“What?” Breeze blinked, startled by the sudden hostility etched into the bakers' expressions. Their eyes, narrow and guarded, seemed to assess him as a threat. “Oh! My weapons?” He raised his hands slightly in a placating gesture. “They’re clean—just got them back from the maintenance department.”
The tension in the room evaporated as though swept away by a warm summer breeze. Their stern faces transformed into welcoming smiles, almost unnervingly fast.
“How can we help you, dear customer?” the man behind the counter chirped, his tone suddenly saccharine.
Breeze stood there, stunned by the rapid mood shift, but decided not to question it. “Uh… ten meat buns, please?”
The man reached under the counter, quickly producing a bag brimming with fragrant, steaming pastries.
“Could you split them into two bags? Five in each?” Breeze asked.
“Certainly, sir,” the baker replied with exaggerated politeness, his hands moving swiftly as he separated the contents. With practiced ease, he folded the edges of each bag neatly and handed them over.
“Thanks for your patronage!”
Breeze nodded, murmuring his thanks as he exited the shop. The tantalizing aroma of the buns wafted up, weaving through his senses like an enchantment. His stomach growled in protest, but he resisted the urge to tear into them. Quickening his pace, he focused on reaching the inn before his resolve crumbled entirely.
----------------------------------------
The narrow hallway outside Sayah’s room was eerily quiet as Breeze approached. Gently, he knocked three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound echoed faintly, but no response came.
“She must be asleep,” he muttered under his breath. Cracking the door open, he slipped her freshly cleaned equipment inside, along with one of the bags of buns. The faint moonlight filtering through the room's window cast pale silver beams across her belongings.
Pausing, he glanced at the remaining bag in his hand. A sly grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Just one won’t hurt,” he said to himself, plucking a bun from the bundle.
Stepping back into the hallway, he examined the pastry in his hand. It was warm and soft, its golden-brown surface glistening faintly from the thin layer of oil brushed over it. As he turned it over, savoring its aroma, a sudden thought struck him.
“Should I? Hmm…” His grin widened. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
----------------------------------------
Descending the stairs, Breeze approached the innkeeper. The older man looked up from his ledger, one brow raised in curiosity.
“Do you have a piece of charcoal I could use for writing?” Breeze asked.
The innkeeper rummaged through a nearby drawer before handing him a small fragment. “Here. Not the best for writing, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
“Perfect,” Breeze said, holding the charcoal delicately as he returned to his room.
Sitting at the small wooden desk near his bed, he set the bun bag before him and began writing. Despite the charcoal’s rough edges and smudgy nature, Breeze’s strokes were precise and elegant, the letters forming clear, deliberate lines.
“Phew. I outdid myself this time,” he said, admiring his handiwork. “Considering she can barely read, I made it as simple as possible.”
Satisfied, he returned the charcoal to the innkeeper and left, the bag clutched tightly in his hands.
----------------------------------------
The streets were quieter now, the bustle of the day giving way to the stillness of evening. As Breeze approached Samar’s house, his heart began to race. His fingers tightened around the bag as he hesitated in front of the door.
Finally, he set the bag down gently on the doorstep and then stepped back into the shadows. Plucking another bun from the bag for himself, he leaned against a nearby wall, waiting.
Minutes later, he spotted her in the distance. Samar walked with her usual air of confidence, her sharp eyes scanning her surroundings. Breeze’s breath hitched as she drew closer, his pulse quickening inexplicably.
When she reached the door, she paused, her gaze locking onto the bag. Her brows furrowed in suspicion, and she stepped back, her foot lifting as if to kick it away.
Breeze tensed, his voice caught in his throat. “Wait—”
But she didn’t kick it. Instead, she crouched down, tilting her head to examine the writing on the bag. Her lips moved silently as she read:
“To my dearest person.”
His name, “Breeze,” was scrawled neatly in the bottom corner, like a signature on a letter.
The blush that spread across her face was visible even in the dim light. Her startled gasp broke the silence. “Kyaaa!”
Overwhelmed, she snatched the bag and crushed it to her chest, her hands trembling as she tried to regain her composure.
From his hiding spot, Breeze covered his face with both hands, his cheeks burning. “Why did I write that?” he muttered to himself, utterly mortified.
Without waiting to see what Samar would do next, he turned and fled, his heart pounding in his chest. As he walked away, he chuckled nervously. “Now she’s got one big bun instead of four small ones,” he joked, imagining the squished contents of the bag.
----------------------------------------
The streets seemed to glow as Breeze made his way back to the inn. He walked as though weightless, his steps light and buoyant. His shoulders, usually tense, were relaxed, and a quiet smile played on his lips.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
He felt as though he were floating between reality and dream, carried by an invisible current of warmth and joy. The memory of Samar’s reaction lingered in his mind, and he found himself grinning uncontrollably.
By the time he reached his room, the stars were scattered across the sky, their faint light casting a serene glow over the city. Dinner was served, and Breeze ate heartily before retreating to his bed.
----------------------------------------
Once settled, Breeze unwrapped the bandages around his torso, revealing the shaped muscles that his body developed—a testament to his struggles, hard work, and survival. Reaching into his belongings, he pulled out an ancient book.
Its leather cover, made from the hide of a high-ranking monster, bore the embossed image of a poisonous plant. Despite its age, the book showed no signs of wear, its sturdy parchment untouched by time.
Breeze opened it to the first page, where elegant handwriting greeted him:
----------------------------------------
Chapter 1:
To all my descendants who find this book in their hands,
I hope you are doing well, though I fear the world you live in may be as treacherous as the one I write from. This book is more than mere words; it is our family's mission, a testament to our unyielding hope, and a guide for all who share the burden of our legacy. Within these pages lies the foundation of our lifelong endeavor: the elimination of those tyrannical forces who have ruled without justice, mercy, or understanding of the difference between good and evil.
Each generation must add to this book. You must fill these pages with your discoveries, your hard-won knowledge, and the strategies that may one day lead us to freedom. Only the best of the best—those with pure hearts and unwavering determination—can carry this mission forward.
How should I begin? My heart is heavy with the memories of what I have seen, and my hands tremble even now as I write. It all happened so quickly. The streets were painted red, corpses piled like discarded refuse. The stench of death lingered in the air for days, a haunting reminder of the carnage that unfolded. I was the only lucky one who managed to escape that massacre with my life intact, though my soul bears the scars of what I witnessed.
You may wonder what led to such a catastrophe. The seeds of this tragedy were sown long before the blood began to spill, when a righteous man—driven by hatred toward the corrupt rulers—discovered something extraordinary about himself. He learned that he possessed a rare gift: a profound knowledge of poisons and their properties that awakened within him instinctively whenever he consumed a toxic herb. It was as if he carried an encyclopedia of pharmacognosy within his mind.
This man, an herbalist by trade, came to know about his ability under dire circumstances. A member of one of the high-ranking families had taken an interest in his wife. When she resisted his advances, the noble sought to eliminate her husband through poison, disguising it as an accident. The herbalist survived, which was the trigger for him knowing that his special ability was herbal poison knowledge and immunity to it. The sad part was that his wife also consumed poison. Ironically, he survived, and she died. Faking his death, the herbalist escaped his town to a safer place.
Anguish clung to him like a shadow, mourning the loss of his cherished companion on life's winding path, so he dedicated his life to taking revenge.
At first, he didn’t understand the full extent of his gift, but he began experimenting in secret. One fateful day, driven by desperation and curiosity, he consumed the flesh of a monster—a practice unheard of due to its well-known toxicity. To his astonishment, he discovered that combining certain poisonous herbal extracts with meat neutralizes the toxicity entirely. The resulting meal not only nourished him but also made him stronger, sharper, and more resilient.
To clarify things for you, monster meat is toxic even for herbalists. Their immunity is related to plant-type poison, still, their resistance is stronger than the others. The case here is that he absorbed other herbs so he could neutralize the toxicity of the meat.
This discovery lit a fire within him, a revolutionary idea that refused to be extinguished. He realized his newfound strength, long discovered by the high echelon but still, it could be the key to changing the world. But let me be clear: it's only a discovery for common people, as for the rulers, it's their greatest secret. So he started by gathering a group of trustworthy individuals. He began to train them in secret, sharing his knowledge and building an army to challenge the oppressive high echelons.
For a time, their rebellion shook the foundations of power. The noble families, who had grown fat on their unchecked authority, suffered greatly at the hands of this resistance. The rebellion’s successes inspired hope among the downtrodden, and it seemed as though justice might finally triumph.
But hope, like glass, is fragile, and betrayal is a hammer that strikes without warning.
Among the resistance's high ranks was a man we all trusted, someone we called brother. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a traitor who sold our secrets to the very tyrants we sought to overthrow. His treachery gave the nobles the information they needed to crush us. United by greed and fear, the families and sects launched a coordinated assault on every rebellion stronghold. Our headquarters fell first, followed by the branches scattered across the land. It was a massacre.
I cannot describe the anguish of seeing my comrades—the brave souls who had fought so fiercely for freedom—fall one by one. Their cries of defiance turned to screams of pain, and then to silence. And yet, the greatest pain was not from witnessing their deaths but from realizing that one of our own—a man I once considered my eternal friend—was the architect of our destruction. He stood among the nobles, his face devoid of remorse, as they tore us apart.
I alone survived, though I wish I could say it was because of my strength or cunning. No, it was luck—cruel, bitter luck—that allowed me to escape when so many others perished. It's all because of the mask my family gave me; that I was wearing the whole time to change my facial features. I can say no one knew my true face except my family. I fled to the D’Este territory, the very noble family that destroyed our headquarters; knowing it would likely become my prison. The bastions, you see, were created afterward not to protect us from the monsters outside. That is the lie the nobles tell to keep us in line. Their true purpose is to cage us like animals, ensuring we cannot challenge their power again.
I know now that I will never leave this bastion. My son will likely share the same fate, as will his children and theirs. The chains that bind us are strong, forged from the betrayal and blood of those who came before.
But chains, no matter how strong, can be broken.
This book is my legacy, and it is yours now. To those who carry on our mission, I implore you: learn from my failures. Trust carefully, for betrayal often wears the face of friendship. Use the knowledge within these pages wisely, and seek out others who share our dream. Together, you may find a way to finish what we started and bring an end to the tyranny that has plagued us for generations.
Do not let our sacrifices be in vain.
----------------------------------------
“So, the bastion’s purpose was never to defend us as the common folks know,” Breeze murmured, his brow furrowed. “We owe the monsters an apology for blaming them.”
“Well, my father told me why the bastions were created, but it’s good to know all sides of the story. The problem is, based on what my ancestors said, there were never any bastions before. And my father told me that the world outside is really dangerous, so how did people survive back then? Yawn! Let’s sleep for now—I won’t gain anything by delaying my sleep schedule.”
As his eyes grew heavy, Breeze closed the book and placed it beside him. His thoughts lingered on the secrets it contained as sleep claimed him, and dreams of rebellion and freedom filled his mind.