In the restaurant, the group easily found a table in the nearly deserted dining area. As they settled in, Draven wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air, his expression twisting into one of mild disgust. “Something reeks in here,” he muttered, glancing around suspiciously.

  Arid nodded in agreement, quickly covering his mouth and nose with his hand. “I told you this place was sketchy,” he said, his voice muffled. “It smells like… like mold and regret.”

  Bimoth, unbothered, leaned back in his chair and gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s not that bad,” he said casually, as if the foul odor didn’t exist.

  Arid rolled his eyes, his exasperation palpable. “Of course you wouldn’t notice. You’d eat a plate of dirt if it was in front of you,” he retorted, shaking his head.

  “Why are you being so mean to him?” Anita leaned over, her tone sharp with disapproval.

  Arid scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “He worked for Dorian and fought us during the summit. Am I supposed to just forget that and play nice?” he shot back, crossing his arms.

  Cassius, ignoring the tension, waved over the waiter with a sharp whistle. The waiter, a pale and tired-looking man with sunken eyes, approached their table. “What will you have, sir?” he asked, his voice monotone.

  “I’ll take the steak, well done,” Cassius said confidently, scanning the menu.

  The waiter shook his head apologetically. “We only have soup, sir.”

  Cassius blinked in confusion, then narrowed his eyes. “Then why bother asking what I want?!” he snapped, glaring at the waiter.

  The waiter turned to Arid, his expression unchanged. “And for you, sir?”

  Arid rolled his eyes. “Fine. Just a soda,” he grumbled.

  “We only have water, sir,” the waiter responded flatly.

  Arid threw his hands up, mirroring Cassius’s earlier frustration. “Are you serious right now?!”

  “Hmm,” Bimoth said thoughtfully, glancing at the waiter. “I’ll take the soup and water, I guess?”

  The waiter gave a stiff bow. “Very well, sir. I’ll prepare the soup and water for all of you,” he said before disappearing into the back.

  Draven glanced around, his unease growing. “This place is weird. Soup and water only? No options?”

  The group nodded in agreement, the uneasy atmosphere settling over them as they waited in silence, the faint clanging of pots echoing ominously from the kitchen.

  Suddenly, the food arrived, and the students leaned in to examine the bowls. “It actually looks… pretty good,” Arid admitted, stirring his spoon into the soup with a hint of suspicion.

  Meanwhile, in Gluttony, the Chef paced anxiously in his dimly lit kitchen, sweat dripping down his forehead. “Toby!” he barked, turning to a burly cook with a weathered apron covered in knife holsters. “Get to Westmore now! Remove any evidence of the body and kill anyone who even thinks they’ve figured it out!” His voice was sharp with panic.

  Toby gave a curt nod. “Yes, Chef!” he responded, grabbing his tools and sprinting out of the restaurant into the night.

  Back in Westmore, the students dug into their soup. Bimoth raised the bowl to his lips, drinking deeply. “It’s actually not bad,” he said, licking his lips.

  Arid poured sugar into his bowl, stirring it carefully. “Yeah, just a little spicy for my taste,” he said before taking a bite.

  Cassius tasted his with a thoughtful expression. “There’s something… different about it,” he said, nodding in approval. Anita smiled as she inhaled the steam. “The aroma is incredible. It’s definitely got a unique flavor.”

  Draven, however, eyed his soup warily. He poked at it with his spoon, shaking the bowl slightly. “It doesn’t look appealing enough. I’ll pass,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

  Suddenly, Cassius winced, biting down on something hard. “Ow!” he exclaimed, spitting the object into his hand. It was a tarnished, gold ring. “What the hell?” Arid leaned in, his curiosity piqued.

  Cassius turned the ring over in his palm and smirked. “Guess I’m gonna own this place now.” He flagged down the waiter. “Uh, waiter? There’s a… special present in my soup.”

  The waiter frowned, walking over. “Sir, this is a family-owned restaurant. My father and I run it, and neither of us are married. That ring isn’t ours,” he said firmly, taking the object and inspecting it before placing it on the counter.

  Confusion settled over the table—until Bimoth suddenly froze. His expression drained of all color, his eyes wide with dread. “It must’ve been for him…” he whispered shakily, holding up his trembling hand. Between his fingers was a human finger that had been floating in his soup.

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  Anita screamed, her voice cutting through the restaurant, as everyone recoiled in horror. The group scrambled from the table, gagging and vomiting onto the floor.

  Draven’s eyes flared with rage. He stood, towering over the waiter, and grabbed him by the collar. “What the hell is this?!” he roared.

  The waiter’s face twisted in terror as he stammered, “I-I don’t know! We don’t cook anything here! The soup is pre-processed—we get it from a supplier!” He raised his hands in desperate surrender.

  Draven growled, his grip tightening, as the rest of the group exchanged horrified glances, realizing they’d stumbled into something far more sinister than they’d anticipated.

  Draven stormed into the kitchen, his fury palpable as he pushed the waiter’s father out of the way. Without hesitation, he grabbed a spoon, scooped up some soup from the bubbling pot, and froze. Dangling from the edge of the spoon was a grotesque, clouded human eye. His jaw clenched as he turned to the trembling cook.

