Ryojin approached the counter, where an old man with gnarled hands was diligently cleaning a cup. The old man, likely the owner, glanced up and asked,
"Would you like something, sir?"
Ryojin cleared his throat. "I would like… something to eat."
A gentle smile spread across the old man's weathered face. "Would a bowl of rice do?"
"Yeah," Ryojin replied, placing his hand firmly on the counter. "I'd like you to give me seven bowls."
The old man frowned, his voice trembling with doubt. "But sir, will you be able to afford that? Each bowl costs four silver coins."
Ryojin lifted his hand, revealing a gleaming gold ring. "Will this do? Tell me, how many bowls can this buy?"
At the sight of the ring, the old man's eyes widened in surprise. How could a man dressed like this possess a gold ring? Had he stolen it from the nobles? The thought chilled him—if that was the case, then if the nobles found it with him they would spare him no mercy. And yet, this treasure was too valuable to ignore.
"Hey, old man," Ryojin hissed, his tone edged with impatience. "Did you not hear me?"
The old man's gaze dropped to Ryojin's strange violet eyes peeking from beneath his cloth. "More than enough, sir." Nervously, he tucked the gold ring into his pocket and gestured toward an empty table in the corner. "You can sit there. Your order will arrive shortly."
Ryojin nodded, moving toward the table, though disdainful eyes followed his every step. He settled into a wooden chair, and shortly after, a woman in a white dress—serving as the waitress—approached with a large tray and placed it before him.
"Here is your order, sir," she said softly.
Ryojin's eyes scanned the tray: seven bowls of rice, two bowls of meat, and one bowl of soup. He beckoned the waitress with a slight gesture, and she lowered her head.
"What do you need, sir?" she inquired.
"I need some water to wash my hands," he said, nodding toward the spoons on the tray. "I'm not comfortable using these things as they are."
A small, knowing smile touched the waitress's lips. "Sure thing, sir." She departed briefly and returned with a dish of water. Ryojin washed his hands meticulously, the water turning brown as it mixed with the grime. Murmurs of disgust began to ripple through the restaurant.
"Yuck, I think I've lost my appetite," spat a woman. "Why is that thing allowed to eat here?"
The waitress hurried away, leaving Ryojin to focus on the food. Though he hadn't eaten properly in months or years—his time in the Nexus Abyss was different to the outside world‐the meal before him promised sustenance, albeit prepared in a manner far different from the old ways.
He began eating, scooping a bowl of soup over a bowl of rice and consuming it with his bare hands. The food was even more delicious than it appeared. Yet, as he ate wildly, rice and soup spilled onto the floor and even stained the cloth he wore. Frustrated whispers spread among the remaining customers, their disapproval growing as he continued like a wild animal.
Suddenly, the forceful opening of the door silenced everyone. Three figures entered, clad in blue robes adorned with a serpent emblem—the insignia of the Nefaria Pact Squad.
One man, with long black hair and an air of arrogance, led the trio. Another, bold and serious, walked beside him. The third, older with a scar running across his cheek, trailed behind. As they advanced, every patron bowed their head in reverence. Ryojin recognized the symbol well; he had once fought against this squad during the unification of the ten kingdoms by the Abyssal Clans. Yet, he continued eating without a glance.
"Good evening, sir Gesbine," the old man said, bowing his head. "It's an honor to have you here."
"I'm well, Jin," replied Gesbine, the eldest of the trio, his voice low and measured with age. "We need some tea."
Jin hesitated. "My apologies, sir, but the restaurant is full at the moment."
"Come on, Jin," interjected Asketh, ruffling his long black hair as he furrowed his brows. "Are these people more important than us? We protect this kingdom—we deserve proper treatment." His eyes swept the room until they landed on Ryojin, who remained absorbed in his meal. "Look at that guy. He's filthy. We're taking his table."
Debav, the bold one, hissed, "Asketh, why do you always cause a commotion?"
"I'm merely stating the truth," replied Asketh, striding toward Ryojin's table. "Commoner, we're taking this table. Please stand."
Ryojin said nothing, continuing to eat.
"Hey, didn't you hear me?" Asketh demanded, his tone rising as he leaned down. "I said get up!"
The whispers in Ryojin's ears grew louder—taunting voices:
"Consume.."
" devour…"
" hungry."
He shook his head, trying to dismiss them, but they persisted. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he rose from the table and gathered the scattered bits of rice.
A smirk curled on Asketh's lips. "That's right, good choice. My patience was wearing thin." Grabbing Ryojin's hand in a low, conspiratorial tone, he murmured, "If you had not listened, I could have crippled you. And remember, always lower your head when you're in the presence of the Pact Squad—that shows respect."
Ryojin merely nodded, his expression indifferent. To argue with the weak was pointless. Strength dictated worth—this was the law by which he lived. A lion does not stop for the howls of starving wolves, nor does a dragon descend to entertain insects. Paying heed to every barking dog was the mark of a fool, and Ryojin had long since abandoned foolishness.