That night, the footsteps of the swordsman trainees echoed heavily as they returned from training. Their bodies were drained, joints stiff, some even dragging their feet without energy. Few words were exchanged—everyone too preoccupied with the pain and the creeping chill of Crossroads' night air.
The place they called a lodging... barely deserved the name.
The building was made of aged wood, rotting in places. The walls didn't fully block the wind, and the roof creaked with every gust. No crystal lamps or warm lighting—just dim torches flickering in the corners.
Ren pushed open the worn wooden door and stepped inside. The scent of dry hay and damp wood immediately assaulted his senses. Inside, there were no partitions—just one large room lined with thin piles of straw serving as makeshift beds.
He moved to one side, set down his sword, and sat slowly. His body sank into the scratchy, uneven straw. Through his thin clothes, the cold from the earthen floor seemed to seep straight into his bones.
The wooden floorboards squeaked with every movement, piercing the night's silence like the whispers of countless rats. Some recruits curled up to sleep, wrapping themselves in dusty training cloaks.
Ren lay down, one arm behind his head, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling. No blankets. No pillows. Just himself... and the slow, biting cold.
Occasionally, a cough came from a corner. The snores of those too exhausted to care. And sometimes, the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls made the silence feel... hollow.
Not peaceful. Just a reminder of how harsh this world was.
Ren was still staring at the cracked ceiling when a rustling sound came from beside him. Someone shifted in the straw—slow, sluggish, heavy.
"If this is supposed to be a resting place... it's more like a stable," muttered a familiar, hoarse voice.
Ren turned slightly. Kiel lay not far from him, arms crossed behind his head, one knee bent. His eyes were fixed on the same darkness above them.
"...Even horses might refuse to sleep here," Ren replied quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, barely visible in the dim light.
Kiel chuckled softly—more like an exhale.
"Yeah, but I guess this is part of the training too. If we can sleep here, we can sleep anywhere."
Ren just nodded slowly before turning back to the ceiling.
A few seconds of silence passed, broken only by the wind and night insects.
"...Your duel earlier," Kiel suddenly said, "if it were me, I don't think I could've stood back up that fast."
Ren paused before answering softly, "I thought I was going to fall too."
"Why didn't you?"
Ren shifted slightly, though he couldn't see Kiel's face clearly. "Because... if I fell, I was afraid I wouldn't get back up."
Kiel went quiet at that. Then, after the straw rustled again, he muttered:
"...If you ever do fall, I'll pull you back up."
Ren stared upward a moment longer before finally closing his eyes.
The words were simple... but they settled warm and heavy in his chest.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"Hm... don't get the wrong idea. If you go down first, who else am I gonna spar with?"
They both laughed softly.
And so the night passed...
Under the creaking, dilapidated roof, amidst exhausted breaths and cold straw, two lost youths in a foreign world slowly drifted to sleep—ready to face an even harsher day tomorrow.
---
The morning air was still cold when Ren's eyes slowly opened. His vision was slightly blurred, soft light seeping through the gaps in the wooden slats of the small window beside him. He blinked a few times, trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness.
But what woke him wasn't the light...
It was the smell.
Something warm. Savory. A little spicy.
A scent that... tempted his empty stomach before he was even fully conscious.
Ren pushed himself up slowly, the straw beneath him rustling. Through the uncovered window, he could see thin wisps of smoke—and a large figure crouched in front of a makeshift stone stove, stirring something in a black iron pot.
The man wore a sleeveless shirt and tattered pants, his frame broad and muscular. His hair was short, slightly messy, with a headband tied around his forehead. His face looked serious yet peaceful, as if he enjoyed the task at hand.
Just as Ren fully sat up, the man turned.
"Ah," he said, his voice deep but friendly. "Sorry... seems I woke you."
Ren shook his head, still shaking off sleep. "No... I'm just not used to waking up to smells this good."
The man smiled and resumed stirring. "I woke up early. Usually cook for myself before training. But since we're all stuck here, thought... might as well share."
Ren studied the man's face. It took a few seconds before recognition dawned.
"You... you're one of the Lost Children, right? I saw you at the guild that day."
The man nodded with a smile. "Right. Name's Arto. And you're... Ren, yeah?"
Ren was slightly surprised. "You remember my name?"
"Hard to forget the face of someone who stood their ground against that silver-haired guy on the first day."
Ren laughed quietly, though a bit awkwardly. "I got destroyed."
"And still stood till the end," Arto replied, ladling something from the pot into a wooden bowl. "That matters more than winning early."
Ren eyed the pot, then Arto. "What're you making?"
"Vegetable soup with dried meat. Nothing fancy... but enough to keep us from collapsing during training."
Arto handed the steaming bowl to Ren, and for the first time since arriving in Midgard... the faint scent of home—however distant—returned.
Warm. Spicy. Salty. And... painfully real.
"Thanks..." Ren murmured.
Arto sat beside him, letting the morning silence accompany them.
"Oho, seems you two are enjoying something without me."
The voice came from the doorway, followed by quick, heavy footsteps on the old wooden floor. Kiel emerged from the shadows, his red hair disheveled, eyes half-lidded as if he'd just woken.
He wore a half-open thin cloak and boots not fully laced. His steps were slightly unsteady, but his usual wide grin remained intact.
"Sorry, didn't make much," Arto said, shrugging as he kept stirring. "But there's enough for one more bowl."
"Damn, you're a lifesaver." Kiel plopped down beside Ren, nearly knocking over his bowl in the process. "Thought we were just having wind and hope for breakfast."
Ren wordlessly handed his empty bowl to Arto with a small nod.
Arto refilled it, this time for Kiel. "Careful, still hot."
Kiel accepted it as if holding treasure. He inhaled the steam, then closed his eyes in mock reverence.
"...Haven't smelled anything this divine since we got here."
Ren stifled a laugh. Arto just shook his head.
The morning felt livelier, even though the sun hadn't fully risen. Amidst the straw and rotting wood, amidst sore muscles and piercing cold... there was a small warmth they shared.
Three Lost Children,
One bowl of soup,
And a little laughter.
And that was enough—to make the coming harsh day feel slightly lighter.
---
Not long after, the three sat in silence, finishing the last spoonfuls of soup as it slowly cooled. The warmth in their stomachs eased the lingering aches from yesterday's training.
Arto set his wooden bowl down gently and stood. "Alright, let's clean up."
Kiel raised his bowl high. "Agreed. Otherwise, we might get accused of stealing from the main kitchen."
Ren just smiled and stood, gathering the remaining bowls and wooden spoons into the small bucket Arto used for washing. The three worked quickly—not much talking, just the sound of water and light movements as they cleaned.
The morning air grew warmer as the sun rose behind the old wooden walls. Soft light seeped through the cracks, illuminating the straw and rough floor. Distant bird calls mixed with footsteps and stirrings from other recruits waking one by one.
Ren dried his hands on his worn training clothes from yesterday. Though still damp with old sweat, they somehow felt more... fitting now. More deserved.
He glanced at Arto and Kiel, who were also preparing their gear.
Wooden swords. Belts. A damp cloth to wipe their faces.
Simple actions, but all reflecting one thing:
They were ready.
And so was Ren.
The second day awaited.
The three stepped out of the old building together, passing through the creaky threshold—leaving behind the brief morning warmth to return to the harsh world outside.
And there, the shouts were already audible.
Gideon had arrived.