Chapter 4: Soup, Scum, and Survival
The aroma struck first.
Warm, earthy, and nostalgic in a way that shouldn't have been possible in a place like Grayridge. The pot simmered quietly over a cobbled fire pit, steam curling upward like a whisper of hope—or at least a distraction from despair.
Leon stood beside it—small, scrappy, and calm in the eye of life's endless storm. A teenage orphan with one ladle and zero patience for fate's nonsense.
His "stall" was laughable: two broken crates holding up a frayed canvas flap, a dented pot that might've once fought in a war, and a soup ladle that looked more like a cursed artifact than cookware. But none of that mattered.
Because the soup?
The soup was divine.
And, more importantly, infinite.
A hunched old man approached first. Face leathery, hands trembling from age or hunger—probably both. He dropped a coin without a word, eyes fixed on the bubbling pot like it held salvation.
Leon handed him a bowl.
A sip.
The man paused.
Then silence—only the sound of slurping, urgent and reverent. Like the world had narrowed to one perfect spoonful of warmth.
"...What magic is this, boy?" the man breathed, eyes glinting with disbelief.
Leon gave a slow blink. "Soup."
Simple. Efficient. Sarcasm sold separately.
Word spread like wildfire doused in rumor. By the third day, Leon had a line.
Ragged children, gruff miners, frazzled mothers holding silent babies. All drawn by the scent and the promise of something rare in Grayridge: comfort.
Grayridge was a place of gritted teeth and hollow eyes, but Leon's soup made people pause. And smile.
Which, obviously, meant it couldn't last.
Trouble always came when life got too warm.
Late on the fourth day, as he packed up what little he had, three silhouettes blocked the setting sun.
Too still.
Too quiet.
Too 'villain intro theme music playing softly in the background'.
Leon didn't look up.
"Nice little setup, kid," one of them drawled. Voice slick, like oil on gravel.
Leon kept cleaning the ladle, movements steady. "Soup?" he offered, tone flat.
"We don't want soup, brat. We want the recipe," the shortest one sneered, showing too many teeth and not enough brain.
Leon finally glanced up.
Ah. Scars. Dead eyes. The usual neighborhood charm.
He met the scarred man's gaze with a calm he didn't entirely feel. "It's water, dirt, and hope. Want the exact ratio?"
The big one growled. "You mocking us?"
Yes.
"No."
Ah. Extortion with seasoning.
Leon gripped the ladle tighter.
This wasn't the first time someone tried to take from him.
But it might be the first time 'he' didn't give.
The scarred thug leaned in, close enough for Leon to smell breath that probably committed crimes on its own. "Last chance, brat."
Leon smiled, slow and sharp. "Go ahead. Try it."
They lunged.
Leon moved first.
The pot turned.
Scalding soup 'splashed' across the nearest thug's arm and chest, and the scream that followed shattered the quiet.
He stumbled back, crashing into crates. The other two froze, eyes wide.
Leon stood firm, steam rising around him like a battle shroud. The ladle in his hand gleamed like justice—and chicken broth.
"You think I made it this far by being helpless?" he growled, voice low, tight.
The remaining two hesitated. Looked at each other. Then at their writhing, boiling friend.
And backed off.
No threats. No comebacks. Just a quiet retreat into the dusk, dragging their screaming comrade behind them like regret.
Only after the shadows vanished did Leon exhale, knees slightly buckling. His body trembled—not from fear, but from the shock of standing his ground.
He looked down at the spoon in his hand.
No. Not a spoon.
A promise.
Later that evening, he sat behind the small inn that had taken him in—a bowl in hand, the stars quietly judging him overhead. He stared into the broth—not for flavor, but for answers.
It wasn't enough.
He had clean clothes now. A place to sleep. A few saved coins.
But not power.
Not safety.
He remembered the feel of that scarred hand reaching for him—of being 'small'. Fragile. A resource, not a person.
Soup was survival.
But survival wasn't strength.
"I need more," he whispered.
And somewhere deep within, the vault stirred. Seven treasures. Seven chances.
A whisper from a higher realm echoed in his mind.
'"Climb the realms."'
Leon looked toward the east, where the distant lights of Duskmoor flickered beyond the trees—mocking him with their unreachable glow.
His grip on the spoon tightened.
"No more hiding," he said.
"No more waiting."
The broth rippled as if in agreement. Or indigestion. Either way, he took it as a sign.
Back in his room, moonlight painted silver stripes across the floor. Leon sat cross-legged on the bed, the infinite spoon resting beside him like a loyal pet with world-ending potential.
He closed his eyes.
'Focus. Will it open.'
The vault responded instantly. A soft hum thrummed in his chest like a purring engine made of starlight and memory.
Within that sacred space, the remaining treasures floated—waiting.
Seven in total.
He'd only used one.
Now it was time to meet the rest.
First: the **Cloak of Mild Invisibility**.
It shimmered faintly, its edges warping like reality had stage fright. Leon willed it forward.
The cloak unfolded in his hands, unimpressive and stubbornly mundane. No dramatic aura. Not even sparkles.
"...Mild," he muttered. "The magical equivalent of lukewarm tea."
Still, he draped it over his shoulders, pulled the hood low, and turned to the mirror.
Nothing changed.
Until he stepped sideways.
His reflection vanished the moment he was out of view.
He blinked. Stepped back. Reappeared. Stepped away—gone again.
He stared.
"So... I'm invisible... when no one's looking?" he murmured.
It was idiotic. Broken logic. The worst kind of magical trolling.
And yet—
His brain kicked into gear. 'Escape. Distraction. Smuggling. Late-night fridge raids.'
He folded it carefully. "Weird. But workable."
Next up: the **Boots of Slight Comfort**.
He expected nothing. He received bliss.
The moment he slipped them on, the aches in his soles vanished. No soreness. No pressure.
Just a warm, cushiony void beneath his feet.
He walked a few circles around the room. "Okay, these slap," he admitted. "10/10. Would survive poverty again."
Boots: activated.
Then came the big one.
The Orb of All-Elemental Affinity.
It floated toward him with the weight of history. Of potential. Of cheat-code energy so dense it could probably sue a volcano for copyright infringement.
The orb pulsed—red, blue, green, gold, void-black. Elemental light danced across its surface like it was showing off.
Leon held it with reverence.
"...You're the one," he whispered. "The broken one. The ticket."
He focused. Willed the orb to awaken. Merge. Shine. Do 'something.'
Nothing.
He frowned. Tried again. Focused harder.
Still nothing.
Then—faintly—a whisper. Not words, but meaning.
The orb was locked.
'Not yet.'
Leon's chest tightened. "Seriously? Now we're gating loot by level?"
No surge of power. No flash of acceptance.
Just silence.
The orb didn't reject him.
It... waited.
A seed of power, meant to bloom in better soil.
He slowly returned it to the vault, lips pressed in thought.
"…Fine," he muttered. "I'll come back for you."
The treasures weren't just gifts.
They were a promise.
A challenge.
He wasn't meant to be overpowered on day one.
He was meant to grow. To earn it.
And he would.
Because soup was only the beginning.