"Some places don't kill you. They keep you alive just long enough to charge you for it."
Three. Days. Later.
"I… think I've seen that tree before," Kael muttered, squinting at a crooked tree with a branch that looked like it was giving him a thumbs-down.
"YOU'VE SAID THAT FOUR TIMES ALREADY!" Tharon clanged from inside the sheath, grinding so hard it sounded like he was about to fall apart. "AND GUESS WHAT? YOU WERE RIGHT EVERY SINGLE TIME!"
Kael sighed. "Technically, it's a cycle…"
"'CYCLE'? WE'RE JUST GOING IN CIRCLES!"
His backpack, once full, now only made the sound of despair: wind and crumbs.
No sign of the ninja. No breadcrumb trail. No dignity.
"This is your fault, Tharon. You didn't want to follow that squirrel."
"SQUIRRELS DON'T LEAD PEOPLE TO CITIES, YOU WALKING DISASTER!"
The sun was already setting for the fourth time since they'd entered the forest. Their clothes reeked, boots caked in mud, and their eye bags could probably be sold as rare items.
And then…
At the top of a small hill, between the twisted branches and the orange-tinged light of late afternoon…
"Wait…" Kael's eyes widened as he pointed. "There… look at that!"
On the horizon, blurred by hunger and exhaustion, the outline of walls. Towers. Flags fluttering in the wind.
The city. The glorious, unreachable city.
Tharon nearly rattled himself out of the sheath.
"I'M NEVER LEAVING THIS CITY AGAIN. NEVER. AGAIN."
"See? Told you I knew the way…" Kael grinned, stumbling over his own feet as he ran down the hill—a mix of relief and starvation driving him forward.
He sprinted toward the gate like a man about to hug civilization itself. The guard raised an eyebrow, suspicious.
"Hey, you two… where the hell—" the guard began.
"So… we were… in the forest… looking for…" Kael tried to explain, tripping over his words, his legs, and possibly his entire existence.
But he didn't finish.
The world trembled. Colors drained. Time itself seemed to freeze—and in the next instant, everything shifted.
Kael collapsed forward, smashing his knee, his chin, and probably his dignity against the ground.
"HA! I KNEW IT!" Tharon shook in his sheath, laughing like someone who didn't have lungs but would trade anything just to laugh louder. "Three days walking in circles and who faceplants at the city gate? The enlightened one who 'knew the way'!"
The guard sighed. Looked up, as if asking the gods for strength… then looked down, clearly asking for patience.
"…Yeah. Just another normal day in Anselm," he muttered, crouching to check if the guy was still breathing. "Come on, let's get this one to the Healing House before he pukes on the cobblestones."
The Healing House of Anselm was… functional. Or at least, that's what the crooked sign out front claimed.
Inside, the smell was a cocktail of herbs, alcohol, scorched cloth, and deeply questionable medical decisions. And, of course, manning the front desk… was an intern.
Hair tied back in a rush, lab coat wrinkled, and the kind of dark circles under her eyes that screamed, "I was thrown into this job with a 'figure it out.'"
"Oh, seriously?" the intern groaned as the guard walked in, carrying an unconscious guy and a sword that talked way more than should be legally allowed. "The Master went out for another house call… AGAIN."
"Yeah, Flower. This one passed out at the gate," the guard explained, dropping Kael onto the cot in a position that could only be described as 'mildly tragic.' "He's all yours."
"Great… perfect… wonderful…" she muttered, already rushing to grab a cloth, a basin, or maybe just a shred of dignity—whatever was still in stock.
Tharon rattled suspiciously.
"Hmph… is this a healing house or a trap? Because the smell is… questionable."
"Look, I don't have glasses, but if you want, I can hang you on a coat rack," the intern shot back, rolling her eyes. "And just so you know… if he stays more than a day, he has to pay for lodging. This isn't a shelter."
"PAY?!" Tharon barked. "He's UNCONSCIOUS! Shouldn't this count as, I don't know… charity? Mercy?!"
