Leo gasped. The vision of the flowers, his friends… faded like smoke through his fingers. The knife slipped from his hand. The goblins were already upon him, circling, hungry eyes gleaming, drooling teeth ready to tear his flesh.
—How did I end up here… alone… in this world? —Leo thought as his eyelids grew heavy and his consciousness dimmed.
Amid the uncertainty and the inevitable end that awaited him, a sharp sound split the air, a crash that shook the floor as if the dungeon itself had roared. A figure descended like thunder from the upper darkness. A colossal fist wrapped in golden light struck the first goblin with such force that it disintegrated into a shower of magical dust. The others had no time to react. The lifeless bodies of the rest lay strewn about. The figure crushed them mercilessly. One. Two. Three solid impacts. A flash of steel from one goblin's dagger rang out with a cry of pain. And then… silence.
Leo barely managed to make out a silhouette approaching, an imposing shape: a man with white hair and a grizzled beard, eyes glowing like burning coals. He wore a dark robe that moved solemnly in the air. His stride was steady. His presence, impossible to ignore and impossible to describe—almost "divine."
The goblins lay dead at his feet, their bodies tossed like broken, forgotten dolls.
—You fought admirably, child… —he said in a deep, measured voice, as if each word were a bell tolling in the soul—. Even when you had nothing in your favor.
Leo tried to move, but his body no longer answered. He only managed to look at him, face smeared with blood and tears.
—Rest, child. Your story… is not over yet. —The man finished in a voice full of gravity.
The man bent down, and his shadow covered Leo completely. He extended his hand toward the dying boy — a firm, warm, strong hand. Exactly like the one Andrés had offered him years earlier among the flowers. Before losing consciousness, Leo managed to move his fingers and grasp it, just before darkness swallowed him.
< A new awakening >
A faint buzzing filled the air. The atmosphere tasted of dampness. Dust hung suspended in the light of a flickering torch that danced above his head. When Leo opened his eyes, he saw a stone ceiling crossed by worm-eaten wooden beams. He woke with a start, gasping. He tried to sit up, but a stab of pain shot through his torso. He gritted his teeth and saw the crude bandage at his side soaked with dried blood. The burning pain of his wounds forced him to lie back with a groan. His breathing was ragged.
He looked around. He was in what seemed to be an old, roomy basement, with cobwebs in every corner. The air was humid, thick with the smell of rust and aged leather. Stone walls were lined with shelves overcrowded with old weapons: nicked swords, split axes, corroded shields, stringless bows. Armor of every sort lay scattered—many covered in dust, others partially destroyed. In one corner, shelves packed with dusty vials, books piled in open crates, and an almost spent oil lamp cast dancing shadows across the room. Several boxes lay open, filled with broken potions and others that still seemed to glow faintly, as if their magic had not completely faded.
A threadbare rug rested beneath his feet, and a cracked mirror hung askew on a central column. It was a storeroom forgotten by time.
With effort, Leo sat up again, wincing as the pain stabbed his side. He brought a hand to his torso, feeling the bandages. He shivered from the cold. Beside one of the shelves, he found a short sword. The blade was nicked and the grip wrapped in worn leather, but it would do. He took it and used it like a cane, staggering as he made his way toward ancient stone stairs that led up to the first floor.
< The dining room of memory >
When he opened the upper door, a warm aroma enveloped him. The first floor of the cabin was… rustic, welcoming in a strange way. Polished wooden floors, though worn. A lit fireplace crackled softly in a corner. The walls were hung with old portraits of a large family—men and women smiling with goblets raised, posing with weapons, children running through flowery meadows—but one painting stood out above the rest: a large table surrounded by a dozen people and, at the center, a bearded man raising a tankard. A home that had once been full… now silent.
Leo frowned. It was the same man who had saved him.
At the center of the cabin, a modest table—the same from the painting—was set. In the middle, a grayish steaming mash bubbled in a wooden bowl. It did not look appetizing. Seated across from it was the same man, no longer wearing the robe. He had an open-shirted chest, broad and muscular despite a prominent belly. His arms were hairy and scarred like a bear's; his white hair was untidy. He held a huge foaming mug of beer and chuckled under his breath.
—Ah, you're alive. A good sign, —he said, lifting an enormous tankard that frothily bubbled—. Come, sit. I present my specialty: ashen sip soup with stone root, suckling boar brains, crocolobo tripe, rotwood root, subterranean bat liver… and a pinch of salt!
Leo did not move. He frowned. It looked like mud. His eyes locked on the man with distrust. The man noticed and let out a hoarse laugh.
—Ah, of course. Presentation doesn't win stomachs, —he said with a crooked smile. Then, as if anticipating refusal, he opened a leather sack and pulled out two huge roasted legs of some small hog, still steaming and charred from the fire—. But this… this speaks the universal language of hunger. —Eat, child! You're wasting away! — He offered one to Leo.
Leo hesitated for a second… The aroma was irresistible. Wary, he slowly took the leg and bit. The flavor hit him like a storm. Juice soaked his chin. He swallowed. Then another bite. And another. Oil, salt, meat slow-cooked… Leo couldn't stop. Within seconds, he devoured the meat like an animal, chewing little, swallowing much, tearing flesh with his teeth, feeling warmth fill him from within. Hunger transformed him. He lunged at the soup. Then the bread. Then more meat. He became a whirl of appetite. Pieces slipped from his fingers; he did not chew—he only swallowed.
The man watched, drinking from his mug. His eyes measured. The boy was thin. Very thin. Skin pulled to bone, but his eyes were alive. Quick. Observant. And his body, though lean, had the sinew of someone who had survived longer than they should—someone interesting.