"You... you perverted human! Why did you actually lick it?!"
Zen hurled a nearby book at Yarrow in a sudden outburst, her silver brows furrowed, cheeks flushed a deep, furious red.
"Huh?" Yarrow dodged easily, the book flying past. "You told me to!"
"I—!" Zen choked on her words, her usual composure shattering. She stood there, fuming, mouth opening and closing in frustration. What she'd wanted was to see Yarrow crumble, humiliated and crushed beneath the weight of shame. But instead, the bastard had simply... done it. Without hesitation. No shame. No blush. Just a slow, confident lick that still haunted the sensitive skin between her toes.
Yarrow crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall. "Seriously, Zen… first it was the armpits, now the feet. Do you have a fetish, or have you been reading some deeply questionable books lately?"
Zen's face turned crimson. Actual steam seemed to rise from her ears.
"You—! You insolent little—!"
She pointed toward the door with a trembling, furious hand. "Out! That's an order from your Queen!"
Yarrow raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Royalty with a foot kink. Got it."
Before Zen could combust from sheer mortification, she kicked Yarrow square in the chest, shoving him out of the room with surprising force for someone barefoot and half-naked.
"Don't forget the secret technique!" Yarrow called from the hallway, half-laughing.
The door slammed shut—just not before an ancient, tattered book followed him, smacking him square in the face. It was quickly followed by a cascade of clothes. One particular pair of delicate light blue lace panties fluttered down, landing perfectly across the book.
"…This dragon is really unstable," Yarrow muttered, peeling the panties off the cover.
Serena sat at her desk, flipping through the dragon-scribed pages of the ancient tome. Her brows were furrowed, her expression tense.
More than ten minutes passed in silence. Yarrow sat beside her, clearly anxious.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Is something wrong with the technique?"
Serena finally looked up, biting her lip. "It's written in pure dragon language. Most of it… I can't understand."
Yarrow groaned. "Then why have you been staring at it like it's your thesis deadline?"
"I can get the gist. I studied draconic linguistics. Enough to piece it together." She ran her finger down the faded script. "It seems to be a method of regulating one's internal magic through deep meditation... refining control rather than relying on brute force."
Yarrow nodded slowly, already exhausted just thinking about it. "Can you figure it out completely?"
"I can try," Serena replied. "But it'd be faster if you asked Zen for help. He gave you the book, right? Maybe he has a direct translation."
Yarrow flinched at the memory—of soft skin, a twitching toe, and a very specific taste he'd rather not revisit.
"Yeah... no," he muttered. "We'll figure it out ourselves."
Later that night, Yarrow trudged into the tavern, his clothes wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
He slumped onto a stool at the bar.
"Hans," he mumbled. "Large grilled meat. And a ginger beer. Iced."
Hans raised an eyebrow as he filled a frosty mug. "You look like you've been drained by a 200-pound orc matron."
"Nope," Yarrow sighed. "Just mentally violated by a dragon with a superiority complex and mood swings the size of a continent."
Hans chuckled. "Rough day?"
"You have no idea." Yarrow took a swig of the beer, the coldness jolting his senses back to life.
The tavern was quieter than usual tonight. No film reels running, no musical enchantments. Just the soft hum of chatter and the clink of mugs.
In the corner, the small stage—usually cluttered with crates and supplies—had been neatly cleared. Candles flickered on either side, casting warm light across the wooden planks.
"What's going on over there?" Yarrow asked, nodding toward the cleared stage.
Hans leaned on the bar, drying a mug. "A speaker's coming in. Some artist—wants to give a series of talks over the next few days. Cleaned it all himself."
"In a tavern?" Yarrow chuckled. "Isn't that a bit... unconventional?"
"Hey, better than another week of watching The Tragedy of the Horny Sword." Hans grinned. "Besides, if he gets more than one Sic in tips, I take a cut."
Yarrow shook his head, amused. "How capitalist of you."
As Hans handed him the wrapped grilled meat, Yarrow leaned back and let the exhaustion settle.
But in the back of his mind, Zen still lingered—her flushed face, those fiery eyes, and the pulse of power that sparked every time they clashed.
No amount of grilled meat could erase the memory of that taste—or the strange, electric tension still humming under his skin.
Yarrow paused mid-sip, the chilled rim of the glass brushing his lower lip. He lowered it slowly.
"…An artist?" he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion. "As in, painting?"
Hans raised an eyebrow. "How'd you guess? Yeah, poor guy said he couldn't afford to keep his studio running. Came here to make a few coins."
