After signing up to become a stalker.
The paperwork was a quick blur of stamps and signatures, his demi-human status noted with a disdainful grunt from the clerk—Noel stepped back out into the bustling streets of the capital. The weight of the new badge in his pocket felt real, a small anchor grounding him amid the chaos. But his mind lingered on that elf woman, Lea Florence Monad.
Her appearance stuck with him vividly—the way she moved unbothered through the room, ignoring the hissed slurs and venomous stares like they were background noise. It surpassed anything he'd seen; she just kept working, presence cutting through the prejudice without a word.
I never felt anything like that, he thought, weaving through the crowd as a human merchant shouldered him roughly, muttering "Watch it, mutt." Well, maybe when Gramps got angry—that guy's seriously too strong, even at his old age.
Her vibe was like a sleeping lion; you do not want to poke her. My beast instincts are screaming she's a worthy opponent, someone who'd push me to my limits.
Noel shook it off, ears twitching under his hood at the distant catcalls aimed at a passing elf. Anyways, I should look for an inn to crash at. Even if this place is filled with racist motherfuckers, gotta keep it cool. No point starting fights on day one—got a job to do. He scanned the signs ahead, spotting a few dingy taverns that might take his coin without too much hassle.
A couple hours later, night had fallen over the capital like a heavy blanket, the streets emptying out under the glow of flickering lanterns. Noel trudged from one inn to the next, his pack slung over his shoulder, ears twitching under his hood at every slammed door and sneered refusal. "No room for your kind," one innkeeper spat, eyeing his ears like it was a disease. "Demi-scum bring trouble—get lost." Another just laughed, "We don't serve beasts here. Try the slums." Assholes, every last one. Fine. Guess I'm sleeping rough tonight. No choice.
He spotted a weathered bench in a quiet square, tucked against a stone wall away from the main thoroughfare. Dropping his gear, he stretched out on it, the wood hard against his back but better than the mud. His stomach grumbled—hadn't eaten since midday—but he ignored it, closing his eyes and letting the city's distant hum lull him. Fifteen minutes or so passed in uneasy rest before his beastkin ears perked up, catching the unmistakable clatter of carriage wheels and hooves approaching.
Stop right here, a woman's voice said, soft but firm, to the driver.
The carriage halted nearby. A guard replied, his tone exasperated but respectful. "Are we really doing this again, my lady?"
"You know I can't help it," she said, a hint of playfulness in her voice. "It's just the way I am."
Noel kept his eyes shut, figuring they were talking to someone else—maybe a beggar down the way. But then footsteps drew nearer, light and deliberate, stopping right by the bench.
"Excuse me," the voice said, closer now, gentle and earnest. "Um... if you need a place to rest tonight, you're welcome to come home with me."
Noel's eyes snapped open. He sat up slowly, staring at the young woman before him. She was stunning in a simple, unassuming way: soft, shoulder-length blonde hair framing her face in gentle curves, strands catching the lantern light like pale gold. Her bangs brushed just above large, round blue eyes that shimmered with innocent warmth and quiet curiosity. Her small, delicate face held smooth, fair skin with a faint flush on her cheeks, and a gentle smile rested on her lips—open, unguarded, disarming. She wore a modest outfit: a white blouse with frilled edges and a light blue bow at the collar, topped by a darker dress that hugged her petite frame without flash. Leaning slightly forward, her posture was open and sincere, like someone who hadn't built walls against the world yet.
He blinked, brain scrambling. Why the hell would a human in this racist shithole approach a demi-human like me? Sounds like a trap—lure me in, rob me blind, or worse. But his stomach rumbled again, loud enough to betray him, and the night air nipped at his skin. Why not? Worst case, I run for it. I've handled worse than a pretty face and her guards.
Two men approached from the carriage—guards, by their armored vests and stern postures. The one on the right spoke first, glancing at Noel with wary eyes. "Lady Sophie has a bit of a weakness for helping those with nowhere to go."
The other chimed in, arms crossed. "You really should accept her offer."
Sophie's blue eyes sparkled as she clasped her hands. "Pretty please?"
Noel thought it over again, instincts screaming sketchy, but hunger and the cold won out. No choice—I'm starving, and it's freezing. What's the worst that could happen?
