Chapter 2

I kept standing there, expressionless.

Then Grady's assistant with glasses said in Prixanian again, "Clusians can't speak proper Enorisian, yet they want to do international business. How laughable."

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to hold back.

I told myself I was invisible.

I told myself I couldn't talk back.

But then Grady's other assistant said in Prixanian, "Hey, check out this server. He looks totally out of it, like a robot. Guess that's what Clusians' work ethic is all about, huh?"

He was talking about me, pointing at me.

The assistant with glasses snickered beside him.

I took a deep breath and another deep breath.

Then I set down the tray.

I was losing my bet to Mike because I couldn't take it anymore.

I walked up with the decanter, bent down, and asked the assistant with glasses in standard Prixanian, "Excuse me, would you prefer the red wine to breathe a bit longer, or is the current temperature to your liking?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it was enough for everyone at the table to hear.

There was a dead silence.

The assistant with glasses looked up at me, his fork frozen in the air. His mouth was slightly open, like someone had hit the pause button on him.

The other assistant, who had been laughing, had his glass at his lips, but forgot to drink.

Grady slowly turned his head, glanced at me, and then at his two assistants, his gaze turning icy.

I kept my posture, pouring the wine with a professional, practiced smile.

The first assistant's face went from pale to red in less than three seconds.

"W-Well..." he stammered for a while, unable to form a complete sentence.

I didn't press my advantage.

Another trait of someone who knew how to slack off was to leave well enough alone.

I straightened up, ready to turn and head back to my corner, to be invisible again.

But I forgot one thing.

There were not only Prixanians at this table.

Andrew Serrano, the burly, Dravanian guy, had clearly noticed the commotion. He didn't understand Prixanian, but he could read the expressions on the two Prixanian assistants' faces.

He held his liquor and said to his translator in Dravanian, "This waiter knows Prixanian? Interesting. Probably the only one in this company with a brain."

I had already taken three steps away when I stopped in my tracks.

He was speaking in Dravanian.

Andrew had no idea anyone would understand him.

I really shouldn't have turned around. Seriously, I shouldn't have.

But my mouth, sharpened by three years of trash-talking on Dravanian servers in the online shooting game, couldn't help itself. "Thanks for the compliment. But honestly, I'm indeed here to pour wine," I said in Dravanian.

I had a bit of a standard spoken accent from Masdinine, something I picked up from years of trash-talking Dravanian players online.

Andrew's liquor splashed out of his glass, his hand shaking, but not from fear.

He stared at me, his eyes wide, as if he'd seen a talking penguin in the polar region. "Y-You speak Dravanian?" he said in Dravanian.

"A little bit," I replied in Dravanian, looking genuinely humble.

But Andrew's translator, a skinny girl with round glasses, was giving me a look that said, "You call that a bit?"

Okay, I guessed my accent was a little too spot-on.

Now the whole table went dead silent.

To be exact, it wasn't only our table.

The table next to us, where Sophie Leblanc, the representative from Zevan, was sitting, also went quiet.

It was all because Andrew's reaction was too much. Anyone would be curious why a 6.2-foot-tall Dravanian guy's face was full of shock.

Sophie turned to her translator and asked in Zevanian, "Did that staff member speak Dravanian? Are the waiters here that capable?"

Her translator didn't get a chance to answer.

I was already in front of Sophie. She was next in line for a pour.

I bent down, filled her glass, and quietly said in a perfect standard accent, "If you need more wine, let me know."

Sophie's translator dropped her pen.

Sophie looked up at me, her eyes practically bulging with surprise. "You speak Zevanian, too?"

I smiled and didn't answer, turning to the next guest, Peter Reese, from Vaelthyr.

He'd been watching the whole thing, a classic Vaelthyrian smirk on his lips, full of interest.

He leaned over and whispered to his companion in Vaelthyrian, "I bet he doesn't speak Vaelthyrian."

I tilted the bottle at a fifteen-degree angle, letting the red wine flow gracefully down the side of the glass.

Then, with a perfect standard accent, I replied, "Looks like you lost your bet, sir. Do you prefer Borgos or Burcundie?"

Peter's composure finally broke.

He threw his head back, slumped in his chair, laughing uncontrollably, and repeated "incredible" in Vaelthyrian three times.

The whole place went wild.