Chapter 8 - In(n)

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Cats were once worshipped in ancient times, you know?

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Patterns had a way of making themselves known.

On the stone tapestry of time, there was a narrative writ large and prominent. It was carved deeply, painfully into the living marrow of Earth's history. Every era wore its signature, and every dynasty, its indelible mark.

In the grand dance of existence, civilisations moved predictably, their paths no different to the ebb and flow of ocean tides. The birth of an empire was, in its own peculiar way, a herald of its inevitable demise. Every dawn held the promise of dusk, after all.

Warfare, in all its raw, ruthless glory, could draw generations of blood. But never did these wars manage to fully extinguish the flames of these grand behemoths. Yes, they might have been left wounded, marred, and disfigured. Yet, despite the ravages of war, empires were resilient things. They endured.

Treaties, these declarations of peace or pacts of shared power, could contort their shapes, spawn revolutions of leadership, or new tricolours under which their subjects could rally. If the tides of circumstance swayed in their favour, if the constellations of power aligned just so, they could marshal their strength anew.

So, if the bloody jaws of war weren't enough to kill these leviathans for good, what would?

The answer came not from the expanse of rival kingdoms, but from a foe much more insidious. It was not a foe that announced itself with the deafening clamour of a charging cavalry, nor one that declared itself with the relentless advance of a conqueror.

It was an enemy that slipped unnoticed through the cracks of prosperity. It wound its way through grand corridors of power, embedding itself deep within the very heart of empires. There it lay, slowly and silently draining their vitality, leaching away their spirit, until nothing was left but a faint echo of their once resplendent glory. It was a downfall not marked by the drums of war but by the quiet sigh of a spirit extinguished, a foe more devastating than any army, silent, and unending.

Indeed, patterns had a way of making themselves known.

The slow decay of complacency, the silent venom of ignorance, and the cancerous growth of arrogance—those were the names of the silent killers.

Consider the great general, with eyes alight with the flames of conquest, basking in the radiant glow of victories won. His ears, however, are deafened by the thunderous applause of triumph, and so he ignores the whispers of counsel warning of treacherous landscape. He charges forth, his heart thundering in synchrony with the drumbeat of war. But his overconfidence crumbles when he witnesses his once invincible legions falter, and meticulously crafted strategies unravel like fragile threads.

Or perhaps, on the twentieth floor of an unremarkable skyscraper, sits the aspirant. The hopeful dreamer, bathed in the glare of the overhead lamps. His heart held an unshakeable conviction that they would embrace him, for who could resist? But the questions they fire are unexpected, their arrows landing far from his prepared answers. His heart begins to play a frantic symphony against the cage of his ribs, his palms transform into pools of anxious sweat, and from his mouth pours a whirlwind of ill-prepared responses.

Yet, there existed a miraculous antidote—an elixir potent enough to dissolve the tarnish of such failures, as a spring shower gently scrubs away winter's grime.

From the dust-laden battlefields to the claustrophobic confines of an interview room, the key to salvation remained the same—a singular, invaluable asset: the gleaming key of knowledge. The power to understand one's adversary, to anticipate the challenges that may come, this was the pivot upon which failure could be transformed into victory.

This enduring truth, this pattern woven into the very fabric of existence, underpinned the rise and fall of all entities, whether they wielded swords or speeches. Fate hinged not on brute force or eloquent words alone, but on the understanding they held—the knowledge they wielded and the wisdom they applied.

However, acquiring knowledge was only a partial victory. Like the double-edged sword it was, information could guide you towards enlightenment just as swiftly as it could lead you down a perilous path.

False knowledge was a master of disguise, presenting itself in the comforting cloak of truth, whispering sweet serenities into the ears of the powerful. It lulled them into a precarious slumber, a stupor that numbed the senses, dulled the instinct, and turned a sharp gaze into a languid, unseeing stare. All the while, it strung the bow and nocked the arrow, biding its time for the strike that would pierce the very heart of the unwary.

Kurosaki Kageyama was well acquainted with the bitter sting of such deceit. He had once succumbed to the siren call of complacency, and the repercussions had cost him his life.

