From the way Edrik handled the knife to carve the ice cube, Atlas could tell one thing with certainty, the man was skilled. His grip, his control, his precision… they weren't the movements of a casual worker.
Edrik was trained, that much was obvious. Whether that training came from a past as a fighter or merely from years of bartending, Atlas couldn't yet tell. But the ease with which he wielded the blade felt too natural, too practiced.
Edrik, who had earlier accepted the mysterious gold coin, one Atlas still couldn't identify, continued working as if nothing had happened. He didn't falter, didn't pause, and not once did his expression change. There was no smile, no frown, not even the faintest trace of fatigue. Just the same emotionless, flat look.
