"Another Mr. Bartender," Banks said raising his empty mug. He was in the first bar that he had arrived in. The name of the place was the Wilted Knight if the sign in front of the tavern was any indicator. It was a bit busier than the previous time that he had been. Probably because he finally came at night like a normal person instead of during the day like a moron.

  "Going a bit hard for this early, would you like something lighter?" the pig-like man said. "If you don't pace yourself and throw up all over my bar I'm not going to be sympathetic."

  "Fair," Banks said. "I leave myself in your capable hands Mr. Bartender. "Regale me with delights from the farthest reaches of the Empire and captivate my taste buds with brilliant brews devised by adroit artisans so that I may leave inebriated but elated."

  "Alright you're getting light beer for that," the bartender said firmly placing another mug in front of him.

  "Nooo," Banks said overdramatically as he took a sip of his drink. It tasted awful, exactly the same as the last few that he had. This time period wasn't great for liquor. In fact his usual preference was something light and sweet. Maybe something with a bright color and a crude name. One didn't drink alcohol for the taste, or at least this one didn't. "It's busy right now hey," he said looking at the two dozen people cluttered around the tavern in groups of two or three.

  "Not really it's still early," the bartender said. "And I'm not sure it will get too busy later. There's a feeling in the air tonight, a nervous dread. Contrary to what you may think mostly people stay home on nights like these."

  "I would think the uncertainty would lead to greater imbibing of alcohol," Banks mused. "It's good to see that people are trembling responsibly."

  "Ah, we're made of sterner stuff," the bartender said. "Still people know to keep alert just in case."

  "If the walls fall then there will be stronger backs to hold it up," Banks said.

  "Yeah, but you don't want to be crushed by the stones that slip through," the bartender said. "While a disaster may not be your responsibility it can still be your problem. While you may not be able to affect the overall situation you should still maintain some control over your situation."

  "Are you trying to encourage me not to drink irresponsibly," Banks said cocking an eyebrow and raising his empty mug.

  "Never," the bartender said quickly filling it. "I'm just making conversation, because you're sitting at the bar not talking to anybody. Don't let my discussion indicate any advocation towards sobriety."

  "Noted," Banks said, turning his head as the place in the bar next to him was once again taken by a familiar face.

  "A double please Barb," that old lady who frequented the bar earlier in the day said.

  "You look like hell Smidy," the bartender said as he plonked down a mug full of some golden brown fluid that smelled bitter. "Any further news about the big man."

  "None, and they're getting worried," the elderly woman said, picking up the mug and unceremoniously giving it a swig. "There are some very, very important people who are very, very nervous. Some people are discussing succession, but nobody wants to stand up and make their voices heard regarding that point."

  "In case the Emperor returns and isn't happy," Banks interjected in the conversation two feet away from him. "Do they suspect this is some kind of fucked up loyalty test?"

  "Don't know if I would go that far, but they're worried that he might be engaged in something with no time to contact his subordinates," the old woman said. "I know I would hate it if I stepped away for a day or two and all the locks were changed at that time. His second in command is holding the fort for now, but if he doesn't show up soon things could get ugly."

  "Surely it wouldn't be that bad," the bartender stated. "The Undying Empire has been established for centuries now. Even if he's not there surely there must be some form of...something. There's still the army, still the Golden Guards. Are the rebels going to just take over this empire now."

  "The rebels, whatever is left of the noble houses, outside forces and whoever else wants to crawl out of the shadows and throw their hat into the ring in a bid for supremacy, revenge, resources or whatever," the old woman said.

  "It happens at the end of every empire," Banks said. "Unless the ruler is able to train up somebody just as powerful as them as their successor their death spells chaos. Nobody is able to step into the shoes of the undying Emperor which means nobody can suppress all those rogue elements anymore."

  "Assuming, he is dead," Smidy started.

