I've worked my share of late-night shifts in my time—enough to suspect the entire world might be one ongoing parade of questionable pick-up lines, insincere flattery, and half-drunken confessions. I expected a complete departure from the typical bar scene: rows of man lamps reflecting dancing lights, nobles in lush silks or rare furs, and cultured conversation floating above the bustle. In many ways, that's precisely what I got—an ambiance gilded with wealth and grandiose self-importance. Yet, when I finally took my position behind the bar, I realized that under all the dazzle, this place wasn't so different from an ordinary night at King Victor's. The same hints of flirtation, the same bragging, the same wandering hands—only magnified and sugarcoated by aristocratic polish.

It's a familiar scene to me, no matter the venue. I've come to find a curious tranquility in bartending, be it in a rough-and-tumble pub or at a gala dripping with Yuletide splendor. There's something meditative about slicing garnishes, lining up tumblers in neat rows, and switching on that time-tested smile. At King Victor's, I'd watch customers posture about the fights they almost won or the weekend parties to wild to believe; here, it's about the estate they inherited, the overseas venture that only doubled their fortune instead of tripling it, or some other high-society woe. The difference is mostly in the number of zeroes they sprinkle into their tales—and their ability to deliver those stories with an air of painstaking refinement.

I'm used to the flirting, too. In the old bar, women would approach with unsubtle winks and half-lidded stares, looking to snag a fraction of my time. At the palace, the come-ons are threaded with clever wordplay and half-sincere compliments about my "tavern-dandy" getup. They murmur about the embroidery on my vest, the precise arch of my cheekbones. Occasionally, I catch them studying me like a connoisseur would appraise a prized vintage, calculating whether the payoff is worth the effort. And lest we forget, there's still the occasional "accidental" touch against my waist or a subtle brush along my ass and groin—followed by an apologetic laugh and something about "the crush of the gala." But it all boils down to the same story: a grope, cloaked in courtesy.

You'd think I'd be overwhelmed, considering the day I've had—making certain hush-hush promises to a princess who might redefine my entire life with a single word. And to be honest, part of me is rattled, my brain spinning with implications I can barely articulate. Yet, there's this odd comfort in the mundane rhythms of bartending: pouring ales, mixing cocktails with practiced gestures, managing the flutter of conversation that passes in front of me. The palace might be a den of aristocratic intrigue, but behind the bar, the tasks are the same ones I've been doing for years. It keeps me anchored, reminding me that no matter how grand the setting, the fundamentals don't change.

Sometimes I catch my thoughts drifting to Adora's solemn expression, the promise exchanged, and the sense that I'm standing on a precipice of cosmic proportions. But instead of dwelling on that, I focus on wiping down a fresh batch of glasses or greeting the next patron who approaches. I can't let the magnitude of the night's events swallow me whole—so I choose the comfort of repetition, the tried-and-true motions that reassure me I'm still John, the bartender.

The hall around me might gleam with stained glass and polished marble, and an orchestra's gentle waltz might drift in from afar, but the stage set by the palace is really no different from the timbers and taproom I'm familiar with—just more elaborate costumes and loftier boasts. The hush of subdued laughter, the constant swirl of gowns and suits, the coy glances cast over glasses—it all merges into a tapestry that hums with the same energy I know from countless bar nights. Perhaps tomorrow I'll have to grapple with the reality of the princess's promise, with a future that might stretch far beyond the realm of my imagining. But tonight, at least, I'm content to serve drinks, flirt lightly, and keep the routine that grounds me.

So I lean over to take one more order from a bejeweled lady who appears eager to gossip with her friends, I offer a polite nod, and I craft her a perfect cocktail—never letting my professional smile falter. The moment she departs, I ready myself for the next customer, knowing that the same endless cycle of banter, boasting, and fleeting touches will repeat.

I was in the middle of serving a final round of drinks when the entire beer hall fell strangely silent, like someone had flipped a switch and killed all the noise. My eyes swept across the crowd—an odd hush had settled, except for the mechanical clanking of those ever-efficient wooden golems bustling about. Then I spotted why: an irate cat girl had just stormed in, golden hair more akin to a lioness's mane than a dainty kitten's, and the intense mana rolling off her practically radiated fury. Even people who didn't know better felt the weight of her presence. A few of the more sensible patrons began backing away, inching toward the exits, while the unlucky or dim ones merely gaped or whipped out their Links to record the show.

