The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 44

Chapter 44 Rias stepped inside the bar, her heels clicking softly against the polished wooden floor. It was… cozy. Not in a quaint, old-worl

Chapter 44

Rias stepped inside the bar, her heels clicking softly against the polished wooden floor.

It was… cozy. Not in a quaint, old-world charm sort of way, but in the way that whispered of exclusivity. Of secrets. The lighting was low but deliberate, golden hues casting warm shadows over deep mahogany furniture and leather-upholstered booths that looked almost too inviting. The air was thick with the scent of aged liquor, something spiced, something rich, curling lazily like smoke from a forgotten world. Soft jazz played in the background, sultry and slow, weaving into the very fabric of the space, the kind of music meant for low murmurs and half-lidded glances.

It was a place for adults.

A place for indulgence.

And yet, its clientele was… strange.

Her sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in the few patrons.

Near the back, a woman in Tibetan robes sat hunched over a porcelain cup, her fingers ghosting over its rim as if reading something in the steam. Her lips moved in silent murmurs, whispers that seemed to ripple through the air, but no sound reached Rias’ ears. At the bar, an old man in a bowler hat sat with a stiff, straight posture, one gnarled hand wrapped around a glass of something dark. His face was unreadable, not the kind of man lost in drink, but the kind who sat in silence and let the world pass beneath him.

Then, in the corner, the most bizarre sight of all.

A man in an immaculate white suit, too crisp, too clean, the fabric untouched by time or dust. And across from him sat a young man—his son, perhaps—who looked utterly shaken, his one remaining eye wide, uncomprehending. His other eye was simply… gone. A deep scar cut across the ruined socket, fresh enough that Rias knew it hadn’t been long since whatever had taken it. And his skin—not pale, not flushed, but… tinged blue. As if he were a corpse still caught between death and afterlife.

Her nose crinkled slightly. Disgusting. But she wasn’t here for them. She was here for a drink—and, as always, only the best, because she was the best. With a sway to her step, she claimed the best seat at the bar, the counter smooth and cool beneath her fingers as she slid into place. The mirrored shelves behind the bar gleamed with crystal-cut bottles, each filled with liquors she recognized—and several she didn’t.

And behind the counter, the bartender.

She tilted her head slightly, appraising him. He was older, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-eight, a far cry from the boys at Kuoh Academy who stumbled over themselves at the mere sight of her. He had a casual air about him, brown hair slightly tousled, sleeves rolled up just enough to show strong forearms. Mundane, but not in an unattractive way.

And that was exactly why she smirked. Maybe she could toy with him.

He turned, flashing an easy smile. “Hi,” he greeted smoothly, wiping down the bar with a practiced motion before setting the rag aside. “Welcome to the Azathoth Speakeasy. I’m James, and I’ll be your waiter for the evening. What can I get you?”

Rias didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she let her gaze flicker to the mirror behind him, admiring herself. She knew how hot she looked. She always did.

Long, luscious crimson hair cascaded down her back in soft, glossy waves, catching the warm light and glowing like liquid fire. Her sapphire eyes, lined just enough to make them irresistibly striking, studied her own reflection, framed by thick lashes that fluttered just right when she wanted them to. But it was her body that made men lose themselves. Her blouse hugged her perfectly, the fabric barely containing the generous swell of her heaving, perfectly round breasts, the kind that tempted hands to reach even when they shouldn’t. The tight skirt clung to the curve of her hips, dipping at just the right angles, highlighting her hourglass waist and the soft, supple flesh of her thighs. A single, casual lean forward was enough to make any man stumble, to draw their eyes straight to the inviting valley of her cleavage, spilling just slightly beneath the delicate lace trim.

She was a masterpiece, and she knew it.

And so, she leaned in, just enough, her lips curling in a slow, playful smirk as she let her voice dip into something honeyed, teasing, just a little sinful.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, dragging a finger along the counter’s surface. “Why don’t you make me whatever you want?”

It was obvious. Painfully obvious. The kind of thing that would make any man gulp, falter, turn red, trying and failing to keep his gaze from dipping lower.