His wealth of experience and acumen, tools carefully honed to navigate the seas of contemporary commerce, now seemed as relevant as an ancient mariner's map in a digital world. It was not merely a matter of irrelevance, but a cruel taunt from the past.

The familiar had turned unfamiliar, and the assured had become questionable.

Every assumption held as irrefutable truth, every kernel of wisdom subconsciously stored away had the potential to be a lethal liability. The very foundations of his knowledge—comprising social norms, historical understanding, scientific insights, technological advancements, and now, the element of magic—had been thrown into disarray.

"Magic…"

He had cast aside the regalia of dignity, draping himself in the scratchy mantle of humility. It was an outfit that chafed, bristling with an excess of uncomfortable frills. Yet he had 'voluntarily' submitted to its awkward embrace, trading his former persona for the safeguarding of the young maiden. 

It appeared he may be stuck in this situation for a while.

"Did you say something, Kuro?" The girl's voice, light and airy, punctuated his thoughtful silence.

"Merely contemplating, my lady," he responded, his voice a quiet rumble.

"Oh." The single syllable hung in the air between them, devoid of any prying curiosity. But then she asked, "What were you pondering?"

She seemed indifferent to meaningful conversation, but here presented an opportunity to nurture the fledgling bond with Kuro—irrespective of whether the creature was capable of fully understanding her answers.

"Do all human nations detest demihumans?"

For Kuro, gaining insight into this enigmatic world was a pressing priority. To grasp the gears and pulleys that operated this peculiar realm, he would need to be proactive. Simply lying down and waiting for the answers to arrive was idiotic at best.

"They don't hate you," she started, "but they don't particularly like you either."

Her response, while diplomatic, illuminated Kuro enough. The implications were clear: living under the rule of humans was an invitation to live on the margins. Still, it was another piece of the puzzle, another stroke on the canvas of his understanding of this world.

As he mulled over her words, possibilities ignited in Kurosaki's mind. He found himself considering the complex branches of prejudice and entrenched narratives. What stories did the annals of this world's history hold? Was there an era when demihumans lorded over their human counterparts, sowing the seeds of this enduring resentment?

"Do demihumans possess nations of their own?" Perhaps a haven existed for his kind, a place removed from the harsh glare of human rule.

Juliana pivoted to face Kuro, a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. No scripture she had perused or story she had heard recited tales of demihumans wielding the ambition or resources to carve out nations of their own.

"Perhaps there exists a large tribe somewhere," she offered, casually waving off the question. "But a demihuman nation? I haven't heard of such a thing."

He exhaled a resigned sigh. So be it.

Demihumans seemed to be boxed within the stereotype of primitive beings, wild and untamed. 

The shadow of his past life hung heavily around him. He recalled an era hailed as enlightened, a time when humans basked in the glow of knowledge, preening themselves on their perceived sophistication, advancement, and wisdom. Yet, his memory was also studded with their dismissive attitude towards creatures they deemed lower, their so-called lesser counterparts. Compassion towards animals was an exception rather than the rule, even in modern times. Perhaps his fears should have been directed towards factory farming instead of coal mining?

"But weren't humans once uncultured savages as well?"

His gaze, an unvoiced plea for recognition, sought hers. Juliana had been amiable towards him so far, perhaps he could coax her understanding just a little further…

"We were never like that," she countered defensively. "Savages? I'm not sure I follow your meaning."

Confusion, rather than understanding, coloured her expression. His exploration of human history, it seemed, had struck a nerve.

"...I see," Kurosaki concluded, absorbing the affront in her voice. A curious response, he thought, but then again, he was dealing with a curious species.

It was his turn to study her, his gaze analytical. The conversation had turned the girl—Juliana—and her reactions, pieces to be fitted into the grand puzzle he sought to assemble. Understanding Juliana was integral to understanding this world; she was a window to it, after all.

"Then, how about magic?" he asked, steering the conversation towards a topic less likely to arouse defensiveness. "Could nya tell me about that?"

The question was meant as a diversion, but the sudden widening of her eyes told him he had stumbled upon something of significance. A world where magic existed, he mused. It was a far cry from his own—a world that prided itself on empirical evidence and the supremacy of science. It was not technology they had forsaken, but rather this society had reached out to touch something fundamentally different in nature. 