"Where is the little cocktease?" she snarled, her voice cutting through the silence. "I know you're in here. I can smell your tight little ass from a mile away!" The first half of me wanted to ignore her completely advice from many a bartending shift told me never to get involved in other people's drama. But the second half, the one remembering I'd already let too much slide tonight.

Her striking golden mane bristled with anger, claws fully extended. She was undeniably beautiful in a deadly, catlike way, every curve accentuated by the sway of her hips and the flick of her tail. You could see half the bar—despite being terrified—still couldn't look away.

The cat girl turned her head, nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air. Then her glare locked onto a small cat boy cowering in the back corner—like a kitten trying to vanish among the furniture. Without a second's hesitation, she nearly pounced, crossing the room in a blur of speed that made me do a double take. The cat boy, though technically a grown man, had the petite build typical of men born these days with mana supplements. Short, slight of frame, and with a large, round rear that drew more attention than he'd probably like. In my old life, I might have pegged him as a "femboy," given his delicate features and relatively toned but slender body. But here, men like him were a dime a dozen—no less masculine in the eyes of this world, though certainly smaller than the men of old lineages.

She seized him by the hair, yanking him off his chair so abruptly that half the drinks on the table went flying. "Oh no, you're not getting away from me," she hissed, ignoring his cries of pain. "So you think you can sneak off to meet with a rival clan and I won't find out, hmm?" Her tone dripped with rage. A frightened dogkin girl stood up in a half-hearted attempt to intervene, but the cat girl's withering glare made her shrink back instantly. It was obvious this wasn't some casual spat: the cat boy's entire body shook with fear, his eyes darting left and right for an escape route that didn't exist. And the cat girl seemed intent on dragging him right out into the night.

Some primal part of me screamed to keep my head down, to let them resolve their own drama. I'd spent years learning not to draw attention to myself in a world that could devour a vulnerable man. Yet, seeing how she manhandled him awakened an urge in me that I couldn't stifle. Memories stabbed at my conscience: hollow eyes in a dark cell, a promise once broken. I couldn't stand by. Not this time. Not anymore.

"Let him go!" I shouted, my voice echoing louder than I'd intended. The fact that I wore a flamboyant "tavern dandy" outfit made it all the more surreal—I must have looked ridiculous, yet the intensity in my tone seemed to halt her in her tracks. She spun around, dragging the poor boy with her, his feet scarcely touching the ground.

She gave me a quick once-over, her tail twitching with newfound interest. The hostility in her eyes shifted to something more calculating. "Well, well," she purred, "what's a dandy like you doing in a place like this?" She spoke as though I were just another object to be appraised.

I stepped out from behind the bar, ignoring the stares of onlookers. "I said let him go," I repeated, forcing my voice into a steadiness I didn't entirely feel. My gut churned with equal parts adrenaline and dread. This woman was clearly no lightweight, and I was a man in a world where men had near-zero magical offense. But the memory of that promise—of the boy's desperate, trembling eyes propelled me forward.

The cat girl raised a brow, a smile teasing her lips. "Can't do that, big boy. Nanlan here has made a mess of things with my clan, and part of my job is to administer his punishment. Understand?"

"Elder Midnight gave me permission to leave, " the cat boy pleaded.

With a cruel jerk, she yanked the cat boy's head level with her own, ignoring his whimper of pain. A dogkin lurking nearby tried to intervene again but cringed back under the cat girl's cold stare. ""You didn't get permission from me. So hush!" she snapped at the boy, then shifted her focus back to me. "So, unless you want to make this real interesting, I suggest you stand aside." She eyed me up and down, letting her gaze linger on my chest, arms, and crotch. "Although, if you're offering something else…maybe we could work out a different arrangement."

In that moment, I recognized she had a point, the Federation's patchwork of clan laws gave the Beastkin considerable amount of internal autonomy. She could claim this was a private clan matter, and local authorities might not even intervene. But my anger overrode caution. Too many times, I'd turned a blind eye. Not tonight.

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"Let. Him. Go," I said, each syllable cutting through the hush. "Or I'll make you."