Yarrow exhaled through his nose. "Tch… is that so?"
Hans gave him a curious look. "You know him or something?"
"No," Yarrow replied, but there was a strange edge to his voice. He stared down into the fizzing beer, fingers tightening around the mug. "Just... reminds me of someone I used to know."
A speech by a painter in a tavern? Yarrow thought. What next, a scarred war veteran with a tragic past? Maybe a cursed flute player who can only express himself through his music?
A soft rustle broke his train of thought—movement on the stage.
A lone figure stepped into the candlelight, casting a long shadow behind him. He was rail-thin, tall in a way that made his limbs look almost exaggerated. Disheveled, charcoal-black hair hung around a gaunt face, and beneath tired eyes were the unmistakable signs of sleeplessness. But the most striking feature?
Large, twitching rat ears sat atop his head.
A beastman—of the murine kind.
At least he didn't have a little mustache, Yarrow thought grimly.
The man cleared his throat dramatically. "Ahem…"
The tavern fell silent, though whether out of curiosity or confusion was unclear.
"Good evening, noble drinkers," the artist began, sweeping his arm as if he were greeting a royal court. "Tonight, I share with you a tale of passion, tragedy, and betrayal."
Yarrow blinked slowly, already bracing himself for the inevitable ride.
"I was born in a modest southern village. My father—a civil servant. He had dreams for me, dreams of bureaucracy, pushing paper, licking boots. But I—" The artist placed a hand over his chest—"I dreamed of paint."
A murmur of amusement rippled through the tavern. The man wasn't drunk, but he was definitely something.
"My father hated it," the artist continued, his voice deepening. "He threw away my brushes. Burned my sketchbooks. Told me if I ever drew again, he'd break my legs." The artist leaned forward, eyes glittering with intensity. "But I didn't care. I use my hands anyway."
Yarrow sighed and took a sip of his beer. Here it comes…
"Then one day, my father drank too much… and died. I was fifteen. Free at last to pursue my calling. By seventeen, I'd arrived at the famed city of Aristide, heart of art and madness, to apply to the Red Rose Art Academy."
"Sounds familiar," Yarrow muttered, already regretting not leaving when the beer arrived.
"The exam?" The artist struck a dramatic pose, a hand sweeping through the air. "A simple plaster figure. A nude female. Basic anatomy. My specialty."
He paused, letting the tension build before delivering the punchline.
"I poured my soul into it. My lines—divine. My shading—transcendent. But then…"
His voice dropped, trembling with fury.
"I failed."
Gasps rippled through the crowd—whether genuine or sarcastic was hard to tell.
"My skill surpassed their standards! So I confronted the headmaster."
Yarrow leaned forward, his curiosity piqued despite himself.
"He told me…" The artist's voice grew cold with rage. "I failed because the statue's breasts were too small."
A long, awkward silence fell over the tavern.
The artist slammed a fist into his palm. "I told him, the statue is wrong! A healthy human doesn't have grotesquely inflated sacks of fat swinging from their chest like malformed udders! My version—perfect. Elegant. Flat and divine!"
Gasps. Laughter. The crowd was starting to warm up to the madness.
"But no! They spat on my art! Cast me aside for rejecting vulgarity!"
He stood taller now, chest puffed with righteous fury. "And when I told others of this injustice, do you know what they called me?!"
He swept his wild gaze across the tavern.
"They called me… a lolicon!"
Groans filled the room. Yarrow rubbed his temple.
"I ask you, my fellow lovers of beauty—why must we hide our desires like rats beneath the floorboards?! Why can the lovers of big breasts wave their banners high, while we, the patrons of petite perfection, are shamed? Why must we cower?!"
He pointed dramatically at the ceiling. "We too deserve a patch of sky! A piece of sun-kissed land! We will not hide anymore—our XP must shine bright!"
And then—
Crash!
A glass bottle shattered at his feet.
"Shut up, you degenerate!"
"Get off the stage, freak!"
"Long live big breasts!"
More bottles flew, some breaking, others bouncing off the walls. One man shouted, "Back to the Yanyang Society with you!"
Yarrow nearly choked on his beer.
The artist didn't even flinch. With surprising calm, he pulled out a satchel and began collecting the unbroken bottles.
"Free bottles," he muttered, shrugging as though it was all part of the performance.
Yarrow stared, stunned.
"…Where the hell did this lunatic come from?"
... patreon Seasay for more chapters. Check it out whilst still on 20%discount subscription