"Where the heck is it?!" My steps quickened, as if something was right on my heels. I emerged from the morning haze, but the familiar sign for Mozi's shop was nowhere to be seen. It was like the whole world had shifted. The more I walked, the more the streets I thought I knew felt utterly foreign.

"Isn't that kid the one who keeps walking down that alley? Could he be the one Alteker is after?"

The whispers got louder, or maybe it was just my panicked mind playing tricks on me—ghostly voices lurking in my thoughts. Fatigue began to weigh me down, forcing me to sit on an old park bench. The bench was made of aged wood, painted a light green that blended in with the ocean-blue theme of the surroundings. The park lamps were always lit, their greenish glow bouncing off everything, making the place feel oddly fresh. The creak of the bench beneath me felt like it was responding to my presence, breaking the silence. Fallen leaves lay scattered on the pathways, adding a sense of faded nostalgia to the scene. The bench's chill seeped into my back, tempting me to stay longer, at least until my mind stopped spinning.

I tried to think—north, I told myself. If I kept heading north, I should reach the Wetland Market. Mozi's shop should be there, but for some reason, I couldn't find it. No sign, no hint of anything that screamed, "Hey, I’m Mozi’s place!"

I closed my eyes, trying to recall the alleys I had walked through, one by one. But they were all blurry in my memory, like footprints in the sand washed away by waves. Nothing seemed like a clue, nothing felt real.

I looked down at the book I was carrying, my fingers gripping the worn cover slightly. "Should I just sell this thing?" I sighed, my voice barely a whisper, just enough for myself.

I opened my eyes, and there was a stranger sitting cross-legged in front of me, like he had appeared out of thin air. He just stared at me in silence.

I closed my eyes again, trying not to think about what I had seen. I tried to focus, tried to remember the alleys I'd walked through. I let out a small, ironic smile as I thought, "Am I really that desperate? Imagining the way to Mozi's and then Mozi himself just pops up in front of me?"

But when I opened my eyes again, the stranger was still there. His ragged clothes were covered in layers of grime, with multiple tears that hinted at years of wear and neglect. A long, battered umbrella with an extended handle—almost as tall as he was—leaned against his back, its tip pressed into the dirt to keep it steady. His unkempt hair hung in thick strands over his face, the bangs falling chaotically, blending into a thick, wild beard and mustache. His face was nearly swallowed by the mess of hair, leaving only his eyes barely visible, peering out with a kind of quiet intensity. A small, weathered bowl sat in front of him, chipped and stained, a testament to the rough life he led. His head was tilted slightly upward.

He lifted the bowl and held it out to me, the faint clink of a few loose coins rattling around inside. It was a simple gesture, but it carried a weight that caught me off guard.

"Huh?!" I stared at him, my face clearly showing my surprise. Just my luck—of course, when all I wanted was a break, the universe threw more nonsense at me.

I reluctantly pulled out my koi-patterned wallet from my back pocket, opening it with a sigh, and handed him a few coins. Maybe, just maybe, this would help lighten my bad luck a little.

He took the bowl back, looked down at the coins, and then... handed them right back to me.

"What?! Does he think I'm worse off than he is? Sorry, buddy, but these coins are all I've got. I'm broke too," I grumbled inwardly.

"Food..." he murmured, his voice so weak it nearly disappeared into the air.

"Give me food. I can't eat the metal you've given me."

I wanted to snap back, "Do I look like your personal chef? Use some common sense and buy yourself some food." But instead, what actually came out was far softer.

"I don't have any food right now, sir," I said, my voice filled with pity.

He repeated the word, "Food," miming an exaggerated motion of eating invisible rice from his bowl, as if he were eating nothing but air. He kept repeating it, over and over.

Ugh, what did he think I was, a magician who could conjure rice out of thin air? I thought to myself, feeling my patience thin.

I gave him an awkward smile, then slowly got up from the bench, intending to leave this oddball behind.

But suddenly, his hand grabbed my wrist, sticky and uncomfortably warm, stopping me in my tracks.

Oh gross, sticky! What was this guy's deal? Was he really eating imaginary rice or was it real somehow? And after all that, he still wanted more from me?

