Chapter 3: Bread or Blood
Mud clung to Loen's ankles like wet chains, slowing him, pulling at his feet with every step.
He bolted barefoot through the crowded streets, weaving around crates, leaping over broken barrels, heart hammering hard enough to bruise his ribs. The bread—burnt, crusted, misshapen—pressed tightly against his chest as though it were his life itself.
Maybe it was.
He ignored the harsh shouts behind him, angry curses hurled like rocks against his fleeing form. Vendors hollered, guards grunted, townsfolk scattered—all blurred into chaotic background noise, chasing but never quite catching him.
"THIEF!"
That single, sharp accusation pierced the chaos.
Heavy boots pounded pavement. Wood shattered somewhere behind him—a crate, probably, sent sprawling as vendors rushed forward, anger fueling their feet. Loen ducked sharply into an alleyway, diving between the shadows cast by leaning buildings. The smell hit him hard: stale fish, smoke, garbage left rotting in the humid air. He sucked it down gratefully; filth meant safety.
His heart thrummed wildly as he flattened himself behind a half-rotted barrel, his knees trembling from exertion, hunger, and sheer nerves. Carefully, he peeked around the edge.
No movement. No angry faces chasing him now.
Just silence. And the low, steady drip of rainwater falling from broken rooftops into dirty puddles below.
Victory.
Loen sank slowly to the damp, moldy ground, clutching the stolen loaf of bread like a priceless gem. His fingers shook with adrenaline as he examined it, running his thumb over the charred crust. It was hard as stone, likely burnt leftovers no paying customer wanted.
Perfect.
'They always leave the worst ones out front', he mused bitterly, his lips quirking with dark amusement. 'That's the cost of freedom—broken teeth.'
With a deep breath, Loen bit down hard. The crust tore at his gums painfully, the flavor bitter and smoky, barely edible.
Yet, he nearly groaned aloud in gratitude. To a starving boy, even ash could taste like honey.
He chewed slowly, savoring every harsh crumb, his eyes darting occasionally toward the alley's entrance. Every shadow felt dangerous; every stray sound threatened pursuit. He'd learned quickly: in Grayridge, safety was always temporary, peace a fleeting illusion.
Loen shifted, leaning his thin body against the alley wall. The rough stone bit into his spine through threadbare fabric, yet he welcomed the discomfort. It reminded him he was still alive—still breathing, still fighting.
His clothes barely deserved the name. A tunic more holes than cloth, sleeves ragged and torn. Trousers long outgrown, stained with dirt and grime, clung to his skinny legs like burlap sacks. A chill breeze cut through the alley, whispering along his exposed skin, but he barely shivered. Cold was familiar; hunger more so.
Loen swallowed another mouthful. His stomach still growled in complaint, but softer now, quieter—temporarily appeased.
'So this is life,' he thought, bitterness rising with every chew. 'Born in gutters, raised by shadows, sustained by stolen bread.'
Something stirred faintly inside him—like a gentle pulse or forgotten hum at the edge of his mind, weak but insistent. It felt familiar, comforting even, yet alien in this moment of desperation.
He brushed it aside irritably. Magic, luck, fortune—those belonged in stories whispered by rich children tucked safely behind thick walls. Those things weren't meant for him.
Power belonged to the knights, lords, and scholars—the clean and the chosen. He had no sword, no title, no hope except survival. Loen had learned the cruelest truth early: in a world built on strength, being weak was a death sentence.
He was weak.
For now.
A sudden, stabbing pain tore through his skull like a shard of ice. Loen gasped, the bread falling forgotten into the mud, the crust soaking instantly. His vision blurred violently, colors bleeding into each other, spinning wildly. He clutched desperately at his temples as the pressure inside built—higher, sharper, relentless.
Loen fell to his knees, groaning through clenched teeth, his thin body convulsing against the agony splitting his mind open.
Then came the memories.
Not fragments or shadows. No vague dreams or faint whispers.
**Everything.**
The rooftop rainstorm. Devon's horrible, smug face. Lightning cutting down from a blackened sky. The void, the cosmic entity—unapologetic and absurdly casual. The seven spins of fate. Seven treasures.
'Leon.'
His true name echoed within him, resonant and undeniable.
He remembered it all. His former life, his sarcastic defiance, his ridiculous death. His seven treasures granted by divine mishap:
- The ridiculous, miraculous spoon of infinite soup.
- A cloak that faded into invisibility when no one watched.
- Boots that mocked him with mere comfort.
- An orb granting mastery over every element.
- A dimension of slowed time, vast and powerful.
- A ring of subtle regeneration.
- A blade whose sharpness conveniently adapted.
All his. All waiting.
A whisper rose from the chaos within, more knowledge than voice, a clear, gentle understanding:
> "Your treasures are sealed in a private pocket dimension tethered to your soul. Focus inward, will it open, and they are yours."
Loen's eyes widened. His breath caught sharply as he collapsed against the wall, heart racing madly.
'So that's how it works.'
He closed his eyes tightly, steadying his breath.
'Think. Focus. Feel the vault.'
And suddenly, effortlessly, it opened—not in the alleyway, but inside him.
A quiet place stretched infinitely inward, wrapped in gentle starlight, serene and untouched by the grime of Grayridge. There, hanging silently in perfect order, were his treasures—exactly as he'd drawn them.
He reached out instinctively, heart pounding, and summoned the spoon.
It shimmered briefly, appearing in his hand in the real world—ordinary, dull, completely forgettable. Until it filled itself with steaming, aromatic soup.
Loen stared for a moment, stunned, then took a tentative sip.
Rich flavors exploded across his tongue—hot, delicious, perfect.
His hunger faded instantly, replaced by something fiercer, brighter, more insistent.
A wild grin spread slowly across his lips, sharp and dangerous, filled with fresh purpose.
His stomach was satisfied, but a deeper hunger was just awakening.
Leon lifted his head, eyes gleaming fiercely in the dim alley light, full of determination.
"I suppose infinite soup isn't such a bad start," he whispered quietly, tasting both irony and hope in equal measure.
Because now, survival wasn't enough.
He was tired of merely existing.
It was finally time to 'live'.