James beamed.

“Sure!” he said, cheerful. “I’ll mix you something special.”

Rias blinked. He didn’t even pause. Didn’t glance down, didn’t stammer, didn’t react at all the way he should have. She felt a flash of irritation.  Her pout was automatic. What the hell? Was he blind? Stupid? Or—worse—immune? No, impossible. She was too beautiful. Probably just stupid. She sat back slightly, brow furrowing, before her smirk returned.

Fine.

Rias watched as James began preparing her cocktail, rolling up his sleeves slightly as he reached for an assortment of bottles. His movements were practiced, fluid, not at all like the flustered, fumbling boys she was used to teasing. It made the game more interesting. If he wasn’t reacting now, then she’d just have to turn up the heat.

The first liquid he poured was a deep, oceanic blue, shimmering faintly as it swirled in the mixing glass. Then came a rich, scarlet-red liquor, blending with the first in slow, luxurious ribbons. She didn’t question the colors—alcohol came in all kinds of shades, didn’t it? It wasn’t like she was an expert.

What mattered was the man behind the bar. And right now, he was the perfect target. Rias leaned forward slightly, propping her chin against her hand, watching as he rolled the shaker between his palms. A slow, deliberate smirk curled at her lips.

“Tell me, James,” she murmured, voice honeyed, dripping with something far richer than alcohol. “Do you always shake it that hard?”

James didn’t even look up. “Depends on the drink. You have to be firm with some, or they won’t mix right.”

Her smirk widened.

“Oh? Firm, huh?” She ran her finger along the counter’s edge, tracing lazy circles, letting her nails click softly against the wood. “And what if someone likes it… rougher? Would you still be this careful, or do you like to really… pound it in?”

James frowned slightly, tilting the shaker to check the consistency of the mixture. “Pounding would be a terrible technique. You need control, or you’ll end up spilling everywhere.” 

Rias stared.

Her fingers stilled against the bar.

Was this man for real?

Fine. Maybe he was just warming up. She had plenty more where that came from.

She let her eyes lazily drag down his arms—broad shoulders, strong hands, the subtle movement of muscle as he worked. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Her lips parted in an innocent sigh as she tilted her head. “Mmm, I do love a man with skilled fingers,” she mused, licking her lips slightly. “It’s all about the motion, don’t you think? The right amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm… knowing exactly when to go deeper…”

James nodded absentmindedly, reaching for another bottle. “Yep. Timing is everything. Too slow, and you lose the blend, too fast, and the flavors don’t develop properly.”

Rias’ eye twitched. Still nothing. He had to be pretending. No man—no man—was this immune. But Rias Gremory wasn’t a quitter. She took a deep breath and leaned in even closer, lowering her voice to a sultry whisper, practically purring the words into the space between them.

“You know, James…” She let her fingers idly stroke the stem of an empty glass, up… down… slow, deliberate. “I like my drinks the way I like my men.”

That got his attention. He finally glanced up. She smirked. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Strong,” she murmured, voice smooth as silk. “A little dirty…” She ran her tongue briefly over her lower lip, watching for any reaction. “And able to keep me up all night.”

James blinked. Then beamed.

“Oh, don’t worry! This one’s got a great kick—you’ll definitely be feeling it later!” he assured her.

Rias exhaled slowly. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. Was he playing with her? Or was he truly, unbelievably dense? With a long-suffering sigh, she finally sat back, arms folded under her chest, pouting. “You’re unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.

James, completely oblivious, simply set the shaker down with a satisfied nod before pouring the finished drink into a sleek, curved glass. The liquid settled into a deep, velvety blend of blue and crimson, faintly glowing at the edges. It was strangely beautiful, like a bottled night sky, deep and unknowable.

Then, with an easy grin, he slid it toward her.

“Tadaa~.” He gestured at the glass with a flourish. “Made just for you.”

Rias raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.

“Oh?” she purred, tapping one nail lightly against the glass. “Inspired by me?”

James hesitated.

