Chapter 3 – Bread or Blood
Mud clung to Loen's ankles like wet chains, sucking at his heels with every panicked stride. The streets of Grayridge were a treacherous grid of uneven stone and piss-stained gutters, but to him, it was a familiar battlefield.
He bolted barefoot through the morning crowd, weaving between carts and curses, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to escape first. Tucked tight to his chest, cradled like some priceless heirloom, was a misshapen, burnt lump of bread. Hard as sin, ugly as regret.
But still—food.
The shouts behind him stabbed through the noise.
"THIEF! Stop him!"
He didn't glance back. Glancing back meant slowing. Slowing meant catching. And catching meant pain. Loen had done this dance before. Plenty of times. Only difference now was the size of the prize. That lump in his arms may have looked like charcoal—but it was his charcoal now.
A crate exploded to his left, vendors shouting as someone barreled through in pursuit.
He ducked into an alley—sharp left, shoulder brushing brick—and dove behind a stack of rotted fish crates. The stench hit like a slap, a miasma of old guts and smoke. His lungs burned, legs trembling, heart kicking against his ribs like a wild thing.
Still… silence.
No guards.
No angry butcher with a cleaver and vengeance issues.
Just the faint drip of water and the occasional creak of a swaying signboard above.
Loen's breath slowed. He slid down against the wall and let the damp, moldy bricks dig into his spine. The bread was still there, pressed to his chest. His fingers clenched around it like a drowning man clutching driftwood.
He peeled away slowly and stared at the prize. Blackened on top, half-stale, already cracked. A mess. Useless to anyone with a choice.
But Loen didn't have choices.
He took a bite.
It was like chewing rock dust wrapped in soot. It scraped his gums, tore at his mouth, and still—he didn't stop. Didn't complain. Just chewed slowly, methodically, forcing his body to accept sustenance.
Every swallow was a victory.
He closed his eyes, resting against the alley wall. Rain drizzled down from above in broken rivulets, carving muddy rivers down the trash-lined stone. His tunic clung to his skin like wet tissue, torn and too thin for the season.
His clothes were nothing more than patchwork misery—holes stitched to more holes, held together by stubbornness and grime. His knees were skinned, his ribs a visible roadmap of hunger.
But none of it mattered.
Not now.
The worst of the danger had passed.
Or so he thought.
A pulse stirred in the back of his mind. Faint. Hollow.
Almost… curious.
It was like something tugged at the edge of his soul.
Loen frowned. He swallowed another bite, slower this time. But the sensation didn't fade. It built. Gently at first—like the hum of tension before a storm.
Then came the pain.
Sudden. Blinding. Violent.
He clutched his skull as his vision exploded with color and static, collapsing sideways into the filth. The bread slipped from his hands, landing in a puddle with a soft, wet splat.
His body convulsed.
Not from cold.
From memory.
A floodgate burst open.
Images hit him in rapid succession—a rooftop soaked in rain. A boy named Devon, all flirty smirks and smarmy grins. A lightning bolt slicing down like divine punctuation.
The void.
The entity.
The gacha wheel.
Leon.
His real name surged through him like fire—Leon, not Loen, not the pitiful creature clawing for moldy bread in the gutters.
A boy who had died with sarcasm on his lips and had bargained with a god.
And won.
Seven prizes, etched into his soul:
- The ridiculous, miraculous spoon of infinite soup.
- A cloak that faded into invisibility when no one watched.
- Boots that mocked him with mere comfort.
- An orb granting mastery over every element.
- A dimension of slowed time, vast and powerful.
- A ring of subtle regeneration.
- A blade whose sharpness conveniently adapted.
They were his.
They were real.
His breath caught as understanding bloomed—cool, crystalline clarity slicing through the pain.
"Your treasures are sealed in a private pocket dimension tethered to your soul."
He didn't know how he knew. Only that it was true.
'Focus,' he told himself. 'Find it.'
Eyes closed, body trembling, he reached inward. Not to thoughts. Not to feelings. But to space.
And then—there it was.
A vault inside his soul. Cold, quiet, and vast. No locks. No keys. Just will.
Leon exhaled sharply.
The alley melted away in that moment. In the silent space behind his eyes, he saw them. All of them. Hanging there like celestial artifacts.
And with a single mental nudge, he summoned the one he needed most.
The spoon.
It blinked into his hand—unassuming, dull, completely mundane.
Then it filled.
Piping hot broth steamed gently from its shallow bowl. The scent hit first—rich, savory, actual food. His stomach, which had settled into numb acceptance of misery, growled with renewed fury.
He took a sip.
He nearly moaned aloud.
It was perfect. Creamy. Balanced. A medley of herbs and meats he couldn't name, but never wanted to forget.
He ate again. And again.
And when the flavor didn't fade—when the spoon refilled—he laughed.
Quiet at first. Then louder.
A low, bitter chuckle that cracked into something wilder. Not madness.
Relief.
Victory.
He didn't have to scrape anymore.
He didn't have to crawl.
He had power now.
The realization hit like sunrise after a century of night. He wasn't weak. Not anymore.
Still sitting in filth, rain dripping off his chin, Leon looked down at the spoon like it was a scepter.
A grin tugged at his lips—sharp, dangerous.
"I suppose infinite soup isn't such a bad start," he muttered.
Then, quieter—eyes narrowing as the weight of the world shifted just slightly beneath him:
"Let's see what I can cook up next."
He leaned back against the wall, soup still in hand, watching the rain dance off rusted tin and broken roofs above. For the first time in this world, he didn't feel like prey. Not a beggar. Not a ghost. Just a boy with power.
And a damn good spoon.