If someone from my old world had the chance to split a Kindred body in half—like those cutaway models in science museums and medical classrooms—they'd be completely flummoxed. On the surface, we might appear similar to ordinary humans in height, build, and anatomical layout. But the truth is, under the skin, our innards are a painstakingly crafted mosaic of arcane engineering—designed, refined, and perfected by the High Elves. It's not just that we have a few slightly different organs; entire systems are streamlined, reinforced, and interwoven with magic that pulses like a second circulatory network.

Imagine strolling through a state-of-the-art laboratory, where every piece of equipment has been optimized to work in perfect harmony—that's what a Kindred's body resembles. We don't just have muscles and bones, we have magically enhanced ligaments that seldom tear, hyper-efficient lungs that process air almost as if it's being filtered by a built-in mana lens, and a labyrinth of secondary ducts running parallel to blood vessels. These ducts carry concentrated mana. How robust and efficient those systems are depends almost entirely on an individual's magical capacity: the higher your inherent mana levels, the healthier you remain, the longer you live, and the more slowly the signs of age appear. It's like having a personal reservoir of life-giving power, allowing strong Kindred to weather diseases, injuries, or the ravages of time far better than weaker or Kindred.

Back in my original world, such a notion would've been pure fantasy organs meticulously tailored to harness arcane forces? It sounds like a dream, or maybe a scientific impossibility. Here, it's reality. The High Elves, for all their historical atrocities, were master bio-engineers. They sculpted races out of necessity to fuel their own megalomaniacal goals: to keep their immortality afloat when the world's magic started running dry. We, the Kindred, each with a unique blueprint that cursed us, ended up as living batteries storing and refining mana. But over time, we evolved into far more living in a ruined world.

As for me, I happen to bristle with power. I've got more mana coursing through my veins than most people suspect—enough that I can handle feats of physical endurance that would flatten an ordinary human, especially one from my original Earth. And that's exactly why, as I stand contemplating that ominous top shelf of potent liquors, I'm not as worried as I might have been otherwise. If a normal human from back home tried to guzzle even half those brews, their body would probably rebel, shutting down under the assault of alcohol infused with varying degrees of magical residue. But me? I can endure if I pace myself. My supernatural physiology should filter out the worst toxins, relying on that extra jolt of mana to keep my vital organs functioning and my mind relatively clear.

Of course, I'm not delusional. I know I can't simply chug glass after glass without consequence; magic or no magic, too much alcohol can knock even a sturdy Champion on their rear. But the difference is that I won't keel over halfway, while a typical human from my old world likely would. It's a peculiar advantage, born from centuries of High Elven meddling in mortal biology. Strange to think that this innate resilience one that might save me from humiliating defeat in a public drinking contest has roots in a grand design once meant to keep an entire empire of elves from fading into oblivion.

Yet I'm grateful for it at the moment. After all, in a world where men don't typically wield magic, every edge counts. If the cat girl's challenge involves downing shot after shot of dangerously strong spirits, I'll let my magically augmented liver do the heavy lifting. A deep, steady breath, a final glance at the glowing bottles behind me—then I can stride forward, remind myself that my body is crafted for more than mundane limits, and trust that the "perfected" human Maeriel had reforged me into was enough to carry me across the finish line.

It took a while for word to travel across the bustling beer hall, spread through murmurs and whispers. A few people, after fleeing the initial commotion, even trickled back as soon as it became clear there wouldn't be immediate bloodshed. Others, lured by rumors of a confrontation, hurried in from nearby corridors. When all was said and done, the place ended up nearly packed, with only a bare ring left open in the center around a table that had been pushed forward to serve as our makeshift "arena."

I noticed that more Catkin arrived to join Asah and Nanlan—likely members of the same clan, judging by their expressions of solidarity or disdain. All were cat girls with exotic features, though none were the small, "domestic-type" like the poor cat boy. I picked out reflections of cheetahs, lynxes, jaguars, and even one who appeared to bear the lineage of a saber-tooth. Their sheer presence made it feel as though the elite warriors of the Catkin Clan had materialized to back up Asah.

One figure stood out: a tall, raven-haired woman whose very aura commanded reverence. Shadows clung to her like living things, slipping and slithering around her ankles. She moved with measured grace, and all the other cat girls seemed to give way before her. A quick guess told me she was likely the Elder, one of those rumored to embody the mythical Shadow Cat reflection. Such a reflection signaled status within the upper echelons of the Beastkin Clans. A glint of metal caught my eye: a notch in her ear suggested a storied past, perhaps a grim escape during the vanguardist purges of the Age of Revolutions. Despite her many years, her face and form held that timeless beauty so common to older Kindred women—something about the way years refine, rather than diminish, their features.

