Dante scanned the surroundings, reluctantly spotting a box of brown paper sheets to the right of the latrine. Suppressing his discomfort, he grabbed a few sheets, still pinching his nose with his free hand, and handed them over. “Here, take them,” he said, his voice muffled by his held breath.

Joseph took the papers with a grin, entirely unbothered by the situation. “Thank you, young man! Bit of an awkward way to meet, eh? Name’s Joseph, owner of this house. And you are?”

“My name’s Dante,” he replied, stepping away from the stench as quickly as politeness allowed. “I assume you already know what I am.” The air was suffocating, and Dante could only imagine what Joseph had eaten to cause such an ordeal.

“Oh, of course I know,” Joseph said as he finished his business and adjusted his trousers. Without pausing to wash his hands, he extended one toward Dante, his cheerful smile unshaken. “Pleased to meet you, prisoner Dante.”

Dante stared at the unwashed hand, his sense of courtesy warring with his better judgment. Finally, with an internal sigh, he shook it briefly. “Thank you for letting me recover here, Mr. Joseph,” he said, his forced smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Joseph clapped him on the shoulder with the same hand, his grin as bright as ever. “Think nothing of it, lad! Here in Ashveil, we take care of everyone—even prisoners. It’s just what we do.”

Dante fought the urge to grimace further, especially as the hand landed on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he managed, planning an immediate and thorough bath.

Joseph’s gaze shifted to Dante’s tattered clothes, now more bloodied rags than a proper uniform. “Come with me, boy,” he said, turning toward the house. “We’ll find you something better to wear.”

“Thank you,” Dante said again, this time with genuine relief. Clean clothes would be a small victory after everything he’d endured.

Joseph led him to a quiet room in the house, opening an old wardrobe filled with faded garments. After a moment of rummaging, he pulled out a black farmer’s outfit that fit Dante well enough. Grateful, Dante changed into the clean clothes, relishing the feel of fabric unsoiled by blood or ash.

When Joseph turned to look at Dante in his new attire, a shadow passed over his cheerful face. His smile faltered, replaced by a pained expression that lingered for only a moment before he looked away. Though subtle, the old man’s sudden shift didn’t escape Dante’s notice.

“Mr. Joseph, are you alright?” Dante asked cautiously.

Joseph wiped his eyes and forced a weak smile. “I’m fine, lad. It’s just... those clothes belonged to my second son. Seeing you in them brought back some memories.”

Dante’s brow furrowed. “Your second son?” he repeated, surprised. Until now, he’d only known about Joseph’s son, Leon, and his married daughter.

Joseph’s expression tightened, and before Dante could ask further, he waved the question away. “Come now, you must be hungry. Let me fix you a proper meal. Beast meat always does wonders for recovery.”

Dante nodded, sensing it was better not to press the matter. “Thank you, Mr. Joseph. That would be great.”

Joseph’s demeanor brightened slightly as he shuffled off to the kitchen. Yet, as Dante followed him, he couldn’t shake the unease that lingered. There was more to Joseph’s story—he was certain of it. But for now, he decided to focus on the promise of a good meal.

The kitchen was a modest yet bustling space, its walls lined with rustic tools and pans. Three large cauldrons hung over well-used stoves, the fires beneath them glowing a faint crimson, fueled by strange red logs. The aroma of sizzling meat filled the air, rich and savory, stirring a deep hunger in Dante’s gut.

Joseph worked with practiced ease, slicing a thick slab of beast meat into even portions. The kitchen was alive with the crackle of firewood and the rhythmic sound of Joseph’s blade. To Dante, it was a scene that felt both foreign and achingly familiar.

Sitting on a wooden stool, Dante let his eyes wander, taking in the warmth and simplicity of the kitchen. The smell of cooking meat and the soft glow of the firewood awakened old memories, faint and distant but undeniably comforting. For the first time in centuries, he felt a pang of something close to peace.

Joseph glanced at Dante as he worked, his hands steady and deliberate. “You know, lad,” he said, breaking the silence, “this house has seen a lot of sorrow. But we make do. Always have, always will.”

Dante nodded, unsure how to respond. As the aroma of beast meat grew stronger, he pushed his curiosity about Joseph’s hidden grief to the back of his mind. Whatever secrets the old man carried, they could wait. For now, Dante decided to savor the rare luxury of a home-cooked meal.

Stolen story; please report.

Dante pushed aside the wave of emotions, tucking them deep inside. In this harsh world, survival meant staying strong, and dwelling on the past was a luxury he couldn’t afford. His focus had to be on the present and making his prolonged life worth something.

The rich aroma of food pulled him from his thoughts as Joseph’s cheerful voice rang out. “Dante! Help me bring these dishes to the courtyard. We’ll eat under the gazebo.”

Eager to lend a hand, Dante grabbed a tray and followed Joseph outside. Together, they set up a small feast on a stone table under the shaded pavilion. The spread was impressive: three trays of beast meat, a colorful salad of vibrant vegetables, and a steaming pot of hearty stew.

Joseph ducked back into the kitchen and returned with a clay bottle of homemade alcohol and two wooden cups. Pouring the drinks, he grinned. “Bet they didn’t have anything like this in the prison. Try it! Made it myself.”

Dante hesitated, unsure how his recovering body would handle alcohol, but Joseph slid a cup his way with an encouraging nod. Resigned, Dante raised it. “Cheers,” he said with a faint smile, clinking cups with Joseph.

The first sip caught him off guard. The drink was smooth, faintly sweet, and carried a warmth that spread through his body, dulling his aches. It felt like it had healing qualities.

“Drink, but don’t forget to eat!” Joseph bellowed, spearing a chunk of meat and placing it on Dante’s plate. “Beast meat is great for healing, especially when paired with a good drink.”

Dante didn’t need further urging. He picked up his fork and knife, slicing into the meat and taking a bite. The flavor was beyond anything he’d experienced—juicy, tender, and bursting with a richness that melted in his mouth. He paused, stunned by the sheer delight.

“This… this is amazing!” Dante exclaimed, his face lighting up in genuine awe. “Mr. Joseph, you’re a genius.”

Joseph waved him off with a hearty laugh. “It’s not me, lad. It’s the beasts! Their meat’s a gift from nature. Eat up—there’s plenty more.”

Dante didn’t hesitate, diving into the meal with enthusiasm. Every bite seemed to rejuvenate him. The injuries that had left him battered and weak were healing rapidly, and by the time he finished eating, he realized he felt whole again. His hands, his face, even the dull ache in his muscles had vanished. It was as if the food itself had worked magic.

As Joseph poured another round of his brew, the two began to talk. Dante sipped slowly, savoring the peaceful moment—a rare break in the chaos of his life. The warm glow of the drink and the comforting meal eased the weight of the past days.

Despite the drink being mild, Dante’s face was already flushed, a clear sign it was affecting him. Not one to risk losing control, he set his cup down and slowed his pace.

He gazed at the distant peaks, where strange, bird-like creatures soared. For a moment, he allowed himself a fleeting dream. If only I could stay here forever, he thought wistfully. But reality crashed in, dispelling the notion. A life of freedom was nothing more than a cruel fantasy for someone like him.

“Mr. Joseph,” Dante began, his voice slightly slurred but curious, “why is this place called Ashveil? There’s no ash here.”

Joseph, slouching slightly in his seat from the effects of his drinking, gulped down another glass before letting out a loud belch. “Oh! That’s a long story, lad. The name didn’t always used to be Ashveil. It was changed—because of… well…”

His head nodded forward, teetering on the edge of sleep, but he jolted himself awake, slapping his face to stay focused. “It’s because of a cursed lava dragon that came out of a volcano two thousand years ago. Back then, its eruptions blanketed this whole town in a thick layer of ash every single day. That’s where the name comes from.”

“A lava dragon?” Dante leaned forward, his interest fully captured. “What happened to it? Where did it go?”

Joseph rubbed his chin thoughtfully and let out a chuckle. “Well, that’s where it gets interesting…”

Setting his cup down, Joseph took a deep breath. “That beast terrorized us for years. But the prison… they saved us. My great-grandfather said that one day, a small team from the prison—kind of like what you’re a part of—passed through. Our town’s leader begged them for help, asking if they could take care of the magma dragon. They agreed, and that’s how our town formed its bond with the prison, one that’s lasted even now.”

Joseph paused, his expression growing somber. “The prison started sending powerful prisoners to fight the dragon. But almost every attempt ended the same way. None of them ever came back.”

“Prisoners? Why prisoners and not their own people?” Dante furrowed his brow, confused by the idea.

Joseph shrugged, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Who knows? Maybe you should ask them. After all, isn’t this kind of what you’re doing right now?”

Dante stayed silent, unable to argue, so Joseph carried on, his tone becoming almost reverent. “After years of struggle, the dragon grew weaker. Then, one day, the prison sent a special prisoner—a man unlike any other. No one knew his name or face; he never spoke of it. But he went to face the dragon without fear.”

Joseph’s eyes sparkled with admiration as if recalling a legend. “The battle lasted five days and five nights. The entire mountain shook, and the townsfolk fled, thinking it was the end. But when they came back, the dragon was dead. Its head was missing, its body sprawled across the land. And the prisoner? He left without saying a word, leaving only his crimson spear and an inscription carved into stone.”

Dante leaned in closer, utterly absorbed. “What did it say?”

Joseph looked to the sky, his voice carrying a mix of awe and sadness. “He wrote: Today, I slay this dragon not for fame, but for justice. Take not my thanks, only my weapon. May it find its destined wielder.”

Joseph gestured toward a distant mountain peak. “The spear and the inscription are still there, beneath the memorial built in his honor. It’s been over two thousand years, and no one’s been able to claim it.”

Dante followed Joseph’s gaze, staring at the distant peak with wonder. His mind raced with questions and admiration. A prisoner who didn’t fight for himself but for others, leaving only his legacy behind—what kind of person could carry such a weight?

For the first time in ages, Dante felt something stir deep within him—a faint but persistent spark of inspiration.