I glanced back at the hobo. He had put the bowl down, but he was still miming the same ridiculous eating motion. My gaze turned awkward. If he wanted to tag along while I looked endlessly for Mozi’s shop, then fine, he could come. I grabbed his arm and started dragging him along with me. It wasn’t long before he spoke up.

"You're looking for Mozi's shop, aren't you?" he said suddenly.

I froze, my feet stopping mid-step, and his sticky grip slowly loosened.

I turned around, crouching down to meet his eyes at the same level. "You know where Mozi's shop is?"

That guy stood up, and his tone had changed completely—no longer weak or desperate. His voice was now steady and clear. "I can take you to Old Man Mozi, but only if you give me something to eat."

Was I really getting blackmailed by a hobo?

***

We were sitting at this noodle joint near the park. Honestly, I knew next to nothing about the food around here—I'd just landed in this place, after all—so I let the hobo make the call on what to order.

He didn’t hesitate for even a second. He walked straight in and ordered like he owned the place.

"Two large bowls of Mushroom Fish Noodles. If there's anything else, just give me a shout," said the waitress as she placed two steaming bowls in front of us.

So there I was, staring into the abyss of my bowl while this guy was already busy devouring his food, not even giving it a second thought.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He must have been starving—like, truly. But Mushroom Fish Noodles? I'd never heard of anything like that. I ordered the same thing because, well, I was clueless. But seriously, mushroom fish? It didn't exactly sound like a five-star meal.

I stared at the bowl. Apparently, this was some local specialty from the western ruins—fish with mushrooms growing all over it. Basically, I was about to eat a parasite. Just thinking about it made my stomach churn.

"Not eating?" he asked, side-eyeing me as he slurped away.

It had barely been three minutes, and while I was still examining the mystery food in front of me, his bowl was already empty. Were we even the same species? He seemed more like a walking vacuum cleaner than anything else.

"I'm not hungry," I muttered, pushing the bowl away slightly.

Without hesitation, he grabbed my bowl and inhaled the rest like it was nothing.

I gave him a weird, awkward look, but he didn’t care one bit.

"How did you know I wanted to go to Mozi's shop?" I asked after a moment.

"Were you following me or something?"

He rolled his eyes behind his bangs, giving me a look that said 'Really?' before saying, "Don’t flatter yourself. I was just curious why you kept wandering up and down the same alley like a lost puppy," he smirked faintly, almost sarcastically.

So, not only was I being blackmailed, but now I was getting stalked too? Great.

"That book in your hand," he said, shoveling another mouthful of noodles in.

"A worn-out book with an old cover. Who else around here would be carrying something like that unless they were heading to Mozi’s antique shop? Maybe next time, try putting it in a bag or something."

My fingers instinctively tightened around the book's worn cover, as if to shield it. "It could be from a library," I shot back, trying to sound casual.

"There isn’t a library anywhere around here, kid. This is a market area, remember? Unless you're trying to pass this off as a rare marketplace relic." He smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

He stacked my now-empty bowl on top of his, then reached over for a napkin from the next table to wipe his mouth.

If I hadn’t pretended he was my dad, he probably would've ended up eating noodles out on the curb.

"So, where’s the shop?" I asked, my tone more impatient now.

"Wow, in a real rush, aren't we? You know, it's rude to ask someone a favor right after they’ve finished eating," he shot back.

Aren’t I the one being extorted here?

"Let me see the book first."

If I handed over this book, would he just keep demanding more? It wasn't like I had much of a choice though. With a sigh, I handed the book over.

He licked his fingers one by one—leftover broth and all—despite having used chopsticks to eat. Gross.

With those same fingers, he opened the book. His casual expression morphed into something serious as he flipped through the pages, scanning each one carefully.

He suddenly slammed the book shut with both hands. "Nothing interesting," he muttered.

Taken aback, I carefully took the book back from him, placing it gently on my lap.

"What’s so fascinating about that book anyway? No words, no pictures... even that magazine over there is more interesting," he said, pulling out a copy of "WetGirls," featuring a red-haired girl in a bikini, from somewhere inside his robe.

