Chương 102: Relic?

Stepping into the apartment, Lloyd was immediately hit by the smell of something incredibly delicious drifting in from the kitchen — a warm, thick aroma of butter and spices that instantly made his stomach clench, reminding him he hadn't properly eaten in what felt like days.

He couldn't say with any certainty what exactly was cooking, and honestly, he didn't much feel like figuring it out right now — it was enough that the smell was achingly familiar, the smell of home, the very one that used to see him off to school every morning as a kid, the one he thought of every time things got especially hard somewhere far away from here.

The entryway was warm, almost stuffy after the cold outside, and Lloyd took his time peeling off his snow-dusted hoodie, hanging it on the hook next to his father's worn jacket, kicking off his boots and leaving small puddles of melting snow on the floor. Somewhere deep in the apartment, the old wall clock ticked softly, and from the kitchen came the muffled clink of dishes, mixing with the sound of voices.

His father and Rozi were already sitting at the kitchen table, deep in some loud discussion, their voices talking over each other, breaking into laughter every so often, plates already set between them, steam rising gently off the food, filling the whole apartment with that thick, mouthwatering smell.

Lloyd, though, decided not to join them right away — instead he headed for his room, feeling that beneath the layers of exhaustion and relief at being home, something heavy was still stirring inside him, something that needed at least a couple of minutes alone before he could sit down at that table and pretend everything was fine. — I'll get changed and join you.

Rozi immediately called after him, her voice carrying that same teasing, but thoroughly loving tone he remembered from childhood, the one that always hid genuine relief that he was here, home, and not out there somewhere, unknown. — I'm afraid there won't be anything left for you! Closing the door of his room behind him, Lloyd could still hear her bright, satisfied laugh through the thin wall for a couple more seconds, echoing somewhere out in the hallway, followed by his father's voice, gently scolding her.

The room greeted him with its familiar mess — the exact state he'd left it in four days ago, with no idea he'd come back an entirely different person: the unmade bed, a stack of books on the windowsill, an old poster on the wall, peeling slightly at one corner. Everything was exactly where he'd left it, as if time in this room had simply stopped, waiting for him to return.

Changing into ordinary house clothes — a soft, worn-out T-shirt and old sweatpants — he felt his body finally relax, as if shedding some invisible armor he'd been carrying the past few days, a weight he hadn't even fully registered until it started to lift. He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples, letting himself just sit there in silence, breathing in the familiar scent of home. But then there was an unexpected knock at the door, short, polite, almost as if asking permission.

— Can I come in? It was his father's voice, but something in the tone, in that almost timid caution with which he said those few words, put Lloyd on alert — his father rarely knocked like that; usually he'd just call out from down the hall in his low, booming voice. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. — Yeah! His father stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him, as if trying to keep some secret from Rozi, still out in the kitchen.

In his hands he carried a small suitcase, worn at the edges, its metal corners gleaming faintly, and slung over his shoulder was something that looked distantly like a weapon case — long, narrow, made of dense dark fabric, its clasps glinting dully in the room's dim light. Lloyd couldn't help noticing how tired, yet unusually nervous, his father's face looked in that moment, as if he'd spent all night bracing himself for this brief exchange.

— This was supposed to be your evening present, but sorry, I couldn't hold off. Lloyd raised an eyebrow in surprise, feeling a faint, curious anticipation stir inside him. Without giving him time to ask anything, his father knelt down beside the bed and opened the suitcase, the clasps clicking softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

Inside lay a neatly folded set of black clothing, the fabric giving off a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the lamplight, as though soaked in some special, expensive treatment, catching subtle dark glints with every small movement. — This is special gear for rookie Players. It's not as heavy as armor, but it's made from a special fabric that's very hard to cut through. I think you'll find it useful.

Lloyd ran his fingers over the fabric, feeling its strange, unfamiliar smoothness, as if he weren't touching ordinary cloth at all but something far denser, almost alive. He couldn't quite believe what he was looking at — things like this cost a fortune, and he had no idea how his father, given everything Lloyd knew about his job in that field, the endless overtime and less-than-generous pay, could possibly have gotten his hands on something like this.

He didn't even manage to get a word of thanks out before his father reached back and slid the weapon case off his shoulder, laying it carefully on the bed beside the suitcase. Unfastening it with a slow, almost ceremonial motion, his father revealed what was inside, and Lloyd felt a lump instantly rise in his throat, his breath catching for a second, as though all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. It was a sword.

A fairly plain-looking sword, with a black, leather-wrapped hilt and a dully gleaming silver blade, without a single engraving, without a single unnecessary detail — but there was something genuinely captivating in that plainness, something that made the eye linger on it far longer than it should have, as if the blade held far more within it than it let on at first glance.

His father looked Lloyd straight in the eyes, his gaze unusually warm, full of that particular fatherly pride so rarely shown so openly, a faint, almost bashful smile playing on his lips, one Lloyd hadn't seen on him in a very long time. — Try it on. The blade reflected Lloyd back at himself like a narrow, elongated mirror — in that reflection he could clearly make out his own thoroughly astonished face, mouth slightly open in shock, eyes wide, catching the dim glow of the room's lamp.

Still not quite able to process what was happening, he reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, toward the sword, feeling his heart pound somewhere up near his throat, his fingers trembling faintly with nerves.

"Can this really be for me," raced through his mind, a bewildered, almost childlike thought, warm and unsettling all at once in its suddenness. But the moment his fingers touched the cold hilt, something happened that he could never have anticipated, something that caught him so off guard he nearly yanked his hand back in surprise, his heart skipping a beat.

The sword dissolved into crimson sparks, flaring for an instant brighter than any lamp in the room before melting away into the air, as if it had never existed at all, leaving behind only a faint, warm trace at his fingertips. And almost immediately, somewhere at the edge of hearing, came the familiar, emotionless voice of the System, sounding — it seemed — not so much aloud as directly inside his head, echoing somewhere behind his ribs. [You have obtained a Relic: Sword of the Worthless Warrior.]