Ludwig's sense noticed a shift. But despite the quiet rise in his perception stats, he could only catch a tug in the space fabric before Ilea stood in front of him, grinning.

  "You have stats too?" Ilea asked, clearly amused judging by her tone. "You pour quite an amount of free stats by my standard."

  Ludwig let out a long hot breath. If Ilea from before was scary, his sense was now telling him that she was terrifying. Trouble, with all caps on.

  She was different. Just like him, the space was ready to open up for her. They were ready to serve her, even when the restaurant was his territory.

  Why did the more he climbed, the more he saw powerful people?

  Ludwig took a deep breath to calm himself. "Seems like it wasn't quite enough. You are still way stronger than me."

  Ilea looked at him with an amused face before chuckling. "Number isn't everything, you must remember that. Monsters with hundreds level above mine have fallen in my path. Don't get cocky just because your number went up."

  "Never intended to." Ludwig said calmly. "I just allocate my points because I want to defend. I want people to have a second thought the next second they bring an ill will to this place."

  Ilea nodded and crossed her arms. "Admirable cause."

  Ilea's eyes drifted past him, taking in the broken tables and scorched corners like she was appraising a battlefield after the fighting had already moved on.

  "Still." She went on, voice light, "Defending is a funny word. People say it when they're trying not to admit they're angry."

  Ludwig chuckled dryly. "I thought I wouldn't be. I thought that by being prepared for it, I will not get surprised. But… It's wrong."

  He looked around the restaurant, the tables, the chairs, the patrons, and the broken interior. "But when I walked in and saw my restaurant get wrecked, I needed a few seconds to calm myself."

  "Of course you are." Ilea's grin widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Just don't let it drive. Anger makes you predictable, and predictability is the only mercy a stronger opponent needs."

  He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The whiskey burn had faded, leaving only a dull heat in his chest that had nothing to do with alcohol.

  Ilea pushed off the wall and stepped closer, boots crunching lightly on scattered debris. "So. What now? Are you going to get back on your words? Or are you going to do something harder?"

  Ludwig glanced around the ruined restaurant. He reached down and righted a chair. The motion was simple. Though, it's a habit his body remembered even when his mind was crowded.

  "Harder." He said.

  Ilea's expression shifted, just a little. An approval, maybe. Or recognition. "Show me."

  Ludwig ignored the challenge in her tone and went about the work. He dragged one table back into place, aligning it with the floorboards as if the room still had rules worth respecting. He picked up shards of glass and set them in a tin tray, He then wiped ash from the counter in straight strokes, again and again, until the surface was left with no ash.

  The routine grounded him in a way fighting never quite did. Fighting was always about what might happen. This was about what had to happen.

  Behind him, Ilea stayed quiet, watching the way his shoulders relaxed by degrees, watching the way the room responded to him. Not with magic, but with the old language of a place being cared for.

  "You're rebuilding." She said finally.

  "I'm restoring order." Ludwig corrected, sliding a plate back onto an intact shelf. "If I leave it like this, then I felt like I will go berserk."

  Ilea let out a small sound, half amusement, half understanding. "So you're choosing a mop over a massacre."

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  Ludwig's hand paused on the rim of the plate. "Don't make it sound noble."

  "Not noble." She agreed. "Practical. You're doing it to keep your hands busy. To keep your mind from sprinting toward the worst option."

  He didn't deny it. He set the plate down gently, then reached for another, aligning it with the first as if symmetry could force the world to make sense.

  A chair leg scraped against the floor as he nudged it into place. The sound grated, too loud in the emptiness.

  "You're afraid." Ilea said, casual. "Not of them. Of yourself."

  Ludwig breathed out, slow, and kept moving. "I've seen what happens when people like us stop caring about collateral."

  "Good." She replied. "That means you still have a line."

  He wiped the counter again, straight strokes. Ash came up in gray smears, stubborn, as if it wanted to stay. He scrubbed until the wood beneath showed through, scarred, but clean.

  He scrubbed until the wood beneath showed through, scarred, but clean.

  Ludwig stared at the clean strip for a second too long, like he expected the act to fix more than it could. Then he set the rag down and turned away before the room could pull him back into staring at what was ruined.

  The kitchen hummed its usual noise, grill cooking meat into a good sear, oil frying tempura to crisp, plates clinking as Finka and Bilo moved with certainty.

