The afternoon stretched gently into evening, and the desert sky wore a faint violet glow, stars already peeking through as if eager to join.
The survivors had gathered outside the bunker, circling beneath the open heavens. Torches burned in the sand, flickering against the breeze, carrying the scent of cooked meat, roasted cactus, and spices Grace had carefully prepared.
The murmur among the crowd was unsteady, half wonder, half disbelief. Elior's return had already become a whispered legend in just a few hours.
People stared at him as though he were a story walking, their voices overlapping: "Is it really him?" "How… how did he come back?" "I thought I saw him buried."
Tables improvised from wood and stone were lined with food, a luxury in their world. There was laughter, though hesitant, as if no one dared laugh too loudly in case this fragile moment shattered.
Elior stood at the center, tall despite the weight of eyes on him.
His bandaged arm hung close to his side, but his presence carried the same quiet strength as before. Tom stood a little behind him, trying to look casual but clearly keeping watch. Grace was nearby, her hands folded, face lit softly by the torches.
Elior raised his voice just enough for everyone to hear.
"We've seen too much darkness," he began, his words slow, deliberate, "and I know… you didn't expect to see me here tonight. To be honest, I didn't expect it either." A faint, wry smile touched his lips. "But if fate or chance has given us this moment, then let's not waste it."
He looked at the circle of faces, each carrying scars of hunger, fear, or guilt. "This party isn't just about food. It isn't about forgetting. It's about remembering that we are alive together.
That we can share fire, share a story, share one night where survival isn't the only thing we breathe."
He paused, eyes glinting against the firelight. "I don't know what tomorrow will bring. None of us do. Tonight… let us live, as people, not just as survivors."
Plates clattered, laughter finally spilled into the air. For once, the bunker survivors were eating like people again, not scavengers. Roasted cactus fry, desert hare stew, even a few sweet fruits were passed around.
The rows were divided — men on one side, women on the other but the voices carried across, weaving into one steady warmth.
Elior sat cross-legged on the sand with Tom and Vera, a clay plate in hand. He chewed slow, quiet, while Tom barely sat still, snatching bites between words.
"Hey," Tom leaned closer, smirking, eyes flicking toward Grace sitting opposite with the women. She was eating slow, quiet, eyes lowered, but there was that softness again. "You should just go over there and kiss her."
Elior nearly choked. He coughed into his hand, glaring. "Tom…" His tone was calm but heavy, like a rock about to roll.
Tom grinned wider, unfazed. "I'm serious. She looks emotional. Perfect timing. Be bold, man."
Elior calmly set his plate down. Then he bent, slipped off his shoe, held it up like a weapon. "This," he said evenly, "is my Face now.... and I'll print it on your face."
Tom ducked fast, laughing. The shoe swung wide and....
SMACK!
It landed on Vera's forehead then flew in the sky spinning like Beyblade.
Vera slowly turned his head, eyes narrow, his usual calm face even more terrifying. He didn't say a word.
Just… stared.
Tom rolled on the ground laughing, pointing. "Oh nooo—he awakened Vera's rage! We're doomed!"
Even Elior chuckled faintly despite himself. "Apologies, my lord." he said to Vera, trying to hold back a smile.
Vera dusted his shoulder with surgical calm. "If it happens again," he murmured, "you'll find your own shoe lodged in your throat."
Tom raised both hands. "Noted. Respect. Commander Vera, sir."
Grace glanced over from across the fire, confused at the commotion. Tom winked at her and then whispered, "See, she thinks you're funny already. Just kiss her later."
Elior's hand twitched toward the shoe again.
The fire crackled, the stars scattered above like spilled salt. Stomachs full, voices buzzing, Elior suddenly stood up, brushing crumbs off his lap.
"Alright," he said, tone serious like he was declaring war. "Since tonight is special, we'll play a food game."
The survivors glanced at each other, murmuring. Some laughed nervously.
Tom raised his hand instantly. "Yes! Finally, some action that doesn't involve running from giant bugs!"
Elior cleared his throat. "The rules are simple. Each round, you'll be given something to eat. Whoever finishes first moves on. Whoever gags, spits, or stalls loses. Tournament style. Winner gets… the last slice of roasted hare."
The crowd cheered. That meat was rare.
Grace, sitting near the women's row, quickly spoke up, "Don't. I'm warning you, don't join this madness. Someone's stomach will suffer."
Tom ignored her, already stretching like a professional athlete. "Vera, you're in."
Vera, mid-bite of a cactus fry, froze. He looked at Tom, then Elior, and then at the circle forming. "…I'm not."
"You are," Elior said flatly, folding his arms.
Tom clapped Vera's back. "Come on, brother. Imagine the glory. You eat a worm, you win respect."
Vera muttered, "I should never have come here."
The first round started. A bowl of desert beans, spicy, dry, sharp as little stones was placed in front of four chosen survivors. Tom, Vera, a lanky boy named Cyril, and Elior himself.
"Ready," Elior announced. "Three… two… one."
Everyone dug in. Tom inhaled the beans like a beast, choking but powering through. Cyril gave up halfway, coughing. Elior ate calm and steady, but his eyes betrayed fire.
Then there was Vera. He stared at the bowl like it had insulted his mother. Slowly, deliberately, he picked up one bean at a time. Chewed. Swallowed. Glared at Tom's frantic flailing.
Grace pinched her nose. "This is ridiculous."
Tom finished first, pounding his chest in triumph. "Champion! Put me in finals already!"
Elior smirked. "That was only the warm-up. The next round… is sand stew."
Vera sighed long, shoulders heavy. "I regret every choice that brought me to this table."
The food tournament was over. Elior, somehow, had won—beating Tom, Grace's warnings, and even his own stomach.
Tom excused himself, muttering something about "a battlefield inside" and vanished toward the dunes. Vera hadn't eaten a bite, arms crossed and eyes cold.
Elior sat quietly with his prize. The roasted hare slice. Perfectly cooked, browned at the edges. Everyone expected him to eat it, to boast, to claim victory. But he didn't.
He turned his head slightly. His gaze had wandered toward the far edge of the gathering.
A boy sat there—Radahn. Curled in himself, silent, away from the circle of light. He hadn't joined in laughter, nor the games. The shadows clung to him.
Without saying a word, Elior stood, walked past the chattering survivors, and crouched in front of Radahn. He held out the hare slice.
The boy blinked, almost startled. His lips parted as if to say no, but Elior just smiled faintly. "Here. You deserve it more than me."
Radahn hesitated, then slowly accepted the meat. His eyes didn't lift, but his hands trembled faintly.
Nobody else noticed. Nobody else cared.
From the distance, Tom returned, rubbing his stomach, standing a little apart. He saw Elior's act, the boy's hidden tears glinting in firelight.
Tom didn't say anything. He only thought, quietly, with a weight in his chest that This world isn't worthy of Elior's mercy.
The night carried on, but that moment sank deeper than laughter ever could