  "Yeah, assuming," Banks repeated. "Did he ever have any children? I mean after the...." he mimed with his hand drawing a line across his neck. He knew from discussions with the assassin that he had a daughter, but nothing that he knew about the man from the past or present indicated any other offspring.

  "After he murdered his own wife and children," the old woman said. "None that I know of. He didn't advertise any potential heirs. I guess by his title he didn't expect to be gone quite so soon. Time makes fools of us all." Now that was a statement that Banks could agree with. "I'm Smidy, by the way. I don't think I've officially introduced myself."

  "I'm Banks," he said in response. "An archaeologist." He fleshed out his identity a bit.

  "Here to dig in the mountains, like the rest of them?" Smidy asked. "Pragnosis has quite a rich history. I'm a tailor by the way."

  "And I'm Barb the bar owner, thanks for asking," the piggish man spoke up. "And yes I'm one hundred percent human. Although some of my kin used to joke that I had orc blood." However traumatizing it may have been at the time, it seemed he was easily able to laugh about it now.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "That's flat out impossible," Banks stated firmly, finishing off his drink. "Orcs are completely extinct and despite appearing humanish, they were unable to conceive with humans."

  "Really, good to know," the bartender said joking. "I should call up my cousin and tell them they're wrong about my heritage."

  "You never thought about tracking down some magician who specializes in cosmetic magic and getting a touch up?"

  "Too expensive," the man said.

  "Barb I've offered to give you the money," Smidy said, getting a dismissive wave from the man. "Men and their pride."

  "If you asked me when I was in my teens I would have jumped at it," Barb said silently refilling Bank's mug. "But as I've grown I've stopped caring so much about my looks. Those who I care about don't care about my looks and those care about my looks I don't care about."

  "A healthy attitude to have," Banks admitted. "You're a tailor, what's your MLR?" he asked the old woman Smidy, the one who was hundreds of years old. If she was a serious tailor then he wouldn't mind commissioning a piece. Well once the time loop had stopped.

  "MLR," she asked, her brow wrinkling causing the lines on her face to distort. "Mana Levels...Resistance. What an arbitrary way of describing the work that a fine tailor might do. I don't cleave to any of these fancy new grading systems, but if you want good work that can survive no matter the environment I'm your woman."

  "I may take you up on that," he said.

  "Please do," Smidy stated. "For the amount of mana that you possess you really should be wearing something a bit stronger than that. Come to my house sometime. I can fix you with some enchanted clothing on the cheap."

  "That's a good offer," Banks stated. "What time does this bar close anyway?"

  "The seventh hour," Barb said. "By the eighth hour I've turfed out all the drunks."

  "Just toss me somewhere comfortable when you do turf me out," Banks said taking a swig of his drink. "I'd rather not go through the trouble of finding a room at this time."

  "The alleyway outside is fairly good as alleyways go," Barb stated. "I keep it clean and rubbish free."

  "I've woken up in worse places," Banks admitted.

  "Since you're an archaeologist, have you been to the museum yet?" Smidy asked. "It's quite locally famous."

  "Haven't we had this conversation before," Banks said getting a shake of her head in response. Oh right, that happened in a prior loop. "I get nervous around museums. There's always some cursed shit in there. But I guess you're right. Can't avoid it forever and it should be interesting."

  "What archaeologist is afraid of curses," Barb stated, polishing the glasses generically.

  "A smart one," Banks stated putting his half empty glass onto the table. "Man, the stories I could tell you about some of the curses." He shivered, only half dramatically. "Why we're speaking such inauspicious words. You're going to ruin the taste of the alcohol."

  "The taste of this alcohol is already ruined," Smidy chirped, causing Barb to throw her an annoyed look. "Sorry, but it's true. Bring out the good stuff."

  "All of the stuff is the good stuff," Barb said, but nevertheless reached beneath the bar and brought out a dark wooden cask. Cracking it open he poured three tankards of a dark purple liquid, that smelled like if grapes founded a religion. Taking out a small bowl of ice, he dropped two cubes into the tankards causing the liquid to foam as a thin layer of mist condensed on the tankards.

