The tavern was noisy that night, filled with the rough laughter of men who had long abandoned society's rules. The tables were sticky with spilled ale, the wooden floor creaked beneath the boots of drunk patrons, and the air reeked of smoke and sweat.
Ren sat awkwardly in the middle of it all, surrounded by bandits. His cheeks were puffed out as he chewed on a chunk of bread, completely oblivious to the wary stares cast at him.
A boy in the middle of a den of criminals—it should have been terrifying. But Ren, true to his nature, didn't even seem to realize the danger. He simply ate and drank like he was born for it.
"Hey, kid," one of the bandits slurred, leaning closer, his beard damp with ale. "Don't you know who we are? Most people would be begging for their lives if they were in your shoes."
Ren swallowed, tilted his head, and replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Bandits, right? But you gave me food, so you can't be that bad."
The men around him burst into laughter.
"Hah! Did you hear that?"
"Not that bad, he says!"
"Kid, we've robbed caravans, torched villages, slit throats for less than a loaf of bread. You think that's not bad?"
Ren scratched the back of his head, clearly struggling to follow. Then he grinned. "Well, you haven't slit my throat yet, so… you're good enough."
The table roared with laughter again, so loud that other patrons turned their heads. The bandits slapped their thighs, one nearly falling off his chair. Even the colder, more reserved figures in the corner smirked at the boy's obliviousness.
But in that corner sat a man who hadn't laughed once. He was different. His presence was heavy, like a predator resting in the dark, watching. The others deferred to him without a word, yet none dared call his name. He hadn't offered it, and in this world, names carried weight.
Ren, however, didn't notice the subtle respect or fear the others gave the man. He was too busy licking crumbs from his fingers.
The bandits ordered more drinks, shoving mugs and plates toward Ren as if he was some kind of entertainment. "Eat, eat! Let's see how much this brat can stomach!"
Ren accepted everything without hesitation. He ate until his belly bulged, drank until his cheeks turned rosy, and still, when a new plate arrived, his eyes sparkled with childlike joy.
To the bandits, he was ridiculous. To the mysterious man in the corner, he was… puzzling.
After a while, one of the drunker men leaned forward. "Hey, kid. You really not scared of us?"
Ren looked up, bread stuffed in his mouth. He shook his head casually. "Why would I be scared? Food tastes better when you're not afraid."
The man blinked. "That… doesn't even make sense."
Another bandit slammed his cup down. "You're insane, brat! Do you even know what kind of world this is? People like you don't last a day out there. Bandits, nobles, kings—everyone's clawing for more. If you're weak, you're nothing."
Ren chewed slowly, then shrugged. "If being strong means not going hungry, then I'll get strong. Simple."
The laughter this time wasn't as loud. Something about the boy's dumb, innocent words made the men pause. They were used to hearing vows of vengeance, boasts of power, greed for riches. But this? Strength… for the sake of food?
It was absurd. It was stupid.
And yet, there was a strange honesty in it.
The man in the corner finally spoke, his voice calm but cutting through the noise like a blade. "You say you'll get strong. But what will you do with that strength?"
Ren froze for a moment, then turned toward the voice. For the first time since entering the tavern, his eyes sharpened ever so slightly.
"I'll eat as much as I want," he said with a grin, "and share it with everyone else who's hungry. No one deserves to starve. Not if I can help it."
The table fell silent. The drunken laughter, the taunts, the mocking—it all died down. The bandits exchanged glances, unsure if they should laugh or sneer.
Ren spoke with such ridiculous confidence that it was hard to dismiss. It wasn't a warrior's vow, nor a tyrant's ambition. It was just a boy's dream.
And dreams, no matter how foolish, carried a weight of their own.
Finally, one of the bandits snorted, trying to break the tension. "Ha! You sound like some damned saint. Don't tell me you believe in that old tale."
Ren tilted his head. "Old tale?"
The man laughed bitterly. "The thing that can grant a single wish. A legend people chase their whole lives. Fools die hunting it, and bigger fools think it can change the world."
The others chuckled darkly, shaking their heads.
Ren's eyes widened, a spark of curiosity flaring in them. "A wish…? Something that can really grant a wish?"
The bandits waved it off, muttering about legends, myths, and lies told to desperate souls. To them, it was an old story, nothing more. But to Ren, it was like pouring oil on a fire.
He clenched his fists. "Then I'll find it."
That statement sent another wave of laughter across the table. But again, the man in the corner did not laugh. His sharp gaze lingered on Ren, unreadable.
For the first time, he leaned forward into the light. The faint glimmer of a scar traced down his jaw, and though his smile was faint, his eyes were deadly serious.
"Find it, huh? You're bold, boy. Bold… or foolish."
Ren puffed his chest out. "Maybe both. But if it means no one has to starve again, then I don't care!"
The bandits howled again, but beneath their drunken amusement, an unease settled in. The boy's words were childish, idiotic even—but there was conviction in them. Conviction most men lost long ago.
The man's gaze never wavered. He studied Ren as though trying to peel back the layers of his soul.
And Ren, blissfully unaware of the weight in that gaze, stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth.
The night dragged on with more food, more ale, and more laughter. Yet the echo of Ren's words lingered in the hearts of those who heard them.
He was just a foolish boy.
But sometimes, the foolish ones were the most dangerous.