Asah, though, didn't seem impressed by this Elder's high station. The champion gestured animatedly, as though delivering a heated defense of her actions. The Elder, in turn, frowned in obvious disapproval. From where I stood, I couldn't catch every word—the swirl of conversation around us was too dense, a chorus of low voices like wind through dense foliage. Still, I concentrated, letting my enhanced hearing—which Maeriel's biomancy had improved—tune out the background. Gradually, I caught fragments of the exchange.

"It doesn't matter what Nanlan did, Asah. You can't just rampage through the city with your pride in tow, acting like animals in heat. It was bad enough you rampaged through the streets as though you were a kaiju. Now you've publicly challenged a man. What were you thinking? You're our Champion. You're meant to represent our Kindred's poise, yet here you are, throwing a tantrum before half the Federation." Elder Midnight said voice low, controlled.

Asah's tail flicked with irritation. Still, she kept her tone subdued, probably not wanting to seem disrespectful in front of everyone.

"You're always telling me to stand my ground, to demonstrate my authority as the Great Spirits ordained. You taught me never to let an insult pass. You taught me to be the toughest, fiercest cat in the clan. And now you want me to act like a docile kitten?" She replied.

The Elder grimaced, not pleased with the answer. "I said all that, yes—but in private. We don't parade our clan squabbles for the entire world to watch. Praise in public, criticize in private. Have you forgotten that rule already? Or do you care so little for the clan's reputation? We're still recovering, Asah, from ages of hardship. Our power is only a shadow of what it was. Your standing is crucial to the clan's future. We can't have you throwing it away over some petty argument."

Asah drew in a measured breath, her mane shifting with the movement of her shoulders. Asah with frustration etched on her face. "As if I had time to step aside for a 'private' scolding, Elder. Nanlan sneaked off, again, and I have my duties. Besides, I remember how you scolded me never to appear weak, never to let someone else humiliate me. Well, here we are. Now that there's a crowd, I can't back down without looking like a coward. You think that helps our image?"

The Elder let out a soft sigh. "If you would just curb your impulses… Asah, you risk hurting more than just your pride if you escalate this. Princess Charlotte was nearly exiled for the scandal she caused—do we truly need another fiasco?"

Asah rolled her eyes and flicked a dismissive glance toward me her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "This isn't a real challenge. No man with half a brain thinks he can best me, so it's obviously just his way of asking me out without looking like a slut. Look at him—he's tall, obviously strong, maybe even a high-level C-rank or better. You know as well as I do that a stud like him doesn't stay single unless he's waiting for a woman to swoop in. I'm not letting that chance slip away, Elder Midnight ."

Elder Midnight's eyebrows lifted. "Asah… he's a random bartender who had the nerve to stand up for some poor cat boy you nearly dragged out by the hair. Are you truly too caught up in your reflection to see that?"

Before I could make out her reply, a rough elbow jostled my side—Krenk, the pipe-chewing goblin, was motioning for my attention, a silent invitation to step aside. The rest of the Elder's admonition faded into a low drone as I let Krenk guide me a few paces away.

All around us, the crowd waited, pressing inward to see if the Elder would force Asah to back down, or if the champion would snap and continue with the so-called drinking contest. Dark eyes and ears of every shape fixed on us, hungry for a spectacle. To one side, Nanlan hovered anxiously, clearly worried Asah might simply toss him over her shoulder again. And through it all, the Elder's presence loomed—a silent reminder that the clan had its own politics and that Asah's wild behavior threatened more than just a single cat boy.

I took a breath, steeling myself. No matter what I decided, I had the sense this confrontation had already spun out of anyone's control. One more element to a night already brimming with unexpected twists. And now, Krenk had something to say—whether it was advice, a warning, or an offer of help, I didn't know. But I'd learned in my time at King Victor's that when trouble started swirling, it was best to listen to the goblin with an ever-present pipe. He often had a knack for finding an angle, for spotting possibilities others missed.

"Looking at your mate-to-be, are we? You know there are easier ways to score a date," Krenk said with a teasing lilt, tapping me lightly on the hip with his ever-present pipe. A crooked grin spread across his goblin features, pipe smoke curling around his pointed ears.

