[Rome — Italy]
Days flew by in the blink of an eye, and before I knew it, the culinary club's first food trip had arrived.
Food had never really been a big part of my life. I could go days surviving on nothing but instant ramen and caffeine.
But hey — trying some Italian cuisine wouldn't kill me.
"Alright, now that we've arrived at our destination," the club leader announced, clapping his hands, "let's draw lots to decide your pairs! Remember, two people per team."
Students began gathering around, hands diving into a small box to pick their papers. The atmosphere was lively — too lively, considering most of us hadn't even had breakfast yet.
"Is there anyone named Kylen Noor?" a calm, almost icy voice called out.
I turned toward the sound and found myself face-to-face with one of the playable characters I hadn't interacted much with: Ekaterina Volkhova.
At first glance, Ekaterina looked unapproachable — tall, sharp-eyed, and elegant in a way that made everyone instinctively stand straighter around her. But in reality, she was just socially awkward. The kind of girl who didn't quite know how to express herself.
Well… until it came to food.
Then she turned into an entirely different person.
"I'm Kylen Noor," I said, raising a hand slightly.
Her expression softened, if only a little. "Oh… we've met before, haven't we?" she asked, tilting her head as if digging through her memory.
"Yeah. We had gukbap together with Han Seora and Seo Ji-Hyun," I reminded her.
"Oh, right!" Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile.
The club leader clapped his hands again. "Alright! Everyone's got their pairs! The culinary club's first international food trip officially… begins!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, scattering into the cobblestone streets like a flock of hungry pigeons. After all, we were in Rome — the heart of art, history, and most importantly… carbs.
I turned back to my new partner. "Is it okay if I call you Ekaterina?"
She didn't respond. Not because she was ignoring me — but because her attention had already been stolen by a sheet of paper in her hand. Her emerald eyes shimmered like gemstones under the sunlight, fixed entirely on the page.
"…Pasta might be nice," she muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll take that as a yes," I said, just before she grabbed my wrist.
"Come on! There's a place five streets down that serves handmade linguine!"
Before I could even protest, she started dragging me through the streets of Rome with the unstoppable momentum of a woman possessed by hunger. Her grip was surprisingly strong — I had no choice but to keep up or risk being yanked face-first into ancient stone.
We dashed past small cafés and bustling markets, the smell of freshly baked bread and roasted garlic filling the air.
And then—
Grrrrr.
A low, guttural growl echoed through the narrow alley. I froze, instincts kicking in. My hand twitched toward my weapon out of reflex.
"Ekaterina, wait," I hissed, scanning the rooftops. "I can hear something. Sounds like—"
I stopped.
The sound came again.
Grrrr…
Slowly, I turned to look at her.
Ekaterina's face was as red as her favorite tomato sauce, her hands clutching her stomach in quiet desperation.
"…That was you, wasn't it?" I asked.
Her blush deepened, and she turned away, mumbling something in Russian under her breath.
I sighed, half amused, half exasperated. "Let's just… find your pasta before you start eating the locals."
She nodded without looking at me, still mortified.
And so, hand-in-hand, we headed toward the scent of basil and olive oil drifting down the cobblestone streets — unaware that, somewhere in the crowd, a faint glimmer of mana shimmered briefly before vanishing.
Something… watching.
Waiting.
◇◇◇
After eating—no, after ravenously devouring everything in sight—Ekaterina and I finally arrived at the Museum of Rome.
Seriously, who would've thought that someone this slim could down seventeen plates of pasta? She's basically a bottomless pit disguised as a noble young lady.
"Kylen Noor... munch munch... do you have any interest in history?" she asked, still chewing on the breadstick we'd bought from a street vendor.
"Don't talk with your mouth full… And just call me Kylen," I said, giving her a worried look.
Stopping in front of one of the exhibits, I kept my eyes fixed on the item inside.
"History's never really been a big part of my life," I murmured. "But just looking at this… I don't know, it gives me a weird sense of nostalgia."
"Ooohh…
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the next hall.
Shouts. Screams. Shattering glass.
And beneath it all—
a child's cry.
"What was that?" I asked, instinctively turning toward the sound.
When I looked at Ekaterina, she was already standing—her half-eaten breadsticks nowhere in sight.
Correction: she'd devoured all of them in the time it took me to blink.
It was like watching a vacuum cleaner disguised as a noblewoman.
"That wasn't part of our tour," she said flatly, brushing the crumbs off her hands.
Then, without hesitation, she sprinted toward the noise.
"…Seriously!" I groaned, running after her.