  “What kind of sick game are you playing?!” Draven roared, grabbing the man by his shirt and lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.

  The cook’s face drained of all color, his voice trembling as he pleaded, “Wait! Please, have mercy! I didn’t know!”

  Meanwhile, Anita, alarmed by the chaos, grabbed a nearby can of soup and quickly opened it. She poured its contents onto the counter, and with a sickening plop, another eye rolled out, its milky stare sending chills through the room.

  “Wait, Draven!” Anita shouted, holding up the can. “He’s telling the truth! The eyes are in the cans! This isn’t his doing!”

  Draven’s grip loosened, and he released the cook, who stumbled back against the counter, gasping for air. Cassius, standing nearby, inspected the can with a disgusted expression. “I’m going to be sick,” he muttered, his voice tight with nausea.

  Behind them, Arid gagged violently, barely making it to the trash can before vomiting. The room reeked of fear and revulsion.

  The cook cleared his throat, his hands trembling as he raised them defensively. “I swear—I didn’t know anything about this! I just heat the soup and serve it! I never questioned where it came from!” His voice cracked under the weight of the accusations, desperation etched into his face.

  The students exchanged uneasy glances, their suspicions deepening. Something was deeply wrong here, and the cook might just be another pawn in a much larger, more horrifying game.

  Suddenly, a man with a thick French accent strolled into the kitchen, his apron adorned with gleaming knives. “Excusez-moi, but I seem to have found something extra in my soup.” He held out a bowl, revealing a severed finger floating among the broth.

  The cook paled and quickly bowed. “Yes, sir, we’re aware of the situation. We’re trying to resolve it right now,” he stammered nervously.

  The man smirked, stepping further into the room. “Mon Dieu! Are these body parts?” he exclaimed, his tone dripping with feigned shock as his gaze swept over the macabre discoveries. He picked up the eye from the counter and held it aloft, squishing it between his fingers with morbid curiosity. “So squishy, no? Like a little jelly.”

  Draven’s wings flared wide as he stepped forward, shielding the grisly scene. “Hey! Back off and keep your hands to yourself!” he barked, his voice a low growl.

  The man ignored him, squeezing the eye harder. “Oops,” he said mockingly, letting the remains slip through his fingers.

  “Be careful with that until we get the knights here!” Anita warned sharply, her eyes narrowing.

  The Frenchman only chuckled. “Knights, you say? Why waste their time?” He turned back to the cook, his demeanor darkening. “Now, monsieur, where did you get this delightful soup?”

  The cook flinched, his voice trembling. “W-We got the supplies from—”

  Before he could finish, the Frenchman lunged at him with lightning speed, aiming to gouge out his eyes. Draven intercepted just in time, gripping the attacker’s wrist with crushing strength. The Frenchman’s eyes widened momentarily before his lips curled into a smirk. “Très bien. You’re strong,” he said with a chilling chuckle.

  The waiter gasped in horror. “Father!” he cried, rushing forward to help, but Bimoth stepped in, blocking his path. With a swift motion, Bimoth threw a handful of powder into the air. Suddenly, dozens of invisible knives shimmered into view, their blades poised inches from the group’s faces.

  “You’ve got sharp eyes, I’ll give you that,” the Frenchman said with a twisted grin. “The name’s Toby Kaur. I’m afraid I’ll have to kill anyone who knows about the bodies here. Orders are orders, you see.”

  The group dove for cover as the knives flew toward them. “Anita! Get them out of here!” Arid shouted, summoning his staff and bracing for combat.

  Anita nodded, grabbing the cook and waiter and pulling them toward the exit. “Stay close!” she ordered as more knives rained down, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The room erupted into chaos, the Frenchman’s laughter echoing menacingly over the clash.

  Toby twisted effortlessly out of Draven’s grip, flipping midair and delivering a powerful kick that sent Draven skidding back. Though Draven raised his arms to block, the force left a distinct footprint pressed into his forearm. “He’s not bad,” Draven muttered, flexing his fingers to shake off the sting.

  Toby smirked, grabbing a nearby can of gasoline. Without hesitation, he doused the stack of soup cans and struck a match. “Bon appétit,” he quipped before tossing the lit match onto the cans. Flames erupted instantly, forcing the group to leap back from the searing heat.

  “No! We need to find out who the ring belonged to!” Cassius yelled, desperation in his voice. He ripped off his jacket and tried to smother the flames, but it was too late—the cans melted into bubbling, unrecognizable sludge.

  Toby leaned casually against the counter, lighting a cigarette as the fire reflected in his cold eyes. “Sorry, kids. Just business,” he said with a shrug, exhaling a plume of smoke.

  Cassius’s fists clenched, and without a word, he slammed his hand to the ground. A jagged pillar of stone shot up from beneath Toby’s feet, slamming into his chest and launching him through the kitchen window. Glass shattered, raining down onto the street outside.

  The group rushed to the window, watching as Toby landed with a roll and stood up, brushing shards of glass off his apron. He clutched his ribs, clearly winded, but his grin remained. “Not bad,” he admitted, his voice dripping with mockery. Then, with a burst of unnatural speed, he darted into the shadows, disappearing before anyone could react.

  Cassius growled in frustration. “Damn it! He got away!”