anytime soon, not this hour, at least."

The merchant did not answer back. He ran towards the stable like an erratic toddler, deafened by the riches in his front pocket. A short man, with no doubt a shorter attention span compared to others. His bald head reflected the sunlight like a pure-quality mirror.

"It’s nice to see another bald man out here," Clayton joked.

"Just your luck," The farmer said as he walked away, "You met the only bald man in the entire village. We’re hairy people, but Thomas is an outlander."

"Thomas, heh," He chuckled.