  "Winterberry Wine," Smidy said. "Barb you devil, you know I'm weak."

  "Drink up," the man said giving a grin, revealing a mouth full of blocky yellowing teeth.

  "Gladly, buddy," Banks said, taking a small sip and his eyes widened. This wine was incredible, mellow, sweet, cold but with a sharp taste that he lacked the experience to eloquate. He took another sip, before slowing it down savoring it. "This is wonderful."

  "Glad you like it," the bartender said.

  "I do," Banks said, before frowning as the door slammed open and all conversation stilled which caused him to tilt his head slightly backwards. More than a dozen guards entered the room, two Golden Guards among them, squeezing through the tight door, and right in the front was a quadrupedal Golden Guard, looking like some sort of dog analogue. Overall, from his rough vision there were only two with mana levels over five hundred, while the majority sat in the range between one and five hundred, meaning experienced but not elite. All eyes across the room were locked on the force, a heavy wariness taking over the mood of the bar. These pricks were really harshing the vibes.

  "Lady Lasmidy," one of the guards in front spoke as Banks sipped at his drink. "My apologies for disturbing you on this night. We are tracing a dangerous criminal and have found a trail leading from the scene of the crime to here. We have reason to believe that somebody in this bar may have met up with the rebel Trisk Trinorim." Well, shit, he didn't scrub his mana sense. That dog must have traced him all the way here.

  "That's a strong accus___" she started cagily.

  "I met him," Banks stated casually causing every single eye in the room to turn to him.

  "You met him," the lead guard said, his hand going to his weapon.

  "Yeah, I wanted to see what he was trying to pull," Banks admitted. "So I paid him a visit."

  "Just like that," the guard said.

  "Mostly," Banks said jokingly. While he hadn't met Trisk this loop, only the mirror magician, it was basically a distinction without a difference.

  "What do you mean mostly," the man said drawing his sword and pointing the tip at Banks. "As a person suspected of being with the rebels, I have the right to apprehend you. Now are you going to come quietly or am I going to have to use force." The sword was a finger tip away from his throat and he felt his eye twitch at the arrogance before he reached out, grabbed the blade and snapped it in two.

  Immediately the guards tensed as some retreated, some drew their weapons, the Golden Guards advanced while Banks stood up and downed the rest of his wine. For a long few seconds their was silence as he drank before he placed down the mug and he casually stretched his shoulders.

  "Sorry, about that," he apologized to the bartender, for the commotion. "You lack the capacity to use force," he stated dismissively to the man whose sword he just snapped in two. "If you're actually unlucky enough to run into Trinorim with just this then he is going to turn you into fertilizer."

  "Do you think that you can just oppose the power of the Undying Empire like that," the leader guard said through gritted teeth.

  "The Emperor is dead," Banks remarked casually.

  Silence filled the room. Eyes widened, mugs slipped from fingers. A cracking noise indicated that Barb had just accidentally shattered a glass. At the back a guard fainted.

  "You lie," the main guard stated.

  "Is that true?" Smidy asked, her voice devoid of any emotion and Banks turned to see a masklike face.

  "Trinorim said it..." he started, before changing his mind. "Yeah, it's true. He's absolutely one hundred percent dead." For a few moments Smidy was silent, just staring at him, before she downed her own drink.

  "If that is..." the lead guard said, his words stuttering and uncertain. "How did you survive."

  "I'm very hard to kill in any way that matters," Banks chuckled. He didn't really want to fight here. Besides anything else, he quite liked this bar. It would be a shame if he got blood all over the floorboards. "Alright I'll cooperate and come with you to the station, but if you point that sword at me one more time, you're really not going to like where it ends up." It was a shame that he couldn't drink anymore of that wine, but as the guards gave him a berth, surrounding him in a formation and ushering him to the door, his most pressing thought was that at least he found a place to stay the night.