We stopped at the corner of the next hall, hiding behind a display of ancient Roman armor.
From between the exhibits, I could see masked men smashing glass cases and shoving priceless artifacts into their bags.
"Don't you think it's better to let the guards handle this?" I whispered.
Ekaterina didn't answer. Her expression had gone cold and sharp, her focus absolute.
Then I saw it—a guard pinned down, a small child crying in his arms as one of the thieves aimed a gun at them.
Her jaw tightened.
She muttered something under her breath, a low phrase in Russian—
and then leapt.
Literally.
She kicked off the wall and began sprinting upside down across the ceiling, her hair fluttering behind her like a silk.
"…She looks kinda cool!" I whispered, half in awe, half disbelief.
One of the masked men spotted Ekaterina and fired his gun, the shot cracking through the hall like thunder.
But before the bullet could even brush her uniform, it split cleanly in half—two perfect fragments clattering harmlessly to the floor.
She was already holding a sword.
A gleaming silver blade etched with golden runes that pulsed faintly with mana.
Her face didn't even twitch—cold, serious, almost bored, as though she'd dealt with worse a thousand times before.
The rest of the masked men turned and opened fire.
Gunshots erupted like fireworks, echoing through the marble halls.
Without hesitation, Ekaterina's mana flared—a faint violet hue rippling around her as she poured her energy into the sword.
Then, with a flick of her wrist—
Clink—Shrrrk!
The blade split apart, unraveling into dozens of gleaming segments connected by threads of mana. The weapon twisted and lashed forward like a silver serpent, deflecting every bullet that came near her.
Sparks danced across the floor as bullets were sliced midair, spinning uselessly to the ground.
She was elegance and precision in motion—her movements neither frantic nor rushed, but deliberate, measured, almost beautiful.
"…Well, I can't just stand here like an idiot!" I muttered.
Crouching low, I dashed from cover to cover, weaving between the shattered displays.
The robbers' attention was entirely on Ekaterina—perfect.
Drawing a thread of silver mana from my fingers, I snapped it forward, the invisible strand winding around the wrists of the man holding the hostage at gunpoint.
He jerked in surprise, trying to pull away—
Too late.
The silver thread tightened instantly, binding him like a puppet whose strings had been claimed.
His gun clattered to the floor.
"Got you," I whispered.
Ekaterina, noticing I'd secured the hostage, dropped gracefully from the ceiling and landed with a sharp thud.
Without missing a beat, she flicked her whip-sword toward one of the masked men, the segments wrapping around his torso like a steel serpent.
Then—she swung.
Using the poor guy as a mace, she slammed him into his comrades with frightening precision.
They toppled one by one like bowling pins, weapons flying, screams muffled under the crack of steel and broken pride.
"Плохие мальчики должны спать рано."
(Bad boys should go to bed early.)
She yanked the whip back.
The man hit the ground, limp and unconscious.
I just stood there, completely stunned.
"I don't even know what you just said," I blurted, "but holy hell—that was fucking cool!"
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. "I know."
With a smooth motion, she retracted her weapon; the whip hissed softly as it folded back into sword form.
By the time the guards arrived, all four robbers were tied up neatly in a corner—as if she'd arranged them for a museum exhibit.
I crouched down, making sure their restraints were secure. That's when I noticed it—
a faint mark on the side of one man's neck, half-hidden by his collar.
A tattoo.
A crude smile etched in black ink, its teeth drawn like a row of laughing daggers.
My breath hitched.
The Laughing House.
These guys weren't random thieves—they were goons from that organization.
Which could only mean one thing.
"…So it's already starting," I muttered under my breath.
The Italy Arc.
"Thank you for your assistance," one of the guards said, panting. "We'll handle it from here."
"Yeah, sure," I replied absently, still staring at the tattoo.
Ekaterina didn't even glance at them. She simply turned toward the little boy who'd been held hostage, gave a brief wave, and started walking toward the exit like nothing had happened.
"Kylen," she said without turning back, "do you know any good dessert places around here?"
I blinked. "You seriously still want to eat after all that?"
Her face, though still calm and composed, glimmered faintly with pride.
"Crime takes too much energy," she said simply.
I let out a small laugh, forcing the tension from my chest. "Hahahah… you know what? Fair enough. Let's get something sweet. My treat."
And so, with the museum chaos fading behind us, we walked out into the warm Roman streets—
a whip-wielding noblewoman and a confused teenager,
unaware that the laughter carved into that tattoo would soon echo across all of Italy.
To Be Continued...