It was through the rich markets and lavish homes that he passed, venturing deeper into the depths of the city as the environment became noticeably less lavish.

Homes of age and wear; denizens of the sector dressed in old, torn clothes.

[“Copper Gate”]

It was the middle ground between the wealth and the slums; a dull stretch of homes of shoddy stone, roads of shattered cobble, though not a bad place.

The youthful adventurer pulled his hood up as he moved along through the quiet, but occupied streets of Copper Gate, earning the gaze of beggars devoid of hope and children ignorant of their misfortune.

It was past some homes and through the cutting of a few alleyways that he found himself at his desired destination—home.

A meager cottage of aging wood, neighbored by welted plants and an old tree that hung over the roof, bearing solemn, silver leaves.

He walked in through the front door, announcing himself, “I’m back, Uncle.”

The floorboard whined beneath the weight of his step, creaking as if one stomp too heavy would bring the floor down. As he closed the door behind him, he slowly walked through the hallway before turning into the doorway to his left.

Quietly, he opened the door, peeking his head in.

“Hff…Hff…”

Coughs left the withered man that laid on the bed; a pale figure with but scraps of hair left atop his head and arms as thin as twigs.

“...Bastian…” Like a whisper of wind, weak enough to be overshadowed by a gentle breeze, the sickly man called out.

The adventurer entered the room, walking past the bed and he closed the beige blinds that showed the nightly scenery, veiling the glow of the moon. Searching through his pockets, Bastian placed the ivory box down on the wooden table at the end of the room, looking for something on the tabletop.

“You’re back late today. I take it you’ve been having grand adventures of your own…?” The ill man asked with his weakened voice, hacking and spitting up into his own hand.

“Don’t push yourself,,” Bastian said worriedly after grabbing a small vial from the table as he rushed over to the bedside, helping his relative to sit up as he propped the pillows against the man’s back, “Here, your medicine.”

He used his thumb to flick off the cork that sealed the glass bottle, bringing it up to the lips of the withered figure. There was a look of disdain in the sick man’s eyes, though not for anybody else but himself; a disgust that made his lips quiver, as if resistant to partake in the medicine.

“Uncle, please…” Bastian urged.

“Am I meant to survive like this for the rest of my life? Surviving off of this concoction like a baby off its mother’s teat? It feels like an eternity ago that I was out there…climbing the floors and fighting grand foes…alongside your father, my brother…” The sickly man reminisced painfully through his hoarse voice.

It wasn’t the first time he had heard the regrets of his uncle, though it didn’t get any easier seeing the pain written on the man’s face, who dreamed of leaving the bed that became his home.

“You’ll get better, I know it. For now, just take your medicine–please,” Bastian urged, holding the bottle up.

Though hesitantly, the man accepted it as he grabbed the vial with his bony, pale hands, bringing it to his lips as he sipped its contents. As the medicinal concoction was swallowed, it was nearly spat back out as the sickly man began hacking up once again.

“Come on,” Bastian supported him, placing his hand on the man’s back. It felt hollow; flat and weak, like brittle.

The man he looked at, who looked nearly a century in age with wrinkled skin, dry like leather and pale enough to almost be transparent, was someone else from whom he recognized. A shell of his former self; the uncle he knew was withered away, perhaps lost.

“...You needn’t waste your coin on buying me this medicine, Bastian. I’ve told you this…” The man said as he settled down from his coughing fit, inhaling and exhaling with a slight wheeze, “You can achieve so much more than this, I’m only dragging you down…”

“Stop that. I’m not going to leave you behind,” Bastian assured the man, patting his back endearingly, “Not like father did.”

The very topic of his own parent left a sour taste in his mouth as contempt laced his voice, though the same couldn’t be said for the sickly man.

A breath left the thin man’s lips as he looked up at the ceiling, “Do not blame your father, Bastian. He is a man of great ambition, he seeks to reach the top of the tower…we both did. It’s our dream that he’s carrying onward, for both of us. I wouldn’t want him to waste his time on a dying, old fool such as myself.”

“But that’s not–he could at least visit, or send you medicine!” Bastian exclaimed in protest, swinging his fist at the air before calming himself, “...I just can’t buy it. Who would abandon their own brother like this? He’s not any father of mine, you’re more–”

Another cough left the man’s lips as he looked at his nephew, “Hff…Please don’t, Bastian. He has his reasons, nothing he does is out of disdain or selfishness. Please remember that,” he held his own head, “I think I’ll rest now. Thank you, Bastian. I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me, if only I could repay–”

“Don’t think about it, Uncle. Just rest and recover as best you can,” Bastian said kindly, placing his hand atop the frail one of his relative’s own before taking his leave from the room.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

For a moment, he stood with his back pressed against the closed door, only looking down at the aged floorboards.

‘Every time I see him, more and more do I forget who he used to be–”Duncan, the Cobalt Bolt”; he’s the adventurer that inspired me to take on the tower for myself. My very own uncle, one of the front line adventurers on the tower, alongside my father. I was so proud as a child, I looked up to him with all my heart–that lightning he was famous for, to which he dyed his own hair a bright-blue to match. He was my hero, now he’s…No, I can’t think like that. He’s still fighting,’ he thought.

In his mind, memories of the past, unburdened by the shadows of the present, hurt more than scathing flames. It was only a few steps away that he found himself in his room, sitting himself on the edge of his bed.

After a long day of wear, he untied the string of his black cloak before pulling it from his shoulders. A sigh of relief left his lips as he ruffled his head of light, hazel hair.

As he set his hand down, he felt a light crunch beneath, patting the fabric he had laid on the bed.

Lifting the cloak, he found the sealed document given to him by Bilo.

