Chapter 224: Bars Are Never Short on Stories
With Skadi busy tending to the still-unconscious Specter, Steven decided it was the perfect chance to take a stroll outside—maybe pick up a few rumors or local intel while he was at it.
Truth be told, he barely knew anything about this city. Forget trying to spot a crooked merchant—he didn't even understand what this so-called "General Chamber of Commerce" everyone kept talking about was supposed to be. And let's not even mention the Kazimierz Major he'd been looking forward to.
From what he'd overheard, they were still in the preliminary rounds. But even those tickets were going for thousands apiece—at least, that's what the receptionist at the hotel said. And that's not even accounting for scalpers jacking up the prices.
With the meager amount of LMD he'd managed to exchange into this city's currency, Steven could kiss the idea of spectating goodbye.
Stepping out of the hotel at a leisurely pace, he tilted his head up, eyes half-squinting against the sunlight as he scanned the skyline of modern skyscrapers.
"Now then… who's going to be the lucky one today?" he murmured to himself.
He toyed idly with a finely crafted handgun in his hand. Realistically, if Steven were really desperate for money, any one of the weapons he carried could fetch a high enough price to let him live like royalty here. But that would go against his principles—his whole reason for coming.
"Besides, in a place this modern, lugging around something like Yamato just feels out of place," he muttered, tapping the side of the gun. "In a city like this, firearms just… fit the aesthetic better."
Actually, there was another way to make money. Why watch the Kazimierz Major from the sidelines when he could just enter himself? The only catch was that he'd heard registering as a qualified knight in Kazimierz wasn't exactly easy.
Still…
"If I become a knight... would a Kamen Rider count as one?"
A ridiculous thought? Maybe. But that spark in his eyes said otherwise.
Most of the knight-themed mods in his arsenal were your typical medieval knights or dragon riders. But if we're talking true knights with their own style—nothing beat Kamen Rider. Sure, it was a Japanese interpretation of a knight, but hey—this city's tournament never explicitly said it had to be traditional, did it?
Already mulling over his next potential mod loadout, Steven wandered aimlessly until he found himself near a small tavern tucked beneath the looming towers of the city.
Compared to its sleek and futuristic neighbors, this little place looked entirely out of place—more like something out of a medieval town than a cutting-edge metropolis.
He hesitated, reaching into his half-empty pockets and checking the remaining bills he had. With a small smile, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Not much cash, but enough for a couple of drinks and a decent chat.
It was daytime, and as expected, the bar was almost deserted—so quiet, it felt more like a forgotten relic than a working tavern. Aside from Steven, the only other patron was a burly, middle-aged man in full armor, his thick beard and nomadic outfit making him look like someone plucked straight out of Steven's memories of old Mongolian warriors. The man leaned against the bar, chatting casually with a bald bartender.
Despite the tavern's old-world facade, the interior was surprisingly modern. Several screens hung behind the bar, one of which was streaming footage from what looked like a recent Kazimierz Major match.
"Well, well," the armored man chuckled when he noticed Steven, "Old Marcin, you've actually got a newcomer walking in? And here I thought this place had become a private hangout for us old relics."
The burly, bearded man cracked a joke with the bald bartender, then casually plopped himself down right next to Steven like they were old friends.
"Are you here for a drink, kid?" he asked with a hearty grin.
"What else would I be here for?" Steven replied with a smirk. "Unless… this place isn't a legit bar? In that case, feel free to offer me some illegitimate services."
He didn't mind people who acted overly familiar. In fact, he rather enjoyed their company—at least, they made for good banter. Sliding onto the barstool, he nodded at the bartender.
"Anything drinkable is fine. Something light and crisp, if possible."
Steven wasn't exactly a connoisseur when it came to alcohol. His standards were simple—if it tasted good, that was enough. And really, who came to bars just for the drinks, anyway?
The bartender gave a nod of understanding and began mixing beer with ice. That's when Steven noticed—one of the man's eyes was covered by an eyepatch. An old injury, perhaps. Still, that wasn't any of his business. As far as Steven was concerned, the guy could be a walking eyeball demon for all he cared—as long as he wasn't gross, he didn't mind.
The bearded man beside him, clearly pleased with Steven's relaxed attitude, leaned in again with a cheerful grin.
"Come on now, real drinking means downing shots of the hard stuff! That watered-down stuff you're asking for? Might as well be bird spit!"
