The standoff hung in the air for a long, awkward moment. Nyelle Ardent, a being of pure kinetic energy, seemed to have been short-circuited by Izen's sheer, unassuming simplicity. Kael and Elara looked on, holding their breath, half-expecting her to spontaneously combust.
Finally, with a frustrated growl that sounded like grinding gears, Nyelle broke the silence.
"This isn't over," she muttered, pointing a finger at Izen. "I'm going to figure you out, you… you culinary cryptid."
With that, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the Hearthline Guild, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the windows. A single, scorched handprint remained on the table where she had slammed it.
The moment she was gone, Kael and Elara let out the breaths they had been holding in a collective whoosh.
"I thought we were going to die," Elara whispered, her face pale.
"That was Nyelle Ardent," Kael said, adjusting his glasses, which had slipped down his nose. "She's never even acknowledged our guild's existence before. And she came all the way here… just for you, Loxidon-san."
Izen was already back at the counter, examining a bag of day-old bread he'd salvaged. "She seems very passionate," he observed mildly. "That's good. Passion is a key ingredient."
"Passion?! She looked like she was going to incinerate you!" Kael exclaimed. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Anyway, we should… we should finish the prep. The night-shift workers' meal delivery is in three hours."
He gestured to a large, insulated cart in the corner of the room. "We usually take this out to three main stops in the city's maintenance sector."
Izen looked at the pot of now-delicious soup, then at the meager supplies they had left. There was the soup, the bread, and a crate of slightly soft oranges.
"Is this all we're serving?" he asked.
Kael's face fell. "It's… it's all the academy's central kitchen allotted us as surplus for today," he said, his voice tinged with shame. "Some days it's more, some days it's less. We never know. It's enough to give about fifty people a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. It's better than nothing, but…"
He didn't have to finish the sentence. It wasn't enough.
Izen's cheerful demeanor faded for the first time, replaced by a quiet, focused intensity that made Kael and Elara stand up a little straighter. He looked around the rustic guildhall, at the empty shelves and the worn-out equipment.
"This is the lowest-ranked guild, you said?" Izen asked.
"Yes," Kael confirmed. "Rank 72 out of 72."
"And higher-ranked guilds get more funding? Better access to ingredients?"
"Of course," Kael said. "The top 10 guilds get first pick of the academy's finest produce, even before the main cafeteria. They have state-of-the-art kitchens, sponsorship deals… Voltagrave Manor probably has a weekly budget bigger than our guild's entire net worth."
"And how do we raise our rank?" Izen asked, his eyes sharp.
"The Ladder," Elara piped up. "Official, sanctioned duels. Every win against a higher-ranked guild earns you points. If you get enough points, you move up a rank, and they move down."
A plan was beginning to form behind Izen's simple gaze. It was a simple, elegant piece of logic.
Problem: Not enough food for the hungry.
Cause: The guild's low rank means poor resources.
Solution: Raise the guild's rank.
Method: The Ladder.
"Okay," Izen said, turning to face his two new guildmates. "Let's enter a Ladder duel."
Kael choked on air. "Wh-what? Just like that? We can't! We've never won a duel! Our official record is zero wins and seventeen losses! No one will even accept a challenge from us!"
"There must be a way to force a duel," Izen pressed.
"Well… yes," Kael admitted reluctantly. "The Academy Charter has a 'Right of Reclamation' clause. A lower-ranked guild can force a duel with the guild ranked immediately above them for their rank and resources. But if you lose, you have to cede one of your own guild's assets to the winner."
"And what's the guild ranked above us?" Izen asked.
Kael winced. "Rank 71. The Titan Tools Club."
Elara groaned. "Oh no, not them. They're a bunch of gearhead bullies! They don't cook with knives; they use plasma cutters and industrial belt sanders! They're all about brute force and ridiculously oversized portions."
"And since our guild has no assets of value," Kael added miserably, "the only thing they could claim in forfeiture is the guild charter itself. If we lose, Hearthline is forcibly disbanded. Immediately. It's a risk we can't afford to take."
They both looked at Izen, their faces etched with despair. They had laid out the impossible reality of their situation. They were trapped at the bottom, destined to be shut down.
Izen, however, was not looking at them. He was staring at the old brick hearth that served as the guild's heart. He saw the empty pot hooks, the soot-stained bricks, the cold, empty space where a fire should be. He thought of the fifty bowls of soup and the hundreds of hungry workers who wouldn't get any.
He turned back to his guildmates, and for the first time, they saw a flicker of the same terrifying confidence that had made a world-class judge weep.
"Then we'll make a wager they can't refuse," he said, his voice calm and steady. "And we won't lose."