Wait—wasn’t that this month's risqué mag? And why was she wearing a bikini underwater?

"It's not that there aren't any words, it's just that they can't be written," I replied, trying to keep my cool.

He laughed, almost a scoff. "What kind of nonsense is that? Are you just making excuses so it seems valuable?"

As a waitress passed by, he quickly grabbed a pen from her apron pocket. "Here, give me the book."

Shocked, I reflexively handed it back.

He tried scribbling a few words on the pages, but no ink showed up. Then, he tested the pen on his own hand, and the ink flowed just fine.

He nodded to himself, like he’d figured something out, and stared at the book for a long while. I could feel something strange—an intensity radiating off of him, thick and almost indescribable. His eyes seemed to glow beneath those unruly bangs.

"No luck, huh," he mumbled, handing the book back.

"What are you doing?" I asked, cautiously putting the book back on my lap.

"I was focusing my mana into my eyes, trying to see what regular people can’t. But still, this book’s not revealing anything."

"Back when I worked as a royal guard in the Papyrus Kingdom, we used special paper that absorbed ink so it couldn’t be read with the naked eye. Messages would be hidden that way," he said, like it was no big deal.

A royal guard? No wonder he knew this fancy restaurant, even though he looked like a complete hobo.

"Why are you trying to see Old Man Mozi?"

"Maybe he knows how to read it."

He scoffed again. "There’s no way he knows. You’re gonna get zero information from that old guy." He made a big "zero" sign with his hand, really selling his point.

"Old Mozi just knows history. If you wanna actually read that thing, you’d be better off selling it."

"How am I supposed to read it if I sell the book?!" I snapped. Geez, this guy was driving me crazy.

"What's the point of ancient knowledge anyway? I bet the book's just filled with old stuff that's not even relevant anymore. The world keeps moving, why bother hanging onto outdated knowledge?"

If he didn’t know the way to Mozi’s shop, I swear I would’ve shut him up right there. But the thing was, I couldn't find a flaw in his logic, even if I knew it was wrong. But this, but that...

Maybe my face showed just how frustrated I was, because this guy tried to lighten the mood.

"Where did you find this book anyway?"

"Home..."

"?"

"It's been at my house for as long as I can remember. I don’t even know where it came from."

"Just a thought, but wouldn’t it make more sense to find out where it came from first? Just in case Old Man Mozi turns out to be clueless."

I stayed silent for a moment, letting his words sink in.

"The cover looks really old—maybe Second Era old. Stuff from that time is supposed to be long gone."

"If it's really from the Second Era, you could make a fortune selling it."

"If that actually happens, take me out for noodles again," he added with a sly grin.

All he wanted was another meal.

"So, where’s the shop?" I asked, exasperated.

He stood up as soon as I asked, and I followed suit. But then he blurted out,

"Gotta take a leak. Wait here."

"Why didn’t you say that while we were sitting?"

I plopped back down, watching as he disappeared behind the restaurant. Minutes passed, and he was nowhere to be seen.

I looked towards the noodle shop’s exit, and there he was, strolling out the door like nothing was wrong.

"Hey!" I grabbed some money from my koi wallet, snatched the book from my lap, and dashed to the counter.

"Thank you," the cashier called out, their voice fading as I bolted through the door.

I looked left, then right. That guy was nowhere to be found.

"Damn it, I got played by a hobo," I muttered angrily. No Mozi today, and now my cash was blown on noodles for this guy.

My eyes landed on a soda can lying on the street. I kicked it as hard as I could, trying to vent my frustration.

The can flew straight into a sign hanging on a pole in front of some random store.

The sign crashed to the ground with a loud bang, and someone came rushing out of the shop.

He was a big guy, short curly hair, a thin mustache on his face. His shirt was dark green, and his gloves and apron were covered in oil stains. He looked oddly familiar.

"Who the heck knocked down my sign?!"

The sign lay on the ground as he picked it up, and then our eyes met.

The words "Mozi's Antique Shop" were written on the sign.

This guy was definitely it.

Damn that hobo.