  He didn't go for the stove. Instead, he went for the sink.

  He twisted the faucet and held his hands under it until the chill bit into his knuckles and forced his mind to narrow down to sensation. He scrubbed his palms with soap until the scent cut through everything else. Not because they were dirty. But because the motion was familiar enough.

  Then he dried them slowly, each finger, each joint, like he was reassembling himself.

  On the prep counter, his usual tools lay in perfect order. Ludwig didn't pull it. Instead, he reached for a clean cloth and folded it three times until the edges were crisp.

  He opened a drawer and found a handful of utensils out of place. A proof that someone had rummaged. But he didn't fix the whole drawer. He just lined the spoons. Straightened the ladles. Put the tongs where his hand expected them to be.

  Small order but enough.

  He stopped at the spice rack next, not to season anything, but to count. A habit from long shifts when the mind got too loud. Paprika. Pepper. Salt. Bay leaves. The jars were intact, somehow that felt like mercy. Ludwig touched the lid of one jar and felt the slight grit of ash still clinging to the glass.

  He wiped it off with the towel, slow, thorough.

  A long breath left his chest.

  For a moment, the kitchen held him the way it always had. Just as a place where his hands could do something real.

  Then the air changed.

  Not in the kitchen at first, outside. A subtle shift that rolled through the doorway like a draft that didn't come from any open window. Ludwig froze with the towel in his hand.

  But the dining room bell didn't ring. It arrived half a beat late, like sound and motion had briefly argued over which one got to be first.

  Ludwig's throat tightened. He set the towel down without making a sound and stepped out of the kitchen, his boots quieter than they had any right to be on the scuffed floor.

  Ilea was already facing the entrance.

  Her posture had changed. The teasing looseness was gone. Now she was watching with the calm of someone who'd decided she might need to move fast.

  The door finally creaked. Cold air threaded in, carrying the scent of night… and something else beneath it, faint but unmistakable.

  Then, a shadow crossed the threshold.

  Ludwig didn't immediately call out and just looked at the figure who hesitated in the doorway. Then she moved, just one step, and the light caught her face.

  Claire.

  For a heartbeat, Ludwig's mind offered him a dozen things to say, questions, accusations, relief.

  None of them made it past his mouth.

  His hand lifted an inch, stopping there, unsure whether it was meant to reach for her or stop her from coming closer.

  "...You're back." He managed, voice rougher than he intended.

  Behind him, Ilea didn't speak. She just watched, eyes sharp, letting the space between them fill with everything that hadn't been said.

  "I am…" Claire's answer came right after. But unlike her usual composed and calculating self, she was colder now. She was like an ice that could cut though a skin if touched wrong.

  Ludwig snapped his fingers, a whiskey glass filled with ice flew at him right after. "Your usual, I have a feeling you need one."

  But rather than looking at his usual drink, Claire's eyes drifted around the restaurant. Ludwig and Ilea, he believed, could feel it moments later. Her mana spiked up, like a torrent from the wings of an angry dragon.

  Before Ludwig could move, Ilea moved first. She stood in front of Claire in a blink of an eye and crossed her arms. "Last time I met you, you were not this hot head. That's my and Trian's job."

  Claire's eyes landed on Ilea finally. "Look at what they did, Ilea. I haven't heard the full story, but I can see the picture already. That old man didn't deserve any mercy."

  Ilea's grin didn't return, but something sharp flickered behind her eyes. Though, whether it was approval at the threat, or interest in it, it was hard to tell.

  "Mercy." She repeated, tasting the word like it was unfamiliar. "You came back in a mood, huh."

  Ilea unfurled her arms, then put one of them on her shoulder.

  The atmosphere became suffocating once again. Whatever Ilea did, the whole restaurant felt it. Even Ludwig was forced to get his bearings back as his knees buckled.

  "You haven't seen the monsters I slay before, Claire." Ilea started, tone even. "But let me tell you this: I never became as arrogant as you every time I killed a stronger one."

  Whatever retort Claire gave to her friend's words died at that moment. Her body went down, unknown whether because of Ilea's hand or because of whatever intangible power she just unleashed.

  "So," Ilea continued. "Cool yourself down, cause you are the one with brain, not muscle."