For a brief second, something flickered behind his easy smile—thoughtfulness, maybe, or something else she couldn’t quite place.

Then, he nodded. “Yeah.”

Rias tilted her head. “And what exactly about me inspired you?”

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing down at the drink. “Well… You’re mysterious.” He paused, weighing his words. “But you also seem… lonely. A little sad.”

Rias froze.

For the first time that evening, her teasing expression dropped.

Her fingers clenched slightly around the stem of the glass.

Her scowl was immediate. “That’s not your place to say,” she snapped, heat creeping into her voice. Filthy human.

James only blinked, unfazed. She clenched her jaw, then exhaled sharply, glancing down at the swirling liquid in front of her. 

Damn him. Because he wasn’t wrong.

She lifted the glass, tilting it slightly, watching the colors shift and twist within. It was strangely entrancing, almost mesmerizing in how the hues bled into one another, never fully mixing, but never separating either. She let the silence stretch between them before speaking again—this time, her voice was measured, more controlled, as if carefully explaining something to a child.

“It’s not sadness,” she finally said, swirling the drink slowly. “It’s frustration.”

She lifted the glass to her lips, taking a slow sip. The taste was rich, layered—strong, but deceptively smooth, like something that would linger long after the glass was empty.

“I’m about to be forced into a marriage I don’t want,” she continued, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “My family sees it as duty. As tradition. But I see it for what it really is—a cage.”

She ran her finger along the rim of the glass, watching the way the light hit the liquid inside.

“I have one chance to escape it,” she murmured. “A battle. A game.” Her lips curled slightly, though the smile was more bitter than teasing. “And let’s just say the odds aren’t exactly in my favor.”

She flicked her gaze back to him, eyes half-lidded, testing him.

James tilted his head slightly, considering her words. He didn’t react the way most people would—no awkward condolences, no forced reassurance. He simply leaned against the counter, arms resting on the polished wood, and said, gently:

“Sounds like you already know what you need to do.”

Rias blinked. That was not what she had expected. She had been bracing for something useless—empty sympathy, a meaningless platitude about how things might “work out.” But James’ tone was different. Calm, steady, genuine. He set a fresh napkin beside her drink before continuing. “You don’t seem like someone who just gives up. If you were, you wouldn’t be talking to me about that right now — you'd be drinking yourself into stupor to forget.”

Rias exhaled through her nose, lips parting slightly as she took another sip. It had been the plan. But…The warmth of the alcohol curled in her throat, sliding down slow and satisfying. And strangely enough… she felt comfortable. That realization almost unsettled her. She shouldn’t be comfortable. Not here. Not with him—some mundane bartender, some human. And yet, the weight in her chest didn’t feel quite as suffocating anymore.

She swallowed. Then, after a moment, she spoke again—softer this time.

“I think I’m just… mad at myself.”

James didn’t react immediately. He simply nodded, as if waiting for her to say more. And to her own surprise, she did.

“I could have worked for this,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I could have trained harder. I could have been ready. But instead… I wasted my time.”

She let out a bitter, humorless chuckle, shaking her head.

“I spent weeks reading manga instead of preparing. I ignored the fact that I was running out of time, that my chance to escape was slipping away.” She scoffed. “And now look at me. Sitting in a bar, flirting with a bartender, instead of fixing my own mess.”

She wasn’t teasing anymore. James studied her for a moment before speaking. “Regret’s a tricky thing,” he said finally. “It doesn’t really help much unless you do something about it.”

She let out another dry laugh, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah? And what am I supposed to do? Miraculously become strong enough to beat a Phenex in a few days?”

James shrugged. “I don’t know much the traditions of your family or what these games entails, but I do know that beating yourself up isn’t going to change anything.”

Rias clenched her jaw.

“But it’s my fault,” she said, voice tight. “I did this. I failed myself.”

And there it was. The moment the words left her lips, she felt it—the truth of it settling in her stomach like a lead weight. Her shoulders tensed, breath hitching slightly as something hot and bitter curled in her throat. For so long, she had blamed her circumstances. Her family. Riser. The expectations forced upon her. But the one who had let herself down the most…

Was her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the edge of the counter. “I should have done better,” she muttered, barely above a whisper. “I should have tried.”