His hand rose to the back of his head, scratching awkwardly as he looked away, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks despite himself. "...It's nothing. I guess it's better than sleeping out here."
"Great!" Sophie beamed, her smile lighting up the dim square. "Let's go home."
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"Ooh, looks like Sophie brought home another guest," the man said, his voice booming with a false joviality that set Noel's teeth on edge. He was fat and old, with a sketchy gleam in his eyes, dressed in fine silks that strained against his bulk, like a toad trying to pass for a lord.
"Ooh my, so it would seem. How many does this make now?" the woman replied, her tone light but edged with something sharper. She looked strikingly similar to Sophie —same blonde hair, same blue eyes—but older, lines of experience etched around her mouth and a calculating glint that her daughter lacked. Mother, no doubt.
Noel sat at the lavish dining table, fork hovering over his plate, his beastkin ears pinned flat under his hood as he eyed the spread warily. This is so sketchy, he thought, stomach twisting despite the hunger. They're feeding me, talking all hospitable-like—the only reason I'm eating is 'cause I see them digging in too. Can't be tampered with if they're swallowing it down. He justified it to himself, forcing another bite, but his instincts screamed trap.
Noel bowed his head slightly, manners drilled in by Gramps overriding his suspicion. "Thank you for having me here."
The fat man—the father—laughed, a wheezy sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "Don't be so nervous, lad! Take it easy, young man."
While the man prattled on, Noel's eyes darted around the opulent room. There's a lot of guards here—I count six, and they're pretty massive. Armed to the teeth, too. This ain't no casual dinner.
Skipping forward a bit, after the plates were cleared and small talk turned to purpose, the father leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his ample belly. "Your plan is to become a stalker and make a name for yourself, I see. Is that correct?"
Noel nodded, keeping his expression neutral.
"As you may know," the father continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, "the capital is a wonderful, peaceful place. However, it's bordered by squabbling tribes on three sides. If you're to become a fully fledged stalker, you might be expected to fight—out there, in the fringes, putting down those... savages."
Noel nodded again, seriousness settling over him like a cloak. "I am prepared for that."
"Yes, I'm sure you are. Seems you've got spirit—I like to see that in a young man." The father paused, sipping his wine. Sophie spoke up then, her blue eyes wide with genuine curiosity. "Did you come all the way here by yourself?"
Noel replied quietly, "Yeah, I'm alone." His hand subconsciously drifted to the pendant Arthur had given him, clutching it for a beat before he caught himself and let go. Huh... it's been a while since I felt lonely like this.
The father set his glass down with a clink. "I have a friend in high places at the stalker association. I'll have a talk with them—see if you can be switched to the Bastards section. That way, you can work for nobles and such. Just to let you know."
Noel tilted his head slightly. "Bastards?"
The father nodded. "Members that come from nobility and upper-class families of the empire—many of whom don't fit in for various reasons. Their motto is 'Honor, or Nothing'."
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Later, standing alone in the guest bedroom they'd assigned him—plush but feeling more like a gilded cage—Noel paced, now that he was out of sight. I'm contemplating escaping or waking up in a torture chamber tomorrow. Only two options here.
He listed the reasons in his head, paranoia sharpening his thoughts. A: This place is filled with scum, and as I've been warned, the capital's crawling with humans who have monster hearts—I suspect these folks are prime examples. B: Helping out demi-humans? Seriously? When even the commoners in this human cesspool hate us to the bone? Yeah, I ain't buying it. C: Randomly offering to pull strings and get me into some elite 'Bastards' group I didn't even know existed? Nah, this stinks of a setup.
He glanced at the window, testing the latch. Locked, of course—can't open it quietly. Screw it. With a quick smash of his elbow, the glass shattered outward in a spray of shards. Noel leaped through without hesitation, dropping from the second-story height and landing on his feet in the manicured garden below. The impact jarred his legs, but his passive skill absorbed most of it—no real damage, just a dull throb. Beastkin perks.
Up above, shouts erupted as guards rushed into the room, spears and swords drawn, staring baffled at the broken window and empty bed. "The demi-rat's gone! Sound the alarm!"
Noel smirked in the shadows, already melting into the night. Yeah, my judgment was right.