"Nope," she replied flatly, scribbling something onto a half-torn scroll. "Welcome to Anselm."
Hours passed. The sun had already started leaning westward when, finally…
"Huuurgh…" Kael groaned, blinking slowly like someone trying to figure out if he was alive, dead… or just suffering from an existential hangover.
He looked at the ceiling. Then to the side. Saw the intern chopping mushrooms. And saw the soup.
"…No," he whimpered. "Not mushrooms… not again…"
"HAHAHA! YES!" Tharon cackled. "Mushroom soup, straight from the forest to your mouth! A gift from life itself, my friend!"
"I… I can't even look at it…" Kael whispered, clutching his stomach, which was already negotiating whether it still wanted to be a stomach.
The intern placed the bowl on the table and crossed her arms.
"You want to walk out of here or be carried on a stretcher? Because the first option goes through the soup."
Kael closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. And with the dignity of someone who'd lost everything in life except maybe his liver, he picked up the spoon.
"…Fine. I'll eat. But I swear… if I see another mushroom after today, I'm burning down the entire forest."
And so, chewing on sadness and broth, Kael carried on—because life doesn't wait. And it sure as hell doesn't offer you tea. Just mushroom soup.
It didn't take long for Kael to leave the Healing House, hugging the walls just to avoid being charged for lodging.
"Next time, try dying before you get here. Makes my job easier," the intern shouted from the reception window, waving off dust from some random bandage.
"And bring back the spoon. It belongs to the House."
Kael grumbled, the bitter taste of mushroom soup still clinging to his tongue.
He shuffled down a narrow street, turned into an alley, and dropped himself onto the ground, leaning against the cold wall.
"Seriously… if I see another mushroom in this life, I swear I'll turn… herbivorous or something," he muttered, face twisted between exhaustion and existential betrayal.
Tharon, still sheathed and glinting in the sunset, gave a dry metallic rattle.
"Pfft. If you manage that, let me know. I'd love to carry less dead weight."
"Easy for you to say. All you do is slice things," Kael sighed.
"And you're the one who has to deal with it, Kael. Don't come crying later."
"Merciless, huh?" Kael frowned.
With effort, he stood up, and the two made their way to the guard post near the central plaza.
The moment they stepped inside, they were greeted by a shrill voice that cut through the air like a badly tuned bell.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT HERE?!" The shout came from a large, muscular minotaur with a chipped horn and eyes far too shy for the rest of his intimidating frame.
"Easy, boss!" one of the smaller guards tried to calm him down. "They're just a couple of outsiders asking questions."
Kael stepped forward, a bit awkwardly. "We were wondering if anyone's seen a ninja around here… Suspicious guy, showed up out of nowhere, stole our food, vanished into the woods."
The minotaur scratched his head with one massive hand. "A ninja? Around these parts? No one's seen a ninja. Haven't even heard of one. You can count on that."
"Well, we saw one. And he took our bread!" Kael huffed, while Tharon let out a low, sarcastic chuckle from the sheath.
"Hm… weird," the minotaur muttered, glancing at the other guards. "Any of you hear anything about a ninja stealing food?"
"Nope, boss," they replied in unison.
Kael and Tharon exchanged a look—or rather, Kael looked at Tharon, who gleamed in the sheath like he was saying, "rock bottom, huh?"
They left the guard post grumbling about the ninja and life in general.
"That ninja's gonna be the end of our patience," Kael muttered.
"If he shows up again, I want you to give him a nice, sharp 'hello,'" Tharon rattled.
"Leave it to me," Kael replied with a tired smile.
Out of ideas, they wandered toward the guild hall, still arguing about the ninja, the missing bread, and the guy's uncanny ability to vanish.
As they reached the guild's front door, Kael sighed.
"Well… let's see if we can find a lead in there."
Tharon gave a metallic nod, ready for whatever came next.
"And let's hope this part of the story has fewer mushrooms," Tharon clinked, more acidic than vinegar poured on an open wound.
The guