Sitting down on the leather bar stool, Cain's gaze traced the bottles lining the towering shelves, their labels etched with languages whispered from eras past.
Dates stood out among the intricate script — 1917, 2025, 2052.
'Relics of a the forgotten calendar.'
He didn't know what those years meant — the only number that mattered now was 670, the year of the Godslaying Calendar.
Cain reined in his curiosity — refusing to look around any longer.
Just over the counter stood the bartender, sharp-suited with a one-eyed mask — not mechanical, purely ceremonial, yet no less imposing.
For The Syndicate, a bartender was more than just a server of drinks — it was a symbol of control, a silent overseer of trade routes as wide as countries, territories carved out and kept by force and reputation.
To serve behind the counter was to claim dominance over the flow of wealth and secrets.
Back straight, hands placed carefully on the countertop. Cain didn't flinch when the bartender's mask shifted, its flame-like eyebrows raising slightly,
A gesture that could have been interpreted as acknowledgment or warning.
Cain knew enough not to linger — barkeepers spoke only once.
Making them repeat themselves was a line most wouldn't dare to cross.
He nodded curtly, signaling his understanding.
A flicker of holographic light erupted before him, lines of text and shimmering icons hovering just above the counter.
Cain's fingers moved swiftly, tapping the options with practiced efficiency. His eyes scanned the holo-menu as names flashed by — some familiar, most too cryptic to decipher.
[Middle Ages - Château de Goulaine (France)]
[Renaissance - Barone Ricasoli (Italy)]
[Human World War One - Hennessy Cognac (France)]
'What are these signs? Grandpa mentioned something about historical signatures... thousands of years old, maybe. But now's not the time to admire relics, I need to make my choice. Fast.'
Cain immediately settled on a coffee.
Simple yet costly — five gold.
He tapped it, the icon flashing once before dimming to a soft blue.
Cain felt the weight of his pocket for a moment.
Ten gold.
That was what Arthur had sent him — enough to live for years if spent wisely.
Five gone just like that.
Cain knew better — he wasn't just buying coffee.
In the Syndicate's establishments, drinks were little more than a front.
A mask.
What he was really paying for was information — atomic precision intelligence, neatly packaged and sold under the guise of a beverage.
Five gold for a drink that could make or break a fortune. It wasn't just liquid poured into a cup — it was whispers of trade routes, market movements, secret missions, and black-market networks.
Every sip pulled back the veil of the world, just a little.
In places like these, you didn't drink for the taste — you drank for the opportunity.
The barkeeper's smile was thin, almost surgical.
"Synthetic cow milk or almond milk?"
"Almond milk."
Cain replied without hesitation. His eyes stayed fixed on the man's masked face, his eyes unblinking.
Julius and Arthur had drilled two immutable rules into him — when to ask and how many words to use, depending on the mood.
'Let's wait for him to finish…'
The barkeeper began his work — swift and seamless.
His fingers brushed over the counter, triggering a faint hum that sent coffee beans into the air, weightless and tumbling in slow motion.
Mid-flight, they disintegrated, crumbling into fine particles that shimmered with flecks of magicules.
Water molecules pulled from the very air began to spiral, coalescing into droplets before compressing with a brief warping of the air due to pressure.
The liquid did not spill, did not splash — it simply hovered for a moment, suspended, before descending with immaculate precision into the cup.
Cain measured the barkeeper's posture, the angle of his shoulders, and the way his hands moved with the precision of a gunsmith.
Nothing out of place. No excess motion. Everything was deliberate.
The kind that came with the title of Bar Keeper under the Syndicate's banner.
There was a pop, sharp and punctuated.
A tetra pack of almond milk — crisp white with the Syndicate's logo etched across its surface.
Its seal broke with a soft hiss, pouring out in a steady stream, mixing seamlessly with the coffee as if it had always been a part of it.
Cain's eyes remained locked on the mask, unblinking. Small beads of sweat matted his forehead, dampening his hairline. His heartbeat thumped heavy and deliberate, a drumbeat that pounded in his ears.
The barkeeper hadn't looked at him once. Not until the final drop of almond milk had settled.
His hands came to rest at his sides, posture straight, chin slightly lifted. And then, with a flicker of motion, two flashes of his flame-like eyebrows raised — barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
Cain knew what it meant.
'The signal! Grandpa and Uncle J told me! Now's my chance to ask!'
He took a steadying breath, the weight of invisible pressure pressing down on his shoulders. His throat tightened, and he coughed lightly to clear it.
"Bar keep."
He began, voice low and deliberate, each word measured.
"Might I inquire what's good around these parts?"
The question hung in the air, suspended like the droplets of water moments before.
Cain knew the cost of asking too much, but he also knew the cost of asking nothing at all.
The barkeeper's movements were seamless, almost imperceptible.
He tapped the counter with two fingers, and a soft hum rippled through the surface.
Cain's terminal vibrated — silent and subtle.
He didn't need to check it to know — a data packet, sent with the precision and grace.
Cain's shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. A small nod of acknowledgment was all he gave, the unspoken language of respect exchanged in the briefest of gestures.
He reached for his coffee, the warmth of the ceramic cup bleeding into his fingertips.
The first sip was smooth — mild and soft, like velvet against the tongue.
There was a floral sweetness that lingered, undercut by a whisper of fruitiness that unfolded in layers with each taste. He let the flavor roll across his tongue, breathing it in, allowing it to settle before swallowing.
It wasn't just good — it was remarkable.
"Blue Mountain."
Cain murmured under his breath, almost a whisper.
The flames within the barkeeper's mask flared brighter, a ripple of genuine surprise flickering across their depths.
His grin stretched wider, genuine and almost indulgent — as if the fire itself mirrored his amusement.
"Ah, a discerning soul, I see."
The barkeeper's voice boomed with regal delight, carrying the weight of confidence and unshaken pride.
"It appears you are quite well-acquainted with such matters, young master."
Cain simply nodded, but inside, a flicker of pride ignited. He had spent countless hours with Arthur, absorbing the old man's lectures on quality — how to spot it, how to taste it, how to feel it.
Roberta and Julius had hammered technicality into him, raw and unforgiving, but Arthur? Arthur had taught him the subtle art of taste.
The old man used to say — Manners maketh man.
A mantra he repeated with religious devotion. Arthur never let him settle for mediocrity — not in drink, not in food, and certainly not in character.
He had been trained to know the difference between trash and treasure, and now, here in the belly of the Syndicate's domain, Cain finally saw the worth in those lessons.
The barkeeper clicked his personal terminal, a soft vibration pulsing across the bar.
Cain's vision caught the flicker of an image file notification in the corner of his own holo-device.
He didn't open it. Not yet.
He understood the unspoken rule — time wasted was respect lost.
Right here and now, respect was currency.
He left the notification where it was, a pulse of blue slowly dimmed in his peripheral — untouched.
Cain took his time with the coffee, savoring each sip. He knew he wouldn't get a chance like this again, not for a long while.
The last few drops settled warmly in his chest, spreading out in a slow wave of comfort.
With one final glance at the bar, he stood, smoothing out his coat and setting the cup gently back onto the counter.
His hand brushed the edge of the bar — a silent farewell.
He turned and made his way to the exit, the image file still unopened, its hovering icon a quiet reminder.
Cain knew better than to rush.
'The true art of giving face ends only when you step out the door.'