He thumped the counter. "How about I treat you to a proper drink? One round on me!"
Still riding his wave of friendliness, the man spoke with the kind of easygoing boldness that reminded Steven of a few particularly loud personalities he'd known in the past.
But before the offer could fully land, the bartender let out a low snort and interrupted with a dry chuckle.
"You're offering to pay?" he said with a raised brow. "How about clearing your and Old Craftsman's tab for this month first?"
The effect was instant. The proud, booming voice of the bearded man deflated like a popped balloon, and his posture slumped in defeat.
"Hey, that bear drinks more than I do," he muttered under his breath. "Why should I have to pay for both of us?"
Still mumbling his complaints, he couldn't summon even half the confidence he'd shown moments before.
Steven chuckled at the scene and waved to the bartender.
"Actually, hard liquor doesn't sound bad. Pour the good knight here a round of whatever he considers proper," he said with a grin. "On me."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled bill, placing it gently on the counter.
The bearded man and the bartender both paused, blinking at the gesture, then laughed.
"I like you, kid," the bearded man said with a slap on Steven's shoulder. "You don't look like a local. Tourist?"
With the drinks now flowing and someone else footing the bill, his mood soared. And truth be told, someone as friendly and generous as Steven was bound to be well-liked, wherever he went.
Still, from his appearance alone, it was hard to guess just what race Steven belonged to. The feather tucked lazily in his hair seemed more like a fashion statement than a racial trait. Without a visible tail or any defining features, he was a mystery.
But in Kazimierz, anyone who didn't look like a Kuranta was simply lumped in as an outsider. And with so many travelers drawn in by the Kazimierz Major, that assumption was usually right.
"You could say that," Steven replied with a vague smile.
Steven nodded in agreement. Technically speaking, his current identity was that of a tourist—at least until he did something like robbing a bank and landed himself on a wanted poster.
"Came here to watch the Kazimierz Major?" the bearded man asked, raising his glass. "If that's the case, you might wanna ask our bald friend over there for an autograph. Might not be worth much, but hey—it's still got a bit of novelty to it."
He gestured toward the bald bartender with an expression that screamed, this guy's got stories to tell.
Steven tilted his head curiously. "I've got a bit of interest, sure. But what makes you say that?"
Turning to look more closely at the bartender, Steven noticed a few details he'd missed before. From the feather near his ear, the man appeared to be a Liberi—quite a rare sight in this horse-heavy city of Kazimierz.
And on closer inspection, it wasn't just the eyepatch. His left arm, too, was clearly mechanical—an artificial prosthetic replacing what once was flesh.
'So he's more than just a bartender,' Steven thought. 'Was he… a knight once?'
He couldn't help but smile a little at the coincidence. First place he wanders into after stepping outside, and he runs into a retired knight? Definitely not a bad start to the day. Like he thought—bars never run out of juicy stories.
"It's all in the past," the bartender said with a small smile, sliding a tall glass of lemon-mint beer toward Steven. "Nothing worth bragging about. But if you're really a fan of Kazimierz Major, feel free to drop by more often. I stream the matches live here, it's far cheaper than going to the stadium."
"That's true," Steven replied as he took a sip. The light, citrusy taste hit just right. "Kazimierz Major tickets are ridiculously overpriced."
He leaned back, half-lidding his eyes in contentment. "Still… being there in person hits different. The atmosphere, the noise, it's something that you can't replicate through a screen."
"That's fair," the bearded man said after gulping down another mouthful of strong liquor. "But let's be honest, who can actually afford tickets for every match? Not exactly something an average household can manage."
He clapped Steven on the back again. "By the way, since you're this into the whole knight scene, got a favorite? Someone you root for?"
He pointed toward one of the screens playing a match replay.
"Old Marcin here's got archives of past matches too. Spend a little more on drinks and I'm sure he won't mind digging one out for you."
"A favorite, huh…" Steven rubbed his chin, lost in thought. Just then, his eyes drifted to a wall near the screen—pinned with fan photos and support posters of a single knight.
A girl, blazing bright like a flame, radiating presence even from a still image. Something about her tugged at Steven's memory, like he'd seen her somewhere before…
"Who's that over there?" he asked, pointing at the photo wall and leaning in slightly to whisper the question to the bearded man beside him.
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