Did this guy really just invite him to share a meal?

Then, without even waiting for a reply, he just left on his own. Given Hamel’s personality, it wouldn’t have been strange for him to have slapped this insolent guy who seemed to be messing with him on the back of the head, but the unique atmosphere that Vermouth gave off suppressed Hamel’s impulse to choose violence.

Hamel was well aware of what this feeling was. It was a warning that he shouldn’t touch this guy, that if they fought, he would be the one defeated, and if at all possible, Hamel shouldn’t get involved with this guy.

“Fuck,” Hamel cursed, as he felt annoyed at allowing himself to be held back by such a feeling.

It wasn’t like this guy had shown him any hostility, nor had they met on the battlefield. They had just met on the street. No, come to think about it, this guy had just one-sidedly approached Hamel and then suddenly invited him to share a meal.

Wait, no.

In the first place, who the hell were they? They had addressed him as Hamel Dynas, and yeah, that’s right, that was his name. So why the fuck weren’t they introducing themselves? And who the fuck did those two think they were, flying down from the sky and staring at him with those disrespectfully judgmental eyes? And lastly, why was that hulking bastard with bulging muscles looking at him with sparkling eyes that didn’t match the fierce expression on his face?

Tap.

A stone caught on Hamel’s foot. As if the heavens had arranged it, the stone was in the perfect position for him to kick it. But wasn’t it only natural for there to be stones in a place like this? Eugene glared at the back of Vermouth’s head, who was slowly getting further away and at the backs of Sienna and Anise, who were following Vermouth as they continued to exude an air of disdain for him.

Molon was still at Hamel's side. As he looked down at Hamel with a hearty smile, Molon discovered that Hamel’s body seemed to have been designed and developed solely for conflict. Molon began to imagine just how flexibly and unpredictably such a body would be able to move once a battle began, and this imagined scenario progressed into a full-fledged confrontation inside of his head.

‘He’s strong, but I still won,’ Molon thought.

Not ‘I can win,’ but ‘I won.’ Their battle had already come to a conclusion inside of Molon’s head, and he nodded confidently at the result. As a brave warrior of the northern Bayar tribe, the Son of the Snowfields, he approached Hamel, who was to become his new comrade and stretched out his hand.

“Come on, let’s...