Chương 82: Chapter 81: Rion

Nine-year-old Lio looked down at the soggy and rotten piece of bread in his hands. It was awfully damp and kept collapsing into mush between his fingers, smelling strongly of curdled milk. When Lio forced himself to take a bite, the texture was strangely rubbery, until his saliva quickly dissolved it into a bitter paste. Lio swallowed hard, tears coming to the corner of his eyes as his stomach recoiled.

But he forced it down, and kept chewing slowly, trying to imagine himself eating a warm, savory bowl of stew instead. He had the remaining half-stuffed under his shirt when a voice came from behind him.

"That's stealing, you know." Lio flinched. Instantly, the instinct to run overwhelmed him, but he couldn't. His legs had locked up the second the voice had reached him, like some animal part of his brain was screaming caught, caught, caught at him. Bracing himself, he turned around stiffly. A young boy with brown hair and warm hazel eyes was sitting on an overturned crate, swinging his legs, looking at him with a strange expression. He looked... pleased, for some reason.

"I-I know," Lio muttered nervously, because clearly lying was pointless. One could clearly see the bread poking out of his shirt.

"Huh." The boy hopped off the crate, and Lio tensed again, but the kid just dug into his own bag and pulled out a wrapped bundle.

"You could've just asked for some of my bread. I've got extra."

"... W-why would you give it to me?" The boy blinked.

"Aren't you hungry? You look really hungry." Lio felt awkward to be put on the spot like this, his eyes darting toward the open street. He couldn't trust anybody in this place. Nobody gave you anything for free.

"I'm Rion," the boy introduced himself, completely unbothered by Lio's silence. He set a couple of thick, slightly bruised apples on the crate and held out a small loaf of bread.

"What's yours?" Rion asked. Lio's mind scrambled, instantly throwing up hasty defenses.

"Marco," he lied quickly. Rion nodded. The boy seemed to completely accept the fake name without any sort of suspicion.

"Hi, Marco. Sit on the crate, the ground's freezing." He patted the empty space beside himself on the wooden crate. But when Lio didn't move, Rion simply shrugged and broke the fresh, warm loaf of bread in half. The warm scent immediately overpowered the sour smell of the rotten piece hidden beneath Lio's shirt. Rion held out the larger half. Lio swallowed hard, his mouth watering against his will. His stomach gave a loud growl, betraying him completely.

It was humiliating, but Rion didn't laugh, instead continuing to hold the bread out, his eyes bright and innocent. Slowly, with extreme caution, Lio inched forward, his want for food overpowering his common sense. He reached out and snatched the bread from Rion's hand, and before the other boy could change his mind, took a massive bite at once. The taste was unbelievable. It was soft, warm, salty, and savory.

"It's good, isn't it?" Rion said around his own mouthful, his lips stretched out in a big smile.

"My mom bought it. Marco, where are you heading after this?" Lio chewed quickly, his mind still scrambling to figure out what the hell was happening.

"Nowhere," he mumbled quietly.

"Just around." Rion swallowed his bite of bread and cocked his head in curiosity.

"Have I seen you around here before? I know basically everyone around here."

"Here and there," Lio muttered evasively. He didn't want to admit that he spent most of his days hiding beneath the old docks, eating from the trash and the occasional dead fish that washed up.

"Huh." Rion kicked his heels against the crate, looking up at the gray sky.

"Where do you even sleep?"

"Inside several places," Lio said. Which meant wherever there was a roof that didn't leak too badly and maybe a corner where the city watch—who hated orphans—wouldn't spot him.

"Do you have a mom or a big brother or something?" Rion asked.

"No." Lio swallowed his mouthful of bread, then tore into the remainder. Rion blinked with confusion.

"Why don't you have a mom? All my friends have a mom." Lio stared down at the half-eaten bread in his hands. Why didn't he have a mom? Lio knew that someone must've given birth to him, but the details were a total blank. Who were they? And why hadn't they wanted him?

"I'm an orphan," Lio muttered, feeling his face heat up with shame at the admission. Rion stopped swinging his legs against the wooden crate. He cocked his head at Lio.

"My mom said that orphans are sad. Are you sad?" This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work. Lio shook his head. Being sad was just a waste of time. If Lio cried, that only meant losing moisture from his body that he desperately needed. Under the docks, you didn't get to feel sad. No, you just felt cold, or hungry, or tired. Rion watched him, clearly trying to understand.

But instead of pushing further or making it weird, he hopped off the crate, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"I'll be right back here tomorrow at noon," he said cheerfully.

"My mom's making meat pies tonight, so I'll probably have a whole extra one to bring out. You should come back." Lio didn't believe him. He knew that 'tomorrow' was a word people used when they wanted to get rid of you. Nobody showed up again just because they said they would. And so, he didn't say a word of agreement, nor did he say goodbye. Instead, Lio stuffed the remaining crust of bread into his pocket, and hurried out of the alley. He didn't trust promises anymore.

