Chapter 1: The Rumor in the Tavern

The air inside the tavern in Pot Bay was thick and heavy, as if the very walls were infused with the humid sea air that rolled in from the bay. Johnny, perched on a worn wooden stool, could feel the dampness seeping through his clothes, but he didn’t mind. He had grown used to the smell of salt and seaweed, of fish drying in the sun and tobacco wafting from every corner. But there was another scent in the air tonight, stronger than usual: the sweet, earthy aroma of cannabis. It hung in the air like a cloud, familiar but with an undertone of something more… potent.

Pot Bay was known for its rugged charm, a pirate haven nestled on the southern coastline of ThChrona. Its ramshackle buildings leaned precariously over cobbled streets, the buildings built from whatever materials could be scavenged from the surrounding seas. Lanterns hung from every post, casting flickering, golden light that reflected off the wet streets. The tavern, named The Green Wave, was one of the few places where locals and travelers alike gathered to share tales and secrets. The low hum of conversation blended with the clinking of glasses and the occasional loud laugh.

Johnny, a young and ambitious member of the Strain Hunters, sat quietly in the corner of the room. He had always been the curious type, ever hungry for knowledge, especially when it came to the rarest strains of cannabis. His mind wandered as he sipped his drink, trying to focus on his surroundings. He’d been in Pot Bay for a few days now, tracking down rumors about a mysterious strain, but nothing had really piqued his interest — until tonight.

His ears perked up when he caught fragments of a conversation coming from a nearby table, where a group of men hunched low over their mugs, speaking in hushed tones.

"Have you heard about the Winter Weed Warriors?" one of them said, his voice rough, grating against the hum of the tavern.

Johnny leaned in slightly, trying not to make it obvious that he was listening. His heart skipped. Winter Weed Warriors? He had heard stories of them, distant rumors from the far north, but they had always seemed like just that — stories. But tonight, something about their mention felt… different.

Another man, his voice thick with a foreign accent, added, "Glacier ganja, they say. Turns 'em into berserkers. Makes ‘em fight like wild beasts. A strain so strong, it makes you feel like the very earth is at your back."

Johnny's curiosity flared. He had never heard of this "glacier ganja," but the idea of a strain that could enhance someone’s strength to that degree was nothing short of fascinating. Was it real? Was it something the Strain Hunters hadn’t gotten their hands on yet? The thought of it sent a thrill through him.

He glanced over at the group again. They were seated around a small, weathered table in the far corner, hidden in shadow, with their backs to the flickering light. Johnny caught sight of their faces — worn, weathered by years of travel, eyes glinting with secrets. The roughest of them, a man with a crooked nose and a thick beard, was leaning forward, whispering urgently to the others.

"The stuff's not just magic, mate. It’s alive. The Winter Weed Warriors, they’ve got it growing in the deepest glaciers, protected by ice and snow. Only those who are worthy can even touch it. Some say it’s cursed."

Cursed? Johnny's thoughts raced. His fingers drummed against the table, barely able to contain his excitement. If such a strain existed, it could change everything — not just for the Strain Hunters, but for the world.

Without fully thinking it through, Johnny slid off his stool and made his way over to the table. The men looked up at him as he approached, their eyes narrowing as he stepped closer.

"Excuse me," Johnny said with a nervous smile, "I couldn't help but overhear. I’m Johnny, a Strain Hunter. You mentioned the Winter Weed Warriors and the glacier ganja. Could you tell me more?"

The men exchanged skeptical glances. They didn’t trust him, Johnny could see that. A Strain Hunter, young and eager — not exactly the type to be approached with open arms. But Johnny wasn’t one to give up easily.

He smiled wider. "How about a round of drinks for your trouble? Let me buy you all a drink, and you can tell me what you know. I’ve got plenty of gold, and I’m always eager to learn more about the rarest strains."

The men looked at each other for a moment, then shrugged. One of them, the scruffy man with the crooked nose, gave a half-smirk. "Alright, mate. A few drinks won’t hurt. But don’t expect us to spill all our secrets."

Johnny, oblivious to the trap, ordered the drinks. The tavern keeper was quick to bring over a few frothy mugs of ale, and the group relaxed as they drank. But as the night wore on, Johnny felt the warmth of the alcohol seeping deeper into his veins, loosening his tongue and his guard.

The men took advantage of his increasing inebriation, sly smiles creeping onto their faces. Johnny, more focused on the exciting rumors than on his surroundings, didn’t notice the exchange of glances between them.

As the night drew to a close, Johnny’s head was swimming. The men, now thoroughly enjoying their free drinks, leaned in closer, their words growing more insistent. Johnny, in his drunken haze, couldn’t quite keep track of the details. And when he finally pushed himself to stand, a bit unsteady on his feet, he noticed something strange: his bag of gold had mysteriously lightened.