"I'm Faen. You?"
I turned my head toward the speaker.
The man beside me was lean but built like steel wire — all taut muscle and coiled energy. His ash-brown hair stuck out in messy tufts beneath a faded bandana, giving him a roguish sort of charm.
He looked around eighteen or nineteen, but the sharpness in his gray eyes spoke of experience that didn't match his age. Those eyes gleamed with amusement and curiosity — like a cat that had just spotted something interesting.
A thin smirk curved his lips, as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh at me or warn me.
He wore a sleeveless black tunic beneath a travel-worn leather vest — the kind of outfit only a field-hardened expeditioner would wear.
A simple sword hung at his hip, its grip polished smooth from countless hours of use. The way his hand casually rested near it told me he didn't carry it for decoration.
'This guy just put his arm around a stranger like it's nothing,' I thought, shaking my head as I brushed his arm off.
"I'm Kael," I replied, keeping my tone flat. "Mind telling me what this is all about? Is it really that big of a deal to order monster meat here?"
I wasn't being sarcastic — I genuinely wanted to know why the entire place was acting like I'd declared war.
Faen blinked at me, momentarily stunned. Then he let out a low whistle. "You want to eat monster meat without knowing anything?"
He looked both impressed and horrified.
Before I could reply, he leaned closer and lowered his voice, his smirk widening. "You know Master Halric?"
I frowned. "No. Should I? Is he some kind of big shot?"
"'Some kind of'?" Faen almost choked on his own laugh.
"He's the big shot. Retired A-rank expeditioner, Combat Instructor of the guild — and a man whose training has broken more bones than monsters ever could."
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Few months ago, Master Halric made an announcement. He said — and I quote — 'Anyone who can eat monster meat and digest it properly, no matter their birth or ability, will become my personal disciple.' He even promised to teach them a secret body technique he developed himself."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's… oddly specific."
"Tell me about it," Faen said with a snort. "After that, this place turned into a circus. Everyone — rookies, adventurers, even a few nobles' brats — came here to prove their luck. They tried everything: potions, elixirs, purification rituals, even essence filters. None of it worked."
His expression turned serious.
"You see, digesting monster meat isn't as simple as chewing and swallowing. Their flesh carries unstable Essentia. It clashes with your own flow — disrupts it, burns it, sometimes even paralyzes it. If your body isn't strong enough, you end up convulsing or worse."
My brows knitted slightly.
That explained the crowd's excitement.
They weren't mocking me — they were waiting for me to fail.
Faen chuckled under his breath, giving me a sidelong glance.
"So when someone like you strolls in, all calm and clueless, orders three monster dishes in one go… of course everyone's curious."
I could feel dozens of gazes boring into my back — some amused, others pitying, a few intrigued.
Faen tilted his head, studying me like he was trying to read a map.
"Since you didn't even know about the challenge, I wonder…" His gray eyes sharpened with interest.
"Which category do you fall under, Kael? The ones with a special constitution… or the ones with a special ability?"
I answered without hesitation. "My ability needs me to consume monster flesh on a regular basis."
Faen froze like he'd been struck by lightning. For a long second he stood there, eyes wide, trying to process what I'd just said.
I didn't bother to lower my voice. This wasn't something I could keep secret for long—anyone who watched my habits would notice sooner or later. And honestly, the more people who knew, the easier it would be for me.
I shrugged and crossed the room to an empty table, pulled a chair out, and sat down.
Faen trailed after me and plopped onto the stool beside me, still recovering from the shock. After a moment he burst out in a whisper, all excitement and disbelief.
"Really?! Then you could be one of Master Halric's disciples! That's… that's insane, kid."
Ugh. I had zero interest in being anyone's disciple. I'd never even heard of this Master Halric before the regression.
No point explain it with Faen.
Instead I pressed on with the question that'd been bugging me. "Senior Faen, you said a lot of people came and tried to eat monster meat, right?"
"Mm," he nodded, still sort of dazed.
"Then why does that chef look so angry? More customers eating his food should mean more money for him, right?"
Faen's face turned serious. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "You don't know about old man Bronnin, do you?"
I shook my head.
Faen's expression hardened with respect. "Bronnin isn't in this for coin. He's one of those proud cooks—used to be an expeditioner who learned how to work with monster ingredients. He puts everything into his dishes, studies the beasts. Imagine pouring all that care into a meal just for rookies to gag on it or laugh because they can't handle it. They make his work look like a joke. That's why he gets so pissed when someone treats it like a stunt."
I nodded slowly. That explained it—makes sense now why the man's face had darkened earlier.
Bronnin — got it. I filed the name away in my head. I've always respected the hands that prepare my food; the more passion a cook pours into a dish, the more respect they deserve. That was my honest belief.
While I was thinking, the kitchen doors burst open again. A blast of hot oil and spices rolled into the hall, and the chatter died on the spot. Old Bronnin emerged, carrying a plate so hot the air around it shimmered.
The room fell silent; only a few nervous whispers floated through the crowd. Someone muttered, "Looks like the rookie's execution is here…"
I didn't bother listening. My mind went blank for one reason and one reason only: Essentia.
A faint, smoky aura curled from the plate like steam—Essentia braided into the meat itself. Bronnin wasn't just frying this fish; he'd cooked the Essentia into it, tempering the beast's raw power so a human stomach could handle it. That alone told me he was the real deal.
And yet half the kids near me treated his craft like dirt.
My Instinctive Devourer howled in my gut, a primordial need to tear and swallow. The urge to snatch the plate and devour it on the spot nearly dominated me.
Old Bronnin set the plate down with practiced care.
The Murkfin Trout—one of the swamp's tier-one beasts—was presented perfectly: scales removed, the flesh fried to a deep golden brown, juices beading on the surface and dripping into the steaming rice beneath.
Spices glinted like tiny jewels across the fillet.
Up close, I could see the faint quiver of residual Essentia hovering above the meat in thin, smoke-like threads.
My heart kicked up a notch.
Bronnin stood to the side, arms crossed, watching me with a stern, unreadable expression. He didn't notice my inner turmoil—he only saw the customer before him.
His gaze was cold and steady, the kind that dared you to fail. If I didn't finish what was on the plate, I swear that man would have my head—he looked that unforgiving.
I wrapped my fingers around the fork. The whole hall watched.