And then, before she could stop herself, her breath hitched again. Her vision blurred.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

But it was too late.

Her face crumpled, and suddenly she was burying herself in her arms, elbows pressed against the bar, silent but shaking as the first humiliatingly hot tears spilled down her cheeks. James didn’t say anything. He just quietly placed another napkin beside her. She hated this. She hated how weak she felt. How stupid. How utterly pathetic she must have looked, shoulders trembling, eyes puffy and red, spilling her failures to a human who didn’t even know her.

But at the same time…

It felt good.

Like letting go of a weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying. James let her cry. Didn’t rush her, didn’t pry, didn’t judge.

And when she finally lifted her head, sniffling slightly, puffy-eyed and exhausted, he simply gave her an easy smile and said,

“Well… if you really want to win, I guess you better stop messing around and start figuring it out, huh?”

She let out a breathless, shaky laugh.

“Yeah,” she muttered, wiping at her face. “Guess I should.”

She let out a breathless, shaky laugh.

But it wasn’t funny. Not really. The weight of everything she had just admitted still pressed against her chest, heavy and unrelenting. It sat there, thick as lead, curling into something darker, something suffocating.

“It’s too late,” she muttered, the words tumbling from her lips before she could stop them. And as soon as she said it, something cold settled inside her, deep and hollow. It was a quiet, awful realization, the kind that dug its claws in and refused to let go.

Because she meant it.

She had wasted too much time. She had let herself fail, and now, there was nothing left but the inevitable. The Rating Game was days away, and there was no miracle coming, no sudden surge of strength, no hidden trick that would save her.

The last few drops of her drink gleamed at the bottom of the glass, rich and dark beneath the dim lights. She lifted it to her lips and downed them in one motion, barely tasting the lingering heat as it slid down her throat. The warmth didn’t reach her fingertips. It didn’t burn away the regret.

But something inside her refused to crumble completely.

She set the glass down, fingers tightening around the stem as she straightened her back. If she couldn’t change the past, then she would burn her future into something unbreakable. If she somehow clawed her way out of this mess—if some miracle did happen—then she would never, ever allow herself to be this weak again.

“But I swear, James.” Her voice was low, steady now, controlled in a way it hadn’t been before. “I swear that if I somehow manage to get out of this mess—if I survive this—I will never, ever be slothful again.”

Her breath came easier as she spoke. The words felt right, like something was clicking into place inside her. It wasn’t enough to change the situation, but it was something—a promise, a binding of her own will.

Her fingers curled into a fist.

“I will be will incarnate.”

And the moment she said it—

Something moved.

Not the way alcohol usually settled in the stomach, a gentle warmth or a lazy buzz spreading through her limbs. No, this was different. It was deliberate. Slow. Something inside her shifted, pressing lightly against the walls of her belly, as if the drink itself had heard her. As if it had… reacted. It didn’t feel bad. Not painful. Not burning or sickening. Just… aware. But Rias didn’t notice.

Instead, she exhaled, the tension in her shoulders loosening just slightly. She smiled at James, her lips curling into something genuine, something lighter, as if just saying it had made her real again. The weight of her own failure was still there, but now, at least, it wasn’t crushing her completely.

James met her gaze, expression still casual, still unreadable beneath that easy bartender’s smile. But for the first time since she had sat down, she felt the weight behind his eyes—something thoughtful, something quietly considering.

“Well,” he said, setting the empty shaker aside, “that’s… a bit of the spirit, I guess?”

Rias let out a small, breathy chuckle. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Maybe she had just needed to say it out loud. Maybe she had just needed someone to hear it. She reached for her pouch, ready to pay, but James held up a hand before she could take out a single coin.

“No,” he said, smiling slightly. “It’s on the house.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “What? Why?”

James leaned against the counter, wiping down an empty glass. “You paid enough with your story,” he said simply.