I shot him my best unimpressed glare. "I'm not planning on mating her or dating her," I retorted, my voice kept low enough that no one but Krenk could hear. "I'm just trying to stop her from dragging that poor cat boy away and punishing him. Which you, by the way, conveniently set up so you could rake in bets."

Krenk shrugged, not even attempting to feign innocence. "It's not 'punishment' if she's his keeper, John," he corrected in a tone that suggested he knew how flimsy that excuse was. "You know how it works in these clan-bound relationships. 'Internal matter,' they'll call it. Doesn't exactly fall under Federation law."

I bit back a sigh. It was a grim reminder of how "marital" rights—especially in certain clans—often excused behavior that, anywhere else, would be seen as blatant abuse. "You and I both know that's exactly what it is—abuse," I replied. "But if the law won't intervene, I guess I will."

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Krenk made a small, sad sound, but moved on with barely a flicker of sympathy. "So," he said, switching gears, "what do you figure your odds are of beating her?"

I glanced across the room, where Asah GoldenClaw stood conferring with a tall, raven-haired Elder, presumably deciding how to handle her public meltdown. It was easy to see she was no minor fighter: some kind of champion, famed enough that no one dared stop her when she'd stormed in. "I overheard enough to know she's bigger trouble than I realized," I admitted. But I'd like a second opinion. Care to enlighten me?"

A wide grin flashed across Krenk's wrinkled face. "Sure thing. I set the odds at one thousand to one against you, if that tells you anything."

I felt an uneasy knot coil in my gut. "A thousand to one?" I repeated, half in disbelief. "You really think my chances are that pitiful?"

Krenk's shrill, chittering laugh made a few onlookers turn their heads. "Not me, precisely," he said, tapping ashes from his pipe onto the floor. "The betting crowd. They're convinced Asah's unstoppable. Dagna forced me to raise your odds , claiming you had some hidden potential."

"Dagna…" I murmured, feeling a pang of gratitude. The dwarven woman who usually ran King Victor's Bar with me was saving every coin she could scrounge for a dowry—her dream was to earn enough gold so those old-school dwarven men back in the holds could get it up for her. That she'd put money on me winning meant she either believed in me, or she was just stubborn enough to back a lost cause on principle.

Krenk gave a conspiratorial wink. "Yeah, you'll probably want to thank her if you make it through this. But look, John, you're up against Asah GoldenClaw. She's the reflection of the Nemean Lioness, been the National Dueling Champion five years running, and rumor says she's only second in the entire Federation because the Princess keeps beating her by a hair. A hair, John. If that's not enough to worry you, I don't know what is."

I swallowed, my heart sinking a bit deeper into my stomach. "So…she's basically a top-tier champion who can do whatever she wants and get away with it," I said, half under my breath.

"That's about the size of it," Krenk confirmed. "When folks see her coming, they usually cross the street."

I blew out a breath, trying to steady my nerves. It explained why no one else had dared intervene when she manhandled Nanlan. I flicked my gaze back to Asah, who was now engaged in a somewhat hushed argument with the Elder, voices too low to make out over the clamor.

"Did you really not recognize her?" Krenk pressed, tilting his head curiously. "She's in the headlines constantly, you know. She's also the face of Medarda Mana and all its subsidiaries—like GoldenBrew, that ale we've been serving for months."

At that, I felt my stomach lurch in realization. "Right—so that cartoon lioness mascot on the bottles…that's her, in her shifted form?"

"One and the same," Krenk confirmed. "She's even in some viral videos. Tearing a behemoth in half with those big claws of hers, or stopping a runaway train with one arm…stuff like that. I think we showed one of those vids at the bar once, though maybe you were stuck in the stockroom."

"Well, this is…great," I muttered, pressing a hand to my face.

Krenk let out a wheezing snort. "If it's any consolation, she seemed intrigued by you. That might keep you in one piece…unless she decides you're more fun in pieces."

I offered a shaky chuckle. It was gallows humor at best. "Right. Guess we'll see."

Krenk jerked his pipe toward the far side of the room, drawing my attention back to Asah and the cluster of cat girls. They seemed to be wrapping up their argument. The Elder's expression was grim, but Asah's tail was still swishing with the kind of excitement that didn't bode well for me.