"Magic," Juliana began slowly, "is... it's not something you need to concern yourself with."

This statement, ambiguous as it was, intrigued Kurosaki. While her words danced around the topic, he did not suspect it was simply because of the current difference in status. 

"Nothing I need to concern myself with?" Kurosaki's eyes were intent upon Juliana. He knew when to be cautious, and he knew when to press; it seemed this topic of magic necessitated a bit of both. "As you wish," he conceded for the moment. Still, the unspoken promise hung in the air: he would learn, whether she decided to teach him or he had to uncover the secrets himself.

At his concession, Juliana exhaled a sigh of relief, her shoulders subtly drooping as the issue of magic was deftly set aside.

In the ensuing silence, only the subdued murmur of conversations from the other patrons filled the space. Kurosaki seized the moment to observe his surroundings more closely, allowing his senses to soak up the peculiar ambiance of the inn that Juliana had arranged for their stay.

The inn, far from his initial assumptions, challenged his understanding.

He had pictured something rather rustic, akin to a medieval European building where the air clung heavy with the earthy scent of straw, dust, and horse manure. But reality rarely accommodated expectations, and the world he found himself in had an uncanny ability to upend his presumptions.

Instead of a thatched-roof tavern reminiscent of the Middle Ages, the inn presented familiar features of modern design. The lobby was open and welcoming, graced by chic sofas and plush cushions, their inviting softness contrasting against the solid union of stone, timber and marble that shaped the walls. It even had racks of tourist pamphlets listing all the town's activities.

Glowing orbs, presumably the product of magic, were suspended from the ceiling, shedding a warm light throughout the room. Underfoot, a plush carpet tickled the bare soles of his feet.

Oh, had he neglected to mention his bare feet?

Well, no matter.

The man at the counter, his visage a barely concealed sneer, had directed them to wait in the lobby. Patrons scattered around the room echoed the sentiment, their collective gazes wordlessly challenging his place within this unfamiliar setting.

Still, they seemed to value their individual pursuits over wasting time with a one-sided staring contest.

Kurosaki let his eyes wander across the room, taking in the various groups. There was a group sprawled over sofas near the hearth, their irritating laughter mingling with the crackling flames. They bore the unmistakable stamp of mercenaries, their attire and demeanour as much a part of their identity as the crude weapons slung across their backs.

In contrast, the far corner played host to a hushed gathering of scholarly-looking individuals, their stern faces bent over a constellation of scrolls and maps, completely absorbed in their intellectual discourse. What Kurosaki couldn't know, though, was that their intense focus was not directed towards some grand strategy or arcane secret, but was centred on a popular board game of this world, Dungeonopoly.

And there he was, Kuro, donned in a frilled, lace-adorned maid outfit, sitting across from a rather bored young girl. His bare toes curled into the plush carpet, admittedly a much more pleasant sensation than walking on stony pavements.

The chime of the innkeeper's bell sliced through his thoughts, snapping his attention back to the present. The receptionist, with a curt nod in their direction, signalled the readiness of their room. Juliana rose smoothly and made her way toward the counter, her stride carrying the implicit expectation of Kurosaki's compliance. He obliged, naturally.

Rising from his seat, Kurosaki followed Juliana, trying to match his pace to hers. The proportions of his new form dictated shorter strides, an alteration he was frustrated with.

As they passed the group of mercenaries, one of them called out. "Nice outfit, kitty!" The uncouth declaration birthed a series of grunts and coarse laughter among the speaker's comrades. A flicker of irritation ignited within Kurosaki’s eyes, but he expertly tamed the spark. He maintained his pace, choosing to ignore the unwelcome remark.

Upon reaching the counter, the receptionist presented a wooden keycard with a gesture devoid of unnecessary sentiment. Juliana accepted the token with a perfunctory nod, acknowledging the courtesy with her own brisk brand of civility.

Kurosaki observed the exchange with keen interest, intrigued by the novel object. It represented yet another advanced technology that did not belong in this world. 