“Oh, right,” he mumbled, picking it up.

Though he held it for a moment, simply inspecting the beige paper, he set it back down without opening it. A subtle murmur came from his stomach, prompting him to quickly stand up from his bedside:

“Crap! I forgot—Gaston!” He recalled to himself.

The errands he ran had distracted him from his earlier promise to a friend, though luckily he had yet to unlace his leather boots.

He set out, leaving his dagger on his bedside table along with his belt of many pouches. Still, he was darkly dressed, wearing black trousers with multiple pockets and a long-sleeved, matching shirt with a gray vest of protective leather over it.

‘Hopefully I don’t make him wait too long—I am paying though, so I guess I’m allowed some lateness,’ he thought.

Night had already fallen over the city, though he found it more soothing to walk its streets under the veil of the star-filled sky. Even far from any establishments, the sweet, potent stench of booze lingered in the air.

Though it wasn’t any surprise why, as one of the very few escapes from life that those without wealth had was alcohol; drunkards loitered the streets, some even passed out on the cold cobblestone, snoring without any shame.

“...Brrr…Didja see the jugs on that hostess?” A drunkard grumbled.

The man that lent his shoulder to the drunk responded, helping him walk, “For the hundredth time, aye, I did.”

Bastian continued on his way, tending to mind his own business, which was a lesson most learned quickly living in the Copper Gate of Velmusia. The path he took was a tad unorthodox, leading to him cutting to an alley between a church and a housing area, leaping down from a wall with a spiked, black-steel fence attached to it. It was what acted as separation between the poorer sector and the thriving heart of Velmusia–its market, and most notably during the night, its taverns.

He continued on, slipping his hands into his pockets as he perused the courtyard he found himself in before following a set of steps that led down. Trees of emerald leaves and luscious hedges neighbored the steps, leading to a promenade with a colossal fountain at its center.

‘Almost there. I could use a good drink or two, and some grub,’ he thought.

The fountain took the form of a stone knight, spouting freshly-flowing water into a large basin which was gawked at by others. It was a stark difference from the Copper Gate; even in the height of dusk, the streets were occupied as if it was midday.

Street performers did their tricks, some of magic, some showcasing their control over wild beasts to do their tricks for them. Some merchants kept their shops open, selling out of the back of their carriages.

“Exotic fruits here! Get your Dragonbul and Velvanon here!” A fruit merchant exclaimed, holding up a bulbous, pink fruit along with another, slimmer one of a spiky texture.

‘“The City That Lives Beneath The Stars”--it’s a fitting name. It’s at night that Velmusia might be at its most liveliest,’ he pondered.

It was almost hard at times to tell it was night when visiting the thriving market area, as gemstones embedded into every building supplied a soft, orange light at the arrival of dusk.

“Hey, Bas! You look beat. How about I help you relax?” The offer came from a promiscuous woman with curly, red hair, who stood in front of an establishment of velvet carpets and colorful brick–a brothel.

“No thanks, I’m good,” Bastian declined, finding that one kind of hunger was more important than the other.

It wasn’t hard to find the establishment he looked for, as the heavy smell of booze and loudness of boisterous patrons acted almost like a beacon for him. The building was sat between two others, built of darkened wood.

‘Finally,’ he thought.

Using both hands to push open the swinging doors, he walked into the tavern, immediately finding his nose stuffed by the overbearing aroma of mead and meat. The entire air was different inside; noticeably more humid.

At this time of night, most tables were completely full, occupied by adventurers still dressed in armor and carrying their gear, with cheeks flushed and mugs full.

“Bastian! Hey, Bastian! Over here!”

The familiar voice enthusiastically calling out to him made him swerve his gaze as he found a bandana-wearing man waving his hand in the air to catch his attention.

By the looks of it, the youthful adventurer that waited for him already had his fair share of mead, as his cheeks were red and his body nearly fell from his chair as he waved.

“Gaston,” Bastian said as a smile formed on his lips, walking over to the table his friend was at.

It was towards the back of the thriving tavern, at a table nearest to the wall–the same place they always sat together.

“Two more of the same–! Buuegh–!” Gaston held up two fingers to call for a replenishment of drinks, belching amidst his words.

Though it wasn’t much longer until the hazel-haired man felt the warmth of booze caressing his body after a couple mugs down the hatch. The ambience and boisterous environment of the tavern made it impossible not to partake in drinks, perhaps a few too many, with adventurers singing and yelling, speaking of their tales and comparing their achievements within the Tower of Yggdrasil.

“Phwaaah…” Bastian exhaled as he slammed another mug down, wiping his mouth of the fuzz.

Gaston gulped down a hefty serving of the amber liquid before placing his mug down, spilling some of the drink sloppily as he swayed, looking across the table at his companion, “So, whazzis about a new jo–beeeugh!”

The question couldn’t even be fully said without another belch leaving the man’s lips. Just like that, the bandana-wearing man of fiery hair slumped against the table, murmuring to himself.

Fortunately, though he was tipsy himself, he was stable enough to know it was time to stop and help out Gaston, who was far too gone–a normal occurrence with their tavern visits.

It was one his own unique skills, he felt; being able to quickly sober up, taking a quick sip from a glass of water before leaving the coins to cover the racked-up tab. As always, Gaston had made it cost a pretty silver.

“C’mon, Gas. Let's get you back home,” Bastian said, hoisting his friend to his feet as he slung his arm over his shoulder.

“Ah, man, Bas…Yer ma best friend, man…The best…” Gaston slurred, not doing much to help move as he stayed as dead weight.

“Yeah, yeah, just move your feet, wouldja?” Bastian asked.