Grey Kat's Inn was the largest inn in the Lawless Zone of 'Illue'.
But people just called it the Illue Inn. You'll figure out why in a second.
Although it was supposedly the largest, it was actually a pretty ordinary-sized inn, with only ten rooms for rent and a bar downstairs. Hardly a palace. But hey, size is relative, right, gentlemen (and ladies)? Cough.
Now, if the reason it was called the largest inn in Illue and just Illue Inn happened to be the exact same thing, you get it, right? Yep. Because it simply survived more than a month.
Record-breakingly, five years!
Not anyone could one-up that. Not unless they brought divine protection, a tank, and an anti-curse charm blessed by five different cults.
How?
Well. It was the owner.
It was a bright autumn morning in late September.
The kind of morning where the wind was cool, the sun was gentle, and somewhere in the distance, someone was probably screaming while getting mugged.
Inside the inn, the staff had already been up for hours. That wasn't special. They have been up every day since the break of dawn. Rain, shine, acid fog—didn't matter. Grey Kat's Special, that was what they called the breakfast service.
A service that, for some godforsaken reason, had never been canceled. Not once. Not since the inn was founded.
No matter what kind of Tuesday it was, a shootout on the street, a cartel war erupting out front, a missile dropping in from gods-know-where and blowing half the block to dust, Grey Kat's Special always came out hot. On time. And usually with exactly one piece of toast, slightly burnt, just the way regulars expected.
Do you think that's why Grey Kat's was the only ten-room inn still in business out here in this delightful hellhole?
That's dedication, alright. Stubborn, suicidal, eggs-and-blood-soaked dedication. But that wasn't it.
So how?
Well, again. It was the owner.
Asher 'Grey Kat' Fourstorms.
The best chef in the whole of Illue.
Oh, minor detail, he was also an underground lord retiree. At twenty-eight.
From fresh-faced crooks still figuring out which end of the knife to hold, to the strongest mafias running blood-drenched empires, not a single one dared mess with him or his inn.
So, naturally, the inn became the most normal, no-violence zone in all of Illue. An actual neutral ground.
And damn, the rent was normally priced! Not some extortionist rate like "give us your left lung and we'll throw in breakfast." No, just fair rates. And the breakfast special.
Which is exactly why it wasn't weird at all to see heavy hitters and underground celebs slouching around here, nursing coffee and hangovers. All just for a peaceful breakfast or a quick little normal-person vacation. You know, the kind with no assassination attempts.
You'd be safe. Unless someone killed you politely, without breaking any of the accommodations or causing a scene. Then, yeah, your corpse might stay warm through breakfast. Otherwise, you'd be kicked out. ASAP.
Remember, this was just an inn. Be responsible for your own safety, please.
Grey Kat's gave you a key. And a window latch. That's it. That's your whole home security package.
But whoever broke those locks or smashed those latches, they were gonna pay.
This patron, though, just now walking through the door, ringing the little bell overhead…
Might not need to worry.
Alright, alright, alright, let's begin the story. This is my favorite part.
Have you ever seen a beautiful woman? Of course you have.
Okay, now describe her.
Yeah? Just an average "beautiful" woman with perfect features, great proportions, symmetrical face, shiny hair, whatever checklist the magazines sold you?
Nope. Sorry. You don't know what beautiful is.
Lim Miao was beautiful because she didn't have large, glassy eyes. Hers were downcast, thin, and sharp, with lashes so long they shaded half her gaze. But if she actually looked at you, like, really looked, and you caught those deep, dark eyes…
Yeah. You're gone.
Her lips weren't big and juicy either. But they weren't dry or cracked, just always tinted a subtle, dark hue from her favorite rogue. And when she smiled, barely, faintly, spread sideways…
You're gone.
Her nose wasn't straight. It had the tiniest bump on the bridge, as if the angels sculpting her paused to consider perfection, then said, "Nah, let's ruin a man's life instead."
Despite the fair tone of her skin, there were sun-kissed spots scattered here and there, even some hyperpigmentations from acne scars, treated patiently, refinedly. They weren't exactly faint, either. It's not like she made any real effort to hide them.
And then there was her jawline. Strong. Balanced only by the softness in her cheeks.
But what really made her look like a doll… you know, one of those unsettlingly perfect ones, was her eyebrows.
Not because they were drawn-on perfect or naturally sculpted or whatever nonsense. No, because she controlled them.
Deliberately. Precisely.
They didn't move.
Not a millimeter.
Always relaxed. Always neutral.
You know how eyebrows are. They betray you. They flinch, they furrow, they give away every little crack in your soul whether you like it or not.
Lim Miao's were silent. Whispy, dark, and angled just enough to make you hesitate before speaking. But dead. Fucking. Still.
Because she didn't leak emotions. At all.
So, when she walked into the inn, soft peach qixiong ruqun floating with every step, even Asher stopped whatever he was doing (counting change on the counter, which, let's be honest, he didn't even need to do. Man's got perfect recall and a petty streak).
Ladies and gentlemen, this was the classic wild-west-wanted-rough-cowboy-entering-a-saloon scene.
Except it was 100 times worse than the wild west, the bartender was a bajillion times more dangerous, and the wanted rough cowboy was a gentle, tender, soft, beautiful lady from the East.
Her cloud shoes tapped against the wooden floor with every step, whispering class warfare. Her face tilted ever so slightly as she reached the counter, hiding behind a silk round fan embroidered with crimson clouds, the kind that cost more than the inn's roof, probably.
The famous Lim Miao.
Daughter of the second strongest ranker of the Tower, Lim Songbai.
Lim fucking Songbai.
World Rankers' Guild Leader.
Lim Clan Patriarch.
Firstborn of that monster in a changshan with diplomacy on speed dial.
"Hello, Inn Master," she said, smiling.
Gently. Genuinely. Perfectly.
"I'd like a room."