Charles jolted awake, warm water still lapping at his shoulders.
For a second, he had no clue where he was.
Then the steam and the sound of water dripping against rocks snapped him back.
He was in the clan's hot springs.
'Crap, I actually passed out,' he thought, blinking as he rubbed his eyes.
The heat had been so soothing he'd lted into it, but now his muscles felt lighter, like the exhaustion from his fight with Lira had evaporated.
Charles stood carefully, water streaming off him in rivulets, and stepped out of the pool, leaving wet footprints on the stone.
At the pool's edge, he found a neatly folded bundle of clothes on a flat rock.
It was a tunic—not just any tunic. It was like Lira's: blue trim, fine fabric, no stains or tears.
Charles lifted it with both hands, almost reverently, and held it close to his face.
It slled clean, like fresh cloth—a stark contrast to the threadbare, grimy tunics he'd worn as a servant.
'This is next-level,' he thought, a faint smile creeping in. As he dressed, slipping the soft fabric over his still-damp skin, a thought hit him. 'If I win those fights... is this my life now? Decent clothes and hot baths?'
The idea sparked excitent but also piled on pressure.
Everything hinged on tonight.
Charles left the hot springs area, the tunic feeling light against his body.
The hallway was quiet, but as he rounded a corner, he caught hushed voices.
Two maids were scrubbing the floor with rags, bent over as they whispered to each other.
"They say they delayed the fights," one murmured, a young woman with her hair in a ssy bun. "That doesn't happen unless sothing big's coming. Who do you think's closing?"
The other, a bit older, gave a small laugh.
"No clue, but I bet it'll be a show. It always is when they shake things up like this."
Charles paused, watching them silently.
The maids looked up and froze when they saw him, eyes widening.
"S-sorry," the younger one stamred, bowing clumsily as she clutched her rag.
"We didn't an... uh..."
The older one yanked her arm, and they scurried down the hall, throwing nervous glances over their shoulders.
'Wow,' Charles thought, blinking. 'Word spreads fast, huh?'
The buzz about the delayed fights seed to be growing, and though no one appeared to know he was the main event, the thought made him jittery.
His stomach growled loudly, cutting through his thoughts.
"Right..." he mumbled, recalling Lira's words.
'I can hit the dining hall whenever now—no more waiting for scraps.'
The re idea of proper food made him pick up the pace.
"A fighter can't lose on an empty stomach," Lira had said.
'Finally sothing good around here,' Charles thought.
The dining hall wasn't far, and when he got there, he saw the usual guard at the entrance: a burly guy with a scruffy beard and a spear leaning against the wall.
Charles braced for a grilling, but the guard just sized him up, lingering on the tunic. His lips curled into what looked like a mocking smirk, but he said nothing. He simply stepped aside, clearing the way.
Charles blinked, caught off guard.
'For real?' he thought, walking inside. 'I was expecting a lecture or sothing. This outfit's got that much pull?'
The dining hall was busier than he'd expected. Servants in gray tunics weaved between tables, serving plates and sweeping up crumbs, while clusters of people in tunics like his ate together.
The sll of fresh bread, roasted at, and what seed like vegetable soup filled his lungs, making his stomach rumble again.
Charles headed for the food counter, feeling the weight of a few diners' stares prickling his neck.
Ignoring the sensation, he approached a young woman behind the counter, who was smiling as she served a bowl of stew to soone else.
Her smile vanished when she saw him. Her eyes scanned him up and down, lingering on the tunic, and she frowned.
"What're you doing here this early, Rian?" she asked, crossing her arms. "And in that outfit? Where'd you get it?"
Charles kept his cool, though her tone grated on him.
"Ca to eat," he said plainly, shrugging.
Before she could snap back, another cook strolled over—an older man. He recognized Charles's voice instantly and let out a dry laugh.
"What the hell are you doing here, useless?" he said, wiping his hands on a grimy rag. "Forget you've gotta wait 'til this place clears out to scrounge leftovers? And what's with that outfit? Take it off now or I'm reporting you! Stealing a fighter's tunic to sneak in is against the rules."
Charles clenched his teeth, heat creeping up his face.
"I didn't steal it," he shot back, keeping his voice steady. "I'm a fighter now."
The cook let out a laugh so loud it turned heads.
"You? Fighting?" he said, jabbing a finger at him. "Please! What's next—gonna take down Kraus Cole in the arena?"
The woman beside him stifled a giggle, covering her mouth.
The commotion was drawing eyes, and murmurs rippled through the hall.
"Is that Rian?" soone whispered from a nearby table.
"The useless one? In that tunic?"
A woman next to them frowned, leaning in to speak lower.
"He stole it, right? Gotta be a joke."
Another, a servant wiping a table, snickered.
"Rian fighting? What, he go crazy all of a sudden?"
Charles felt the stares like needles digging in. The whole dining hall seed glued to the scene, and though he tried brushing it off, the weight of their comnts pressed on his chest.
"I didn't steal anything," he repeated, locking eyes with the cook.
The cook opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, the guard from the entrance lumbered over, drawn by the noise.
"What's going on here?" he growled, crossing his arms. His eyes flicked from Charles to the cook, then back to the tunic. "You're making a racket in the middle of lunch."
The cook pointed at Charles with an exaggerated flourish.
"Do your job and get him outta here!" he barked. "This useless punk's stealing fighter clothes to sneak in and eat. It's ruining my appetite!"
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