'Maybe the use of hotel keycards was something that all civilisations converged upon? However, this one wouldn't have any fancy magnetic strips. Another result of magic, then.'

He'd have to figure out how it worked. 

Keycard in hand, Juliana led the way up a winding staircase, matching the room number to the card.

The short journey concluded at a secluded suite nestled at the farthest end of the corridor. Upon unlocking the door, the room revealed itself. It was a space steeped in homeliness and warmth, an inviting haven adorned with richly grained woods and caress-soft linens.

'So this is where all the European atmosphere went…'

"In," came the command from Juliana, its brevity eliminating the possibility of dispute. That suited Kurosaki perfectly. He could hardly remember a time when he was this exhausted.

Upon entering the room, his attention was immediately captured by the grandeur of the king-sized bed at its heart. An unspoken invitation lay in the form of the finely woven sheets and the plump pillows, their soft allure promising a restful haven. Unable to resist, Kurosaki made an immediate beeline in its direction, ready to dive into it head-first.

However, before his fingers could acquaint themselves with the inviting comforter, a voice cut through the room like a whip. "Hold it, Kuro!"

He froze mid-stride, swiveling to confront Juliana. She stood framed by the doorway, arms crossed, her eyes brimming with an unyielding sternness.

"Beds are for humans," she declared.

Kurosaki looked from Juliana to the bed, then back to Juliana. "Is there a reason why I cannot share the comforts of the bed?"

"Demihumans don't belong in human beds. The floor should suffice. Look, I even made sure to ask for an extra cushion as well." Juliana quietly congratulated herself for her thoughtfulness when booking the room. She knew Kuro would be positively delighted.

Kurosaki's eyes traced the line of her pointed finger to the aforementioned pillow.

It was a sad-looking thing. Not inviting at all. He would wake up with either a crumpled spine or a neck injury that would last no less than a month.

'Absolutely not. I choose life.'

Kurosaki's ears twitched as his mind plunged into a flurry of thought, orchestrating a persuasive argument. Juliana watched as his tail swung from side to side.

"Am I not bound by your magic?" He tread carefully with his choice of words. "Wouldn't your spell compel me to adhere to your wishes, even in slumber?"

Although he was simply making a guess, the premise was vague enough to hold water. Juliana moved to respond, but Kurosaki preempted her.

"That's why I'm in this outfit, isn't it?" He gestured at the frilled, lace-trimmed maid attire he wore. "To blend in, to immerse myself in the human world. And yet, you would make me sleep on the floor, as an animal would? Could nya clarify, my lady?"

Negotiating from an inferior position was an intricate dance. It necessitated that the other party weigh your arguments, and that they were amenable to change. He knew he was testing her authority with this ploy, which meant he would need to provide a worthy concession.

"The bed," he pressed gently, "It's a part of your human world, isn't it? To fully understand, shouldn't I experience all aspects of it?" 

Never in his life had Kurosaki needed to mount such a spirited defence for the privilege of a bed. After a long day of getting stabbed to death, being transported to another world, reincarnating as a catgirl, and being sold at an auction as a slave, didn't he at least deserve some comfort? Was it really too much to ask for?!

Juliana watched as Kuro put forth his argument, her features impassive.

"There is some merit to your reasoning, Kuro," she conceded, punctuating her words with an inconspicuous sigh. "However…"

Her pacing carried her across the room until she halted at a small window that afforded a view of the still-bustling streets below. 

"… I'm afraid that's just not acceptable."

As he feared, while he had cleared hurdle one with logic, he could not sway someone who did not make decisions based on reason. The process of nudging her opinion of demihumans would be a long-term project, it appeared.

"But," she added, a hint of softness seeping into her voice, "should you desire to learn about humanity, I propose a compromise."

Kurosaki's chest swelled with optimism.

Her fingers gestured towards a solitary wooden chair tucked away in the other corner of the room. "I will permit you to experience using that chair. In human households, it serves as a place of rest. It's comfortable enough and… human-like."

Kuro studied the chair, then returned his gaze to Juliana.

He blinked, devoid of any optimism whatsoever.

"The chair?"

"The chair."

The chair.

"…"

That night, Kuro slept on the floor.