Not after what had happened at the orphanage, where the Promise almost killed him. Promises were just words. Words didn't fill your stomach or keep you warm. As he ducked into the safety of the crowded street, the bread crust in his pocket brushed against his ribs. He frowned. He knew that it was a foolish thought. But maybe he would come back tomorrow. Just in case. ◈◈◈◈ When Lio finally came to his senses, the first thing he noticed was that he was coated in blood.

It was thick and dark, splattered across his chest, soaked into his clothes, and dripping from his hands. But he soon realized that none of it was his. His eyes narrowed. What was going on? Lio looked down and realized his arms were around Ophila, holding her tightly against his chest. She was trembling violently, her pale face buried into his torn jacket, but she was still breathing. Yet, he had no idea how he had gotten here.

The last memory he had was collapsing into the dirt, his body failing, his left arm completely paralyzed while the Dread Stirge crept close. Right, the Dread Stirge… Something bumped against the toe of his boot. Lio looked down. And saw the mangled head of the Stirge. It was resting against his leather sole, its black tongue lolling out from a jaw that had been horribly shattered. Its eyes were glazed over, entirely devoid of the malice that had nearly killed him moments ago. He nudged it aside with his foot.

It was clearly dead. But what had killed it? He looked up, his gaze sweeping the surroundings to gauge if any other active hostiles were closing in. But instead of any hostiles, all he saw was a trail of absolute carnage stretching all the way back to the edge of the town. The burned Amberpulp fields were completely silent, save for the wind. The trail was covered with piles of mutilated monsters, ranging from Adlets to Boobries, their bodies completely torn apart and scattered across the ashen dirt.

The entire landscape looked as though a giant force of nature had ripped through the field, clearing a direct line straight to Lio's current position. Had he done this? The thought was ridiculous, but clearly, there was no one else standing in the field. But if he had, why couldn't he remember any of it? Lio tentatively checked his injuries. And as he did, a growing sense of disbelief settled over him. His body… He was absolutely ravaged, yet he somehow felt fine.

The muscles in his legs should have been useless—completely shredded and torn apart by [Mach Heart]. His right arm had fared no better, suffering catastrophic internal damage from all the shattered bone. By all accounts, the severe damage should have paralyzed the limb entirely. Yet, he could still walk without stumbling, and he could move his joints—even in the left arm that the Stirge had left previously pralyzed—with complete freedom.

And even more surprisingly, it didn't even feel like his body was overriding its physical limits through adrenaline or something. It felt as if nothing was wrong at all. Shaking off the bizarre sensation, Lio's focus changed to something directly ahead. A heavy, grey metal door made of solid Oblite had been dug into the wall of a cliff. His eyes widened. Somehow, against all odds, he had made it to the bunker. Pushing aside his questions and theories, Lio stepped forward and pounded heavily on the Oblite door.

He called out loudly for help, until a small viewing slit slid open, followed by multiple thuds of steel latches unlocking. The door cautiously cracked open, revealing a middle-aged woman looking out. The instant her eyes landed on Lio, her face went entirely pale. She scampered back in pure terror, tripping over her own feet as she shrieked, "Monster! There's a monster at the door!"

"Shut up," Lio rasped. He didn't have the patience for hysterics. He stepped into the bunker and pushed Ophila forward into the light.

"She's dying. Where is the medical equipment? Where are the practitioners?" Seeing the injured girl seemed to snap the woman out of her panic. She slowly regained her composure, her chest heaving as she shot a deeply wary glance at Lio. Realizing the boy wasn't some sort of murderous beast, she gave a stiff nod and turned, beginning to lead the way down the dimly lit metal corridor. Lio followed, his bloodied boots leaving wet marks on the floor.

As they moved down the hall, he noticed a large mirror bolted to the wall. He had been confused by the woman's sheer terror, chalking it up to the monstrous amount of blood soaking his clothes and body. But as he looked directly into the mirror, his step faltered. He… He had changed. It wasn't just the layer of thick crimson painting his skin. No, it was his eyes. The sclera—the normally white parts of the eyes—had turned a visceral blood red.

In an even more jarring contrast, his pupils and irises were no longer dark and amber. They were intense, electric cyan. Lio stared at his own face, frozen into silence. What was this? This wasn't a normal side effect of overexertion, and it wasn't just adrenaline. Whatever had taken control of his body out there in the fields had altered him significantly.

"H-hurry up," the woman called out meekly from further down the hall. She kept her distance, her back pressed against the wall as she stared at the floor in terror.

"The clinic is just around this corner." Lio tore his eyes away from the glass. He didn't know what was going on, but now was not the time to find out. First, he had to treat Ophila.