We played by the rules. We offered a better product. We worked harder.

And their response was to send thugs? To plant bugs? To threaten my suppliers?

A dark, cold heat began to spread through my chest. It wasn't the explosive rage I felt during the dungeon fight. It was quieter. Deeper.

It was the arrogant, possessive anger of Lucien Ashborne.

"They think they can touch what's mine?" I murmured.

"Boss?" Lily asked, looking fearful at the change in my expression.

I stood up slowly.

"So much for being an upright businessman," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "I tried to do this the clean way. I really did. I thought, 'Let's just make good food and make money.' But apparently, these idiots don't understand how the food chain works."

I adjusted my gloves, a cold smirk twisting my lips.

They thought they were dealing with a startup owner. A common merchant they could bully with petty noble influence.

They forgot who I was.

I was the villain who walked into a boss room alone. I was the scum who humiliated the protagonist. I was the guy who casually bought divine bullets to kill demons.

And they wanted to play gangster with me?

"Lily," I said, looking down at her. "Close the shop early tonight. Tell the staff at Branch Two and Three to go home and lock up."

"W-What are you going to do, Boss?"

I turned toward the door, my eyes gleaming with a ruthless light.

"I think it's time I reminded this city exactly whose name is on the deed," I said coldly. "If they want to act like criminals, I'll show them what a real villain looks like."

****

The Golden Goblet.

It was the kind of establishment that screamed "expensive" to cover up the fact that it lacked a soul. Velvet curtains, gold-leafed pillars, crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than a commoner's lifetime earnings.

And yet, it was empty.

Well, mostly empty. A few tables were occupied by wealthy merchants and lower nobility—the type who cared more about being seen spending money than actually enjoying their meal. They sat in stiff silence, picking at their food with the enthusiasm of people eating cardboard.

I walked in, my boots clicking sharply against the polished marble floor.

A waiter in a stiff tuxedo rushed over, eyeing my academy uniform. He forced a polite smile, though his eyes scanned my attire for rank.

"Welcome to The Golden Goblet, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

"No," I said, brushing past him. "I'll take the center table."

I sat down without waiting for him to pull the chair. I picked up the menu.

Leather-bound. Gold embossed text.

Grilled Beast Steak — 5 SilverGolden Soup — 2 SilverImperial Fried Rice — 1 Silver

I stared at the last item.

Imperial Fried Rice.

"Hah…" A dry laugh escaped my lips.

One silver coin. That was one hundred copper coins.

At Kitchen 21, my fried rice cost 17 coppers.

They copy the dish, multiply the price by six, and slap the word "Imperial" on it to trick idiots. It was almost impressive in its shamelessness.

"I'll have this," I said, tapping the menu. "The fried rice."

The waiter bowed. "Excellent choice, sir."

Ten minutes later, the plate arrived.

It looked decent enough. The rice was yellow—probably saffron or some expensive dye—and there were chunks of meat in it.

I picked up the spoon and took a bite.

Chew.

Chew.

Splat.

I spat the mouthful directly onto the pristine white tablecloth.

The sound echoed through the quiet restaurant. The waiter froze. The few customers nearby stopped eating and turned to stare.

"W-Water! Get me water!" I yelled, wiping my mouth with a silk napkin and throwing it onto the floor. "What is this garbage?!"

"S-Sir?" The waiter stammered, pale. "Is something wrong with the—"

CRASH!

I swept the wine glass off the table with a backhand. Red wine splattered across the floor like blood.

"Is something wrong?" I stood up, kicking the chair back so hard it fell over with a loud bang. "You dare serve this pig slop and charge a silver coin for it? The rice is mushy! The oil is rancid! And the meat—what is this? Rat?!"

"Sir! Please lower your voice!" A floor manager rushed over, his face flushed with indignation. "You are disturbing the other guests! If you cannot behave, I must ask you to leave!"

Two burly guards—bouncers dressed in suits—stepped out from the shadows, hands resting on batons.

I looked at them. Then I looked at the manager.

"Leave?" I laughed. "You want to kick me out after poisoning me?"

"We serve only the finest quality!" the manager snapped. "Now get out before we throw you out, boy!"

One of the guards reached for my shoulder.

I didn't move. I just looked him in the eye.

"You lowly commoner. You dare touch me?"

"Do you know who I am?"

The guard's hand stopped inches from my coat.

The manager blinked. "W-Who?"

"Lucien Ashborne," I said, my voice dropping to a low, cold rumble. "Heir to the Ashborne County."

The silence that followed was absolute.

The guard took a step back, his face draining of color. The manager's jaw went slack.

Ashborne.

A frontier count family. Militaristic. Ruthless. Wealthy enough to buy this entire street and influential enough to crush a mere Baron without blinking. Even here in the capital, the name carried the weight of steel and blood.

"You… you are…" the manager stuttered.

"You were going to throw me out?" I stepped forward. The manager stepped back. "You were going to lay hands on a noble of the Ashborne house?"

"N-No! No, young master! It's a misunderstanding! We didn't know—"

"Shut up."

I cut him off.

"Call your master. Whoever owns this dump."

"The… the owner isn't here—"

"Then fetch him," I snarled. "I'll be in the VIP room. If he isn't here in thirty minutes… I will burn this place to the ground."

I didn't shout it. I said it with the casual certainty of a man discussing the weather.

[Skill: Intimidation Activated]

The manager trembled. He saw my eyes—and he believed me.

"Y-Yes! Right away! Please, right this way!"

****

The VIP room was plush, quiet, and smelled of lavender.

I sat on a velvet sofa, boots resting comfortably on the mahogany table, tossing a grape into my mouth.

Twenty minutes later, the door burst open.

A young man rushed in. He was in his mid-twenties, dressed in a silk suit that cost more than my entire kitchen equipment, but his face was slick with sweat.

Cedric Vane.

The eldest son of Baron Vane. The man managing the family's capital businesses.

He stopped, chest heaving, scanning the room until his eyes landed on me.

"Young Master Ashborne!" he gasped, bowing hastily. "I—I apologize for the delay! I ran as fast as I could!"

I chewed the grape slowly. I didn't tell him to rise.

"What is the meaning of this?" Cedric asked, trying to salvage some dignity but failing as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Why is the heir of Ashborne causing a scene in my humble establishment? If the food was not to your liking, we could have—"

"Sit."

I pointed to the chair opposite me.

Cedric hesitated, then sat on the edge of the seat, nervous.

"Your food," I said, "is a poor imitation."

"E-Excuse me?"

"Fried rice. Hamburgers. Tacos." I counted on my fingers. "You didn't have these on your menu last week. Suddenly, they appear. And they taste like trash."

Cedric stiffened. "It… is merely a market trend. We are adapting—"

"You've been sending thugs to Kitchen 21," I said.

It wasn't a question.

Cedric's face froze. His eyes darted to the side.

"I… I don't know what you're talking about. Kitchen 21? That commoner diner? I believe that has nothing to do with you, Young Master."

"Is that so?"

I leaned forward, dropping my feet from the table.

"What if I told you that Kitchen 21 belongs to me?"

Cedric's face went white.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"Y-Yours…?"

"Mine," I confirmed coldly. "My investment. My recipes. My property."

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He had sent thugs to harass a business owned by the Ashborne family. He had threatened the staff of a Count's heir.

"I… I didn't know!" Cedric stammered, hands shaking. "I thought it was just some upstart commoner! Young Master, you have to believe me!"

"And the bricks?" I asked. "The planted insects? The threats to my suppliers?"

"It wasn't just me!" Cedric blurted out, desperate to spread the blame. "It's the whole Merchant Guild circle! Everyone is losing money because of your diner! The turnover is too high, the prices are too low—you've disrupted the entire market! We had to do something!"

He looked at me with pleading eyes.

"It's simply business, Young Master! Surely you understand? If we didn't act, we'd all go bankrupt!"

I stared at him.

"So you admit it."

"I… well, yes, but—"

"You admit to conspiring to sabotage my business."

I reached into my coat.

Cedric flinched.

Slowly, deliberately, I pulled out the revolver.

The polished steel glinted under the chandelier light. It was heavy, menacing, and utterly out of place in a fine dining room.

Click.

I pulled the hammer back.

Cedric stopped breathing. His eyes bulged, fixed on the barrel pointed directly at his chest.

"Y-Y-Young Master…?"

"You said everyone is doing it," I said softly. "Don't worry about them. I'll visit them later."

I leveled the gun.

"Right now, I'm only looking at you."

"P-Please! Don't shoot! I'm a noble! My father is a Baron!"

"And I am an Ashborne," I replied. "Do you think anyone will investigate if a corrupt businessman has an… accident in his own office?"

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