She stood there, silent for a moment, then burst into laughter—a raucous sound that got a few onlookers tittering along, either to appease her or out of genuine amusement. "A mere man," she drawled, dabbing at her eyes, "threatening me—Asah GoldenClaw, Champion of the Clans? That's rich." She looked at me with a smirk that suggested I'd just claimed to be Emperor of the Federation. Her amusement took a few seconds to subside. "Well,' you got guts. I'll give you that." She loosened her grip on the boy, letting him slump to the floor, but didn't let him scurry away. "Fine. Let's do this your way."

I could practically feel the crowd's collective tension ratchet up. Asah's expression flickered between annoyance and intrigue, like she was sizing up a new toy. She cocked her head, golden mane shifting around her shoulders. "Tell you what," she said, her voice carrying to every corner of the silent beer hall, "we can skip a duel. This is a bar, after all, so let's settle it the dwarven way—with a drinking competition." She pointed a clawed fingertip at the stacked shelves behind me. "That top shelf should do. Last one standing wins. If you win, I let Nanlan go, free as a bird. No punishment. If I win…" She paused to flash a sultry grin, tossing her hair in a way that drew several gazes. "…you spend the rest of this night with me, away from prying eyes, and I promise not to do anything you wouldn't like."

From the way she pronounced that last bit, it was clear she had a few ideas about what I would like. I clenched my jaw, my mind racing. On the one hand, I had almost no chance in a straight-up figh, and she looked like she could knock me through a wall even without casting a single spell. On the other hand, a drinking contest was my territory. If she hadn't noticed that special little bottle behind the others, I had a chance. Maybe a small one, but a chance nonetheless. And if I lost…well, worst-case scenario, I'd be stuck on a date with a cat girl who might only want me for an evening. Considering the alternative—that she might tear this poor cat boy's life apart—losing didn't sound like the end of the world.

I gritted my teeth and mustered what I hoped passed for confident resolve. "Very well," I said, keeping my eyes locked on hers. "I accept."

"What's your name, Dandy?" the cat girl Asah,demanded, tilting her head and eyeing me like prey she fully intended to devour.

"John," I answered, trying to keep my voice steady despite the flurry of nerves roiling in my gut.

She gave a little smirk, golden furred ears twitching with anticipation. "Well, Just John, I hope you're prepared to lose, because I've never lost a challenge before."

Before I could respond, someone let loose a sharp bellow that shattered the tense hush gathering around us. "Stop this foolishness at once, ye daft milk drinkers!" The voice belonged to Strom Stonestealer, a grizzled dwarf whose wrinkled face carried all the authority of an old-time baron. He stood with arms folded across a broad chest, half-obscured by the apron he worethough his demeanor screamed more "battle-hardened warrior" than "barkeeper."

"Yeah, hold your horses!" piped in Krenk, Strom's goblin partner, who was suddenly hustling up beside him. "I haven't even had time to collect bets yet."

Strom shot Krenk a sharp glare, shaking his head. "We can't let them have a drinkin' contest here, an' that's final. It's not right, doin' it above ground." His tone suggested this was some unspoken dwarven taboo, though he didn't elaborate.

Krenk, smoking a pipe as usual, merely shrugged and blew out a lazy coil of smoke. "They're not dwarves, so that particular rule shouldn't apply to them," he countered with a confident arch of one brow.

"Aye, but John's about to drink himself blind?" Strom asked, jerking a thumb in my direction. "We don't need the trouble that comes when some damned Advocate gets involved." He spat the word "Advocate" like it tasted sour. From the way he spoke, I guesse the dwarve had little patience for legal entanglements.

Krenk gave a dismissive scoff. "You can't sue over an agreed-upon challenge." He paused, sizing up the cat girl and me with a canny glint in his eye. "At least, not easily."

Strom grunted and turned his gaze on me. "We rely on John too much to let 'im wander off in the middle of his shift. What if he loses? Then what? We're left high an' dry, no bartender."

"I'll cover his shift," Krenk interjected with a casual wave of his pipe, sending a cloud of spicy smoke into the air. "Besides, we've made plenty tonight as it is, and these golems are doin' half the work anyway."

Strom bit down on the edge of his mustache, appearing to war internally with his own logic. "It's not proper for a woman to challenge a man, especially in public," he blustered, throwing one last attempt at maintaining dwarven traditions.