"So," Krenk asked, lowering his voice, "any last-minute plan? The crowd's getting restless, and I'd prefer if you drew out this spectacle a bit before passing out—some of us got good money riding on how many drinks you last."

I smirked, a faint semblance of confidence stirring in me. "Let's just say I might have stacked the odds slightly in my favor. I've been fetching drinks from the top shelf all evening, what with being tall enough to reach. But if you noticed closely, there's a smaller bottle of 'Nepeta' stashed around halfway down."

Krenk gave me a puzzled squint. "Nepeta?.. Wait, you're not planning on…?"

"We'll see," I said enigmatically, letting a ghost of a grin tug at my lips. "If I time things right, I might be able to exploit that weakness."

Krenk let out a wheezing laugh. "Oh, you sneaky dog. Or is that cat? I can't keep it straight. Regardless, I like your style. Maybe you're not as doomed as you look."

Before I could respond, a hush fell over the onlookers near the circle. Asah, flanked by a couple of formidable cat girls, stepped away from the Elder, who looked exasperated but resigned. The champion's predatory gaze found me across the crowd, a grin stretching across her features that bared her pointed canines. The show was about to start.

"You'd better get in position," Krenk muttered, tapping out the ash from his pipe onto the floor. "And remember—draw it out. The more 'close calls' you give them, the better the tips in your jar when this is all over…assuming you're not in a jar."

I gave a short nod, trying to muster courage from the half-baked plan swirling in my head. My heart hammered against my ribs as I squared my shoulders and moved toward the makeshift ring. One man, a crowd of cat girls, and the entire hall waiting to see if I'll keel over. I exhaled slowly. Just another typical shift, John, I told myself. Pour the drinks, keep your wits, and maybe you'll walk away a victor.

The final background chatter fizzled out like dying embers when Asah strode toward the makeshift table, her mane of hair swaying with each step. Even the clamor from the rest of the beer hall dulled, as if someone had lowered the volume on the entire room. The circle of onlookers around the table parted for her, some with hushed anticipation, others with furtive glances at the Elder still standing near the edge. In this moment, all eyes were on Asah and me.

Strom trudged behind me with measured footsteps, his bearded chin lifted in that unmistakably dwarven way of exuding importance. He'd volunteered—or, more accurately, declared himself—to be the referee of our little contest. The dwarf muttered something about "time-honored dwarven ways" under his breath, and it dawned on me that although the dwarves claimed they had no religion, their drinking rites were practically a creed in themselves.

He reached the center of the ring, giving a gruff cough that signaled everyone needed to pay attention. Onlookers shuffled closer, forming a dense semicircle near the front. Some perched on hastily rearranged chairs and tables, or even stood on crates to get a better view. With all the flurry of bodies, the air seemed to grow warmer.

"Listen up!" Strom barked, his voice carrying over the murmurs. "We got ourselves a drinking contest—an old, time-honored tradition. Two participants, no outside interference, first one to yield or pass out loses. Fair an' simple. Both have agreed to the terms, and we dwarves don't allow no meddling once it starts."

He gave the table a firm slap, as though it was a venerable altar. It rattled with the impact, bottles clinking dangerously. Then he turned to me with a raised eyebrow. "John, you prepared to see this through?" he asked, voice lowered so the crowd wouldn't hear every inflection.

All I could do was nod, a curt motion of my head. My throat felt too dry for any grand speech.

Next, Strom aimed his attention at Asah, who stood on the opposite side of the table. Her glossy lioness ears were up, and her tail swished in a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm behind her.

"I am more than ready," she announced, voice resonating with authority. "But before we begin, I state clearly that my actions and honor are my own alone. Any glory or shame I earn is mine to bear."

Those words carried a formal tone, like an oath recited in a dueling circle. And indeed, based on the respectful hush that gripped the crowd, it was evidently a known phrase for an "independent duelist." Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the Elder's faint, knowing smile aimed my way. She'd probably deduced precisely what trick I intended to pull. Still, the clan would profit from Asah's victory if she won, and if something went sour—a scandal or worse—the clan could feign distance, claiming Asah had entered as a lone wolf.

Strom let out a grunt, rubbing his palms together. "All right, both sides have spoken. No interference, no second chances. We'll go shot for shot 'til one can't continue. Understood?"

Asah flicked her tail again, golden eyes glinting with predatory amusement. I inhaled deeply, summoning what courage I had.

"Begin!" the dwarf roared, stepping aside in a swift motion that signaled we had free rein to approach the table.

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