I don’t know why, but I felt like I understood him. Maybe it was because, in my past life, I’d spent a short but unforgettable period alone on the streets. Even though it wasn’t for long, it left a mark, like all my life I’d been alone. I was used to being my own company, my own support.

But isolation feels like strength—until you realize it’s just loneliness wearing a mask.

Roran moved toward the simmering pot of food, and I couldn’t help but watch from where I sat. He grabbed a bowl and spoon, then placed them on the table in front of me. The aroma hit me full force, making my stomach twist with hunger. How could I be this ravenous? I’d eaten in prison, but it was barely enough to call a meal.

“Fill yourself,” Roran said, sliding a steaming bowl of soup my way.

The smell was intoxicating up close—rich and savory, the kind of smell that promised comfort. It was a hearty sheep stew, with tender chunks of meat that practically fell off the bone. The broth shimmered slightly, thick with flavor and dotted with bits of vegetables.

I stared at it for a moment, as if it might disappear if I looked away. My stomach growled loudly, betraying just how desperate I was. It wasn’t just food—it was warmth, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I couldn’t control myself as I devoured the stew. The meat was so tender it practically melted in my mouth, rich with flavor and perfectly seasoned. It was, without a doubt, the best meal I’d ever eaten. And no, I wasn’t exaggerating—it was a masterpiece, especially after everything I’d been through lately.

Roran glanced at me occasionally, his expression unreadable save for the faint nods of approval as I attacked the bowl like a man possessed.

“Careful,” he finally said, his tone dry but tinged with humor. “You might choke."

I froze mid-spoonful, then chuckled sheepishly as I slowed down. “It’s been a while since I’ve had anything this good,” I admitted, setting the spoon down for a moment.

“Really?” he said, leaning back and grabbing his mug. “Well, everyone deserves a good meal every now and then.”

As I paused, curiosity got the better of me. I couldn’t forget the way he moved earlier—fluid, precise, like a living embodiment of control. “What martial art were you practicing earlier, sir?” I asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Roran raised an eyebrow, setting his mug back on the table. “That was my own,” he said, a faint smirk forming. “Flowing Whisper.”

I blinked, trying to process what I’d just heard. His own creation? “You… created it?” I repeated, leaning forward, intrigued.

“Yes,” he said simply, his tone calm but carrying a hint of pride. “Out of foolishness.” He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh.

That caught me off guard. “Foolishness? Why out of foolishness?” I asked, shaking my head slightly.

Roran tapped the side of his mug, staring into it as though it held answers to questions long forgotten. “I created it to prove that aggression—recklessness—only leads a man to his death,” he said.

I didn’t fully understand his reasoning, but the weight of his words kept me from pressing further. There was a depth to his explanation that hinted at something personal, something he wasn’t ready to share. Still, the fact that he had created his own martial art made me question just who this man was. Could he be a legend, a master hiding in the middle of nowhere?

Just as I was lost in thought, he spoke again, his voice breaking through my awe. “It’s also excellent for Myogen training,” he added casually, as if dropping a pebble into a still pond.

I froze, the spoon hovering inches from my mouth. “Myogen?” I echoed, the word carrying more weight than he might’ve realized.

Roran gave a faint nod, his expression unchanging.

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My mind raced. He’s a Myogen practitioner? The way he spoke, the calm authority in his voice, made me wonder if he was more than just a practitioner. Could he really be a master?

As I stared at him, piecing together what little I knew, one thing became clear: Roran wasn’t just any warrior. He was something far more. He didn’t need to flaunt his strength or skill—it was in the way he carried himself, in the quiet confidence that surrounded him like an unspoken truth.

That made me want to learn Myogen even more.

Roran took another sip from his mug, his eyes studying me. “What kingdom are you from, Zachary?” he asked casually.

Kingdom? What kingdom was I from? My mind froze. Freak. I didn’t know. I didn’t even remember. Why didn’t the memories of this body include something as basic as the name of the places in this world? If I didn’t answer quickly, he’d get suspicious. Think… think… I wish memories from this world just appear this time.

Clink.

A screen flickered to life in front of me.

[The kingdom you are currently in: Kingdom of Barsil.]

[Your birthplace: Neopatras Kingdom.]

[Estimated travel time: 20 days (on foot).]

The information floated in front of me. It not only told me where I was but also where I’d come from—and how far away that place was. The timing couldn’t have been better. Did I summon this? Trigger it somehow?

“I’m from Neopatras,” I said, trying to sound calm as I looked back at him.

Roran’s gaze didn’t waver. “How did you escape the prison?”

I froze, his words left me... speechless. I hadn’t expected that. Not at all.

I was an idiot. Of course, he’d noticed.

