The dining hall buzzed with murmurs.
Servants' and fighters' voices blended into a chaotic hum.
Almost everyone was staring at Charles, still standing tall in front of the cook. Some whispered over their plates, leaning close.
"Why doesn't he just leave already?"
"Thinks he can act tough just 'cause he's wearing that? What a moron."
Each word hit Charles like a thrown rock, but he kept his face steady, brushing them off.
He was done.
The cook, with his shrill laugh and pointing finger, was pushing him to the edge.
Suddenly, Charles let out a laugh.
It was short but sharp, cutting through the dining hall.
The cook froze, mouth half-open, and the whispers at the tables hushed for a second.
'What's his deal?' the girl behind the counter thought, blinking in surprise.
No one had ever seen Rian laugh like that—especially not while someone was tearing into him.
"He gone crazy?" someone muttered from a table in the back, leaning toward their buddy.
"He always kept quiet and looked down. What's up with him now?"
The rumors swelled again, louder.
"He's nuts," one said.
"Yeah, definitely nuts," another echoed.
The guard, still nearby, eyed Charles with a mix of confusion and suspicion. His arms were crossed, but his stance tightened, like he was bracing for something to go down.
The cook, meanwhile, was getting madder by the second. His face was red, hands clutching the rag he still held.
"Hey! You deaf or what? Get this lunatic outta here!" he yelled, jabbing a finger at Charles with a sharp gesture. "Enough already! He's making a damn circus!"
But Charles didn't budge. He ignored the guard, who was starting to inch closer with slow steps, and took a step toward the cook. Their eyes locked, and though the man was taller and beefier, Charles didn't blink.
"Wanna make a bet with me?" he said, voice calm but solid.
The cook blinked, thrown off.
"What?" he snapped, frowning. "Get lost, useless. I don't have time for your nonsense."
Charles tilted his head.
"What's wrong? Scared?"
That stopped the cook cold.
The word "scared" rang in his head, and his face twisted with disbelief.
"Scared? Of you?" He let out a dry laugh, but there was a nervous edge to it. "I'm not wasting my time on a loser like you. Beat it before I drag you out myself!"
Charles didn't flinch. He stepped closer to the counter, resting a hand on it casually.
"Your job's to cook for clan members, right?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "But here you are, refusing to serve me, saying I'm no fighter. So how about we call the clan leader to check if that's true?"
The dining hall went dead quiet for a beat.
Then laughter erupted like a tidal wave.
"Call the leader?" a servant at a table said, nearly choking on his soup.
"For this? Ha! Rian's really lost it!"
A woman shook her head, chuckling.
"Who does he think he is? Thinks Kraus Cole's gonna show up for him?"
The murmurs grew, thick with mockery.
"He's a nutcase," some repeated.
"Stole the clothes and now wants attention," another said.
The cook was doubled over laughing, tears in his eyes.
"Oh, come on!" he howled, smacking the counter. "This is too much! Now you're a clown?"
The girl next to him giggled too, though quieter, covering her mouth.
Even the guard, now just a couple steps from Charles, let out a low chuckle, trying to mask it with a cough.
Charles glanced around, confused for a moment.
'What's so funny?' he thought.
The cook had threatened to report him, hadn't he? So why was suggesting someone verify his status such a riot?
Charles frowned, trying to piece it together. But he wasn't backing down now.
He was sick of being treated like garbage, and this cook, with his smug attitude, was the last straw.
"Call him," he said, cutting through the cook's laughter. His voice was clear, no hint of doubt.
The cook's laugh died on his face.
"What?" he said, straightening up.
The girl beside him stopped giggling, staring at Charles in shock.
The guard raised an eyebrow, pausing his approach.
The dining hall's murmurs shifted, moving from jeers to a kind of curious tension.
"He serious?" someone whispered.
"He really wants them to call someone over this?"
Charles kept his eyes locked on the cook.
"If you don't wanna call the leader, fine," he said, shrugging. "Call someone higher-up, like you said. But let's make a bet. If it turns out I'm not a fighter, I'll take whatever punishment you want. Hit me, lock me up, whatever. But if I'm a real fighter…"
Charles paused to clear his throat briefly.
"You'll have to listen and do whatever I ask."
Silence swept the dining hall again, but this time it was different.
Not the silence of mockery—it was anticipation.
Servants stopped scrubbing, and diners set their spoons down.
All eyes turned to the cook, waiting for his move.
The man blinked, clearly rattled.
"A bet?" he repeated, like he couldn't believe his ears. Then he forced a short laugh. "You're insane, Rian. Think I'm falling for your games? The leader doesn't bother with crap like this. No higher-up's wasting time on someone like you."
"Scared to find out?" Charles shot back, leaning in slightly. His voice stayed even, but it had an edge that made the cook's lips twitch. "You said you'd report me, right? Do it. Call someone. Let's see what happens."
The cook stared at Charles, and for a moment, it looked like he'd yell again.
But something about Charles's steady, defiant gaze made him hesitate.
'What's this idiot up to?' he thought, frowning.
He'd dealt with Rian before—always quiet, head down, eating scraps without a peep.
But this Rian was different.
His tone, his stance, that laugh… something was off.
'And what if he's…?'
The thought bugged him, but he shook it off fast.
'No way,' he told himself. 'It's a bluff.'
"Fine," he said at last, crossing his arms. "I'll call someone. But when they confirm you're a fraud, don't cry when you're scraping plates instead of eating off 'em."
He turned to the girl.
"Go get the fighters' supervisor. Now."
She nodded, still nervous, and bolted out of the dining hall.
Charles stayed put, heart picking up a bit, but his face calm.
After all, this bet was already in the bag.