Chapter 1

To play on foreign servers without a VPN, I taught myself eight languages.

To binge raw anime without waiting for subs, I got a Level 1 in Prixanian.

To out-trash-talk Dravanians in the online shooting game, I aced the Level 8 Dravanian Test.

I was planning to coast through life as a slacker.

That changed when my supervisor hauled me over to pour drinks for clients from foreign countries.

The Prixanian client called our proposal garbage in Prixanian.

I couldn't hold back and talked back to him.

Then, the situation spiraled completely out of control.

*****

My name was Ethan Kline.

I was only an entry-level ops guy at an internet company. I had been here for three years, pulling in 4 thousand dollars a month. Every day, I slacked off.

It wasn't that I was not putting in the effort.

It was that I found a way to get by that was way more efficient than simply working hard.

At work, I got two screens: the company admin panel on the left and an online game on a foreign server on the right. My mouse glided between them smoothly. Honestly, it was workplace artistry.

I was fluent in eight languages.

I was not flexing. I was stating facts.

I got a Level 1 in Prixanian, so I could watch raw anime.

I got a Level 6 in Zevanian, so I wouldn't have to wait for translations to watch idol group livestreams.

I got a Level 8 in Dravanian, so I could roast Dravanians in the online shooting game like a pro.

As for Vaelthyrian, the reason I picked it up was not something I'd want to explain in detail.

Krelthosian was for those hardcore sim games, like farming or truck simulators. The instruction manuals for games made by Krelthosians were as thick as a PhD paper.

I learned Zephyrisian because games were way cheaper in Avoris.

I ended up picking up Xandorian after playing the same mobile game with a rich guy from Miralyn for half a year. We chatted so much that I learned it naturally.

Anyway, most people would learn foreign languages to get promoted or earn more money.

Me? I wanted to have more fun.

I never told my coworkers about this.

Even if I did, they wouldn't believe me.

After all, to them, I was the guy who clocked in and out on time, never stayed late, never made waves, and was pretty much invisible.

My supervisor, Kevin Henderson, especially looked down on me.

He was thirty-five, always putting on airs. He barely passed the basic Enorisian test for college students.

His spoken Enorisian was so bad that it sounded like he had peanut butter stuck in his mouth. Still, he loved forwarding Enorisian articles in the company group chat, always tagging them with a comment in Enorisian.

Every time I saw that, I wanted to say, "Kevin, there is a grammar error." But I held back. The most important quality for a slacker was to keep a low profile.

One afternoon, when Kevin hauled me out of my seat, I knew my slacking days were over for the day.

"Ethan!" Kevin slammed his hand on my desk, nearly knocking my mechanical keyboard off the edge. "Tonight's the company's year-end appreciation party. We've got clients from eight countries, and we're short on staff. You're going to help pour drinks."

I was stunned. He was asking me, an ops guy, to pour drinks. "Kevin, isn't that the admin department's job?"

Kevin rolled his eyes. "The admin ladies are all busy serving at the tables. Come on. You're a grown man. What's the big deal about pouring drinks? It's not like you ever do anything useful around here anyway."

That stung, but honestly, he wasn't wrong.

I really hadn't done much of anything useful around here.

"So is there any overtime pay?" I asked.

"Seriously? This is your way of contributing to the company. You've been slacking off for three years. Think of it as paying off your debt," Kevin said.

Fine, I glanced at the foreign server game queue on my right screen and quietly logged out.

Tonight, I was reduced to nothing more than a glorified bartender.

I told Mike Ford, my coworker next to me, about it.

Mike was my only friend at the company, or to be precise, the only one who knew I could speak foreign languages.

When he heard that, his mouth twitched.

"Clients from eight countries?" Mike asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"You're fluent in eight languages?"

"Yeah."

"You're going to pour drinks?"

"Yeah."

Mike stared at me for five seconds and then suddenly slapped his thigh. "Damn, isn't that like using a nuke to set off firecrackers?"

"Chill. I'm gonna lay low, pour some drinks, and bounce," I said.

Mike shook his head. "You? Lay low? With your big mouth, you think you can keep quiet?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Last time you were gaming, a Zevanian guy started trash-talking you, and you went off on him in Zevanian, roasting his whole family tree. That dude quit right then and there," Mike said.

"Hey, he started it," I replied.

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Mike leaned in, lowering his voice. "If someone starts talking trash in a foreign language tonight, do you think you can keep your mouth shut?"

I paused for a second. "Of course I can."

Mike clearly didn't buy it. "Swear it."

"I swear, I'll be mute tonight. I'll only pour the drinks and leave, not saying a single extra word," I said.

Mike patted me on the shoulder. "Alright, I'll be waiting for your good news."

His eyes practically screamed, "No way you can keep quiet."

*****

It was 6:30 PM.

The company had booked out the whole floor of the priciest private restaurant in the south of the city.

I changed into the company-issued black polo shirt and stood in the corner of the hall, holding a decanter, looking like a high-end restaurant waiter.

The whole place was bathed in warm yellow light, with glasses clinking and drinks flowing everywhere.

Nearly thirty people were seated around the long table.

On our side, the CEO, Gideon Johnson, was sitting at the head of the table, with Kevin and a few other department heads flanking him.

Across from them were the representatives from our international partners.

From Prixan, there was Grady Malone and his two assistants.

From Zevan, there was Sophie Leblanc and her translator.

From Dravan, there was Andrew Serrano, who was built like a bear.

From Vaelthyr, there was Peter Reese, whose hair was slicked back to perfection.

From Krelthos, there was Hayes Linville, who was looking serious the whole time.

There were also reps from Zephyris, Lythoren, and Xandor.

I scanned the room, doing a quick mental tally.

There were eight languages of eight countries, and I could speak every single one.

But I was not going to talk to the reps.

Tonight, I was only a guy pouring drinks.

I'd keep my mouth shut, do my duty, and stay out of trouble.

Holding the decanter, I bent over and moved from one end of the long table to the other, pouring drinks for each client. My actions were professional. I kept my gaze low, and I didn't exchange a single word with anyone the whole time.

The first half of the night was smooth sailing.

Gideon gave the opening speech, and Kevin was supposed to translate, but honestly, with his peanut butter Enorisian, he butchered Gideon's words into a mess.

Standing off to the side and listening to that train wreck, I had to stop myself from grinding my teeth to bits.

Gideon said, "We value this cooperation opportunity very much."

Kevin's translation was grammatically chaotic and utterly poorly phrased.

Grady, the Prixanian rep, gave a polite smile, but it was obvious that his smile froze for a split second.

I kept my head down, pouring drinks and pretending I hadn't heard a thing. I held my tongue.

Gideon said again, "We hope both sides can achieve mutual benefit and win-win results, and develop together for the long term."

Kevin's translation left out critical core details about mutual benefit and long-term joint development.

Peter turned and shot him that classic, Vaelthyrian, pitying smile.

I kept my hand steady, not letting a single drop of wine spill. I had to bear with it.

It was not my job to correct the translation.

After finishing the first round of pouring wine, I slipped back to my corner, planning to sneak a peek at my phone to see if I finally got into the game.

Then, one of Grady's assistants, a young guy with glasses, probably figured no one at the table could understand Prixanian, so he leaned over and whispered something to the other assistant.

He was speaking Prixanian fast, with a bit of a rural accent.

"This presentation is seriously garbage. Mr. Malone has got it rough, having to work with a company this lame," he said in Prixanian.

My hands, which were holding the tray, tightened.

It felt like a jolt of electricity shot straight down my spine.

I took a deep breath, repeating Mike's words in my head. "Do you think you can keep your mouth shut?"

I told myself that I could.