"When've we ever cared about propriety, old friend?" Krenk teased, nudging the dwarf's stout arm and smirking up at him. "We're practically runnin' a carnival here." Krenk then leaned in and grasped Strom's hand as if to seal some silent pact.

Strom made a grand show of thinking it over, shaking his head and muttering all sorts of indecipherable dwarf curses under his breath. Then at last, he exhaled a long, tired sigh and beckoned Krenk close. "Fine," he huffed in a lowered voice. "But if this nonsense costs us, we're takin' it out of your share of the profits."

Krenk's ears quivered in amusement. "Deal." The aged goblin snapped his fingers, and his pipe smoke curled theatrically around his head. "Now, don't just stand there like you stepped in molten rock, Strom. The crowd's waiting on your say-so."

Strom turned to the onlookers—a growing throng of wide-eyed customers who'd been observing the spectacle in hushed fascination. He cleared his throat, then boomed in a voice that could probably echo down a mineshaft, "All right, you louts! Don't just stand there like crushed stones! Let's get these tables moved aside. We've got ourselves a drinking contest!"

The ensuing murmur of excitement rippled through the patrons, who scrambled to oblige. Chairs were pushed back, cups and half-eaten plates were whisked away. A few of the smarter customers left altogether, not wanting to be in the splash zone if a brawl—or a magical catastrophe—broke out. But most of them just circled around the center of the room, eager to see who'd triumph: the tall, dandy-dressed bartender or the fierce cat-girl with a leonine mane and claws sharp enough to slash steel.

Meanwhile, Asah GoldenClaw, as she'd introduced herself, still had that smug smile playing on her lips. She reached one hand out to gently rake her claws over the nearest table in a show of nonchalance, leaving shallow gouges in the wood. "Shall we get on with it, Just John?" she purred, meeting my gaze with brazen confidence.

I swallowed, the tension in my gut coiling tighter. Better to get this over with than let her yank that poor cat boy around any longer. And, if luck was with me, maybe I'd prove I wasn't quite as helpless as she assumed. "Yes," I said, stepping forward. "Let's see who's left standing."

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Codex

An Introduction to the Races of Erda

Chapter Twelve: The Genocide and Exodus of the Beastkin

By Lady Brimsley Hasting, Senior Scholastic of Anthropology, St. Andrea Scholasticum

In the history of eastern Erda, particularly within the borders of the once-mighty Zodiac Empire, the Beastkin clans stood as the predominant rulers and cultural backbone. Historically, Beastkin made up nearly 20% of all Kindred worldwide, a figure that was dramatically reduced to about 3% following the Vangaurdist genocide and the catastrophic Great Dying Wars, which obliterated nearly a third of the world's population. Today, their numbers have somewhat recovered to about 8%, yet the scars of their decline are still visible.

The Zodiac Empire, centered in eastern Edra, was almost exclusively inhabited by Beastkin, with the ruling class composed of the primary 12 Great Clans, each corresponding to a sign of the zodiac. These clans were supported by numerous smaller clans and cultivation schools, which together created a structured yet rigid hierarchy. Notable exceptions to this concentration included clans such as the Kitsune in Nippon and the Sphinxes in Aegyt, who lived outside the empire's immediate influence.

Historically, the governance of the Beastkin was often viewed as harsh, as they did not regard other Kindred with the same level of worthiness. This perception, combined with internal strife such as the War within the Nippon Confederation and the rapid technological changes of the era, set the stage for upheaval. As the Age of Revolution dawned, it initially appeared that the Zodiac Empire would withstand the tides of change as it had in the past. However, the deep-seated oppression felt by the people and the weakening of the Zodiac's power due to war and innovation catalyzed the rise of the Vanguardists.

The Vanguardists, advocating for radical change and unity under a new order, eventually seized power through a bloody civil war. The once-dominant Beastkin were systematically exterminated and driven into exile; many were confined to death camps, and even today, entry into the People's Republic of the Zodiac is forbidden for any Beastkin.

Survival for the Beastkin meant fleeing their homeland. The largest concentration of surviving Beastkin today is found on the island of Formosa, situated just off the coast of the former Zodiac Empire. Others found refuge in the Imperial Federation, with significant numbers settling in the Imperial City of Pearl, or dispersing among its dominions, particularly in the New World where small Beastkin communities had already established roots.