I glanced down at my clothes, the rough and worn fabric clearly marking me as a prisoner. It was obvious to anyone who knew what to look for. Of course, he’d figured it out.

“You knew from the beginning?” I asked hesitantly.

He nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “Yes.”

I stared at the half-empty bowl in front of me, suddenly losing my appetite. Setting the spoon down, I looked back at him. “Why did you let me in, then?”

He smiled faintly, his gaze steady. “I sensed something in you when you were outside watching me. It wasn’t power—it was darkness,” he said, his voice calm but weighted.

Before I could respond, he continued. “The reason I let you in is simple: I want to hear your side of the story. If you lie to me, I’ll be the one to take you back to where you belong. But if you tell me the truth, you can finish your food, stay the night, and leave in the morning.”

I stared at him, weighing his words. I couldn’t say I didn’t have a choice—I had two. Lie and face the consequences, or tell the truth and hope for a chance to get stronger. The decision wasn’t hard.

I met his eyes. “I was imprisoned because I was caught in a place I didn’t realize was a rebel meeting spot. At first, I thought I’d get out easily, but… it felt like a setup,” I explained, using my hands to emphasize my point.

Roran listened intently, occasionally sipping from his mug or tapping its side thoughtfully. “Go on,” he said when I paused.

“On what I thought was my last day in prison—because I was supposed to be released the next morning after they found no proof of my involvement—a man tried to assassinate me. I should’ve died, but… I survived. With the help of my bond,” I admitted, my voice steady but cautious.

He froze, then dropped his mug onto the table with a dull thud. “Bond?” he asked, his tone sharper now. “You have a bond?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

He stood abruptly, turning his back to me and staring out the window. His silence stretched for a few long seconds before he finally spoke again. “I suppose you’re too weak to handle your bond, aren’t you? That’s why it’s not here, why it’s nowhere to be seen,” he said, his words cutting but eerily accurate.

I nodded again. “You’re right,” I admitted quietly.

He turned back to me, his face unreadable at first, then broke into a smile. “And you escaped,” he said, his expression shifting to something more intense. Then, to my utter surprise, he burst into laughter.

“HAHAHAHA!” The sound was unexpected, filling the small room and catching me completely off guard.

I frowned, utterly confused.

He shook his head, still chuckling. “Because that’s a smart move,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Forgive me—I couldn’t help it. The thought of you escaping like that just… amused me.”

I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered, but his tone carried no malice.

“You can sleep in the living room tonight,” he said, his voice more composed now. “Take some time to think about where you’ll go tomorrow. And if you’re smart enough to escape prison, you might just figure out how to survive out there too.”

I was stunned by how casually he had taken everything, as if my escape and my bond were no more surprising than the weather. Still, I managed to smile and bow slightly, muttering a quiet, “Thank you.”

I didn’t know it then, but that night would go down as one of the best sleeps of my life. For the first time in what felt like ages, I slept deeply—no restless tossing, no creeping fear, just pure, undisturbed rest.

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The next morning, I woke up early, long before the sun had risen. The faint gray of dawn barely touched the horizon, and the air outside the house was crisp and cool. I sat for a moment, unsure of what to do with myself. The thought of doing something to express my gratitude to Roran nagged at me.

I couldn’t just sit there.

Quietly, I moved around the house, starting with the basics. First, I tidied the living room where I’d slept. I folded the blanket he’d given me, smoothed out the makeshift bedding, and straightened up the sparse furniture. The room wasn’t messy, but I wanted to make it look better than when I’d arrived.

Next, I found a broom tucked away near the kitchen and began sweeping the floors. I worked quietly, careful not to wake him, as I cleared away the faint traces of dust and dirt that had collected in the corners.

Once the inside was as clean as I could manage, I turned my attention outside. The yard around the house was simple but well-kept, though the path leading to the front door had been scattered with fallen leaves and small branches. I gathered them into a pile, taking my time to make sure the area looked neat.

By the time I’d finished tidying up the yard, the sun was starting to peek over the horizon. The golden light caught the morning dew, making everything glisten.

Still feeling restless, I spotted an axe leaning against the side of the house. A small stack of wood sat nearby, and I decided to put myself to work. Grabbing the axe, I began chopping wood, enjoying the rhythmic motion of the task. Each swing of the axe felt purposeful, and the sound of the blade splitting the logs echoed through the quiet morning.

Finally, with a decent stack of firewood set aside, I went back inside to prepare breakfast. I scavenged through the kitchen, finding some eggs, bread, and a few simple ingredients. I wasn’t much of a cook, but I did my best to whip up a meal. The scent of frying eggs and toasting bread soon filled the house.