"What are you doing here?" the old man called out the moment he spotted Glenn, striding toward him at once.

  "I should be asking you the same thing." Glenn smiled, then pointed at the familiar faces behind him. "And why are they treating you with such reverence?"

  The old man merely angled his head and replied, "This mercenary band was founded by me. I handed it over to these youngsters long ago. I only dragged them out temporarily to get something done."

  "You founded it?" Glenn raised a brow. "Well, that’s quite a coincidence."

  The old man frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

  Behind him, Norman and the others stood stiffly, as though awaiting punishment.

  Glenn recounted the unpleasant encounter from last time.

  When he finished, the old man simply cast an indifferent glance at the group behind him. "They brought it upon themselves. Can’t even manage their own subordinates."

  "Old man, don’t you bear any responsibility? Surely they were influenced by you to some extent?" Glenn said pointedly.

  But the old man only replied calmly, "When I brought them into the band, they were already grown. Everything they needed to learn, I taught. Aside from Norman, none of them bothered listening. If they die out there one day, it’ll be their own doing. The fact that you didn’t kill them means they were lucky."

  "You really are merciless..." Glenn shot the mercenaries a sidelong look.

  "Now it’s your turn—why are you headed this way? This road leads toward Lyons City. What business do you have there?" the old man asked, shifting the topic back to Glenn.

  At this, Glenn straightened his clothes, adopting a cultured, artistic air. "Because I am about to become an artist."

  The old man rolled his eyes dramatically. "Don’t tell me you’re going to join that Genius Kitchen Club."

  "I am." Glenn nodded lightly.

  The old man’s eyes widened. "You’re not joking?"

  "No. You seem to know of this club. Is it famous?" Glenn asked with a smile, setting aside his playful expression.

  The old man stared at him speechlessly for several seconds. "You’re trying to join a club whose background you don’t even understand? With your intelligence, I’d expect you to be the last person to get swindled."

  "It was a painter named Hopdo who approached me and invited me in. He said only geniuses could join, and that the Third Princess of the kingdom sponsors them. And more importantly, members receive an annual fund. So, naturally, I agreed."

  Glenn explained.

  The old man scrutinized him from head to toe, as if trying to detect even a hint of artistic aura.

  He himself had little to say on the matter—he only knew bits and pieces from friends’ idle chatter.

  "But you seem to know quite a lot already," he said, shrugging.

  "I’d like to know more. What else do you know about the club?" Glenn asked expectantly.

  "I know less than you. All I’ve heard is that it’s a very prestigious club. Countless self-important people have schemed—some even resorting to ugly methods—trying to get in, but all have failed. That’s all."

  Glenn blinked, disappointed. "That’s it..."

  They chatted briefly about what had happened back in Bayek. Glenn also described the events that occurred while the old man was unconscious.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  He nodded and merely said he’d repay the favor someday.

  Since Glenn had a journey to continue, he prepared to move on.

  Norman, along with the Berserker and the two female warriors, hurried up to stop him, offering apologies for the previous incident.

  Glenn didn’t bother listening to their entire long-winded apology—he snapped the reins and rode off.

  ...

  Lyons City.

  In a red-brick, chapel-like building in the western district, a uniquely decorated meeting room sat filled with people—the members of the Genius Kitchen Club.

  "Is everyone here? Let’s get this over with. I’m a busy man," a tall man in a black top hat barked, sweeping his glare around the table.

  "Mind your temper, Serrati. Such behavior is unbecoming of an artist," murmured the white-bearded elder seated at the head of the table.

  "Bah! Nothing about this affects my creative genius!" Serrati shot back in the same booming voice.

  The elder could only sigh helplessly. He tapped the table, addressing the murmuring crowd:

  "Let us settle down. This meeting concerns the list of proposed new members. We must determine whether any of them are worthy of joining our club."

  The moment he finished, someone scoffed loudly, "What is there to discuss? Aside from us, no one is qualified to join! Those names on the list aren’t worthy at all."

  "You’re far too arrogant, Connors. There are artists far greater than you or me. I know at least one," Hopdo retorted angrily.

  Connors—thin, hollow-eyed, and gaunt—frowned deeply. "And whom do you mean? Hopefully not some nobody."

  "I assume all of you have heard the fairy tales that have been circulating widely among the upper classes recently," Hopdo said, looking around.

  Aside from a few shut-ins and the indifferent, nearly everyone nodded.

  "Fairy tales? Those childish stories for kids? Why mention such trivialities?" Connors asked, impatience etched all over his face.

  This nearly made Hopdo explode.

  But before he could retort, someone else erupted even louder.

  "You know nothing, you fool!"

  The roar shocked the entire room. Connors yelped and nearly fell out of his chair.

  The one shouting was the man in the top hat—his face flushed, veins bulging at his temples as he jabbed a finger at Connors.

  "To be blind to such a magnificent masterpiece! How dare you call yourself an artist? Sounds to me like you’re looking for a beating!"

  With that, he vaulted onto the table, ready to lunge at Connors.

  "Serrati! Stay back!" Connors shrieked, this time tumbling out of his chair in genuine terror.

  "Enough!" the elder thundered, his voice full of force.

  Green threads of light materialized from thin air, snaking around Serrati to yank him bodily back into his seat and bind him fast.

  "Let me go! I’ll beat that bastard to death!" Serrati screamed, still thrashing.

  The elder sighed, cast another spell, and the room fell instantly silent.

  One could still see Serrati’s mouth moving furiously—but not a single sound escaped.

  "Serrati is a writer, and Connors, you are a sculptor. I warned you all before you joined—do not pass judgment on works outside your own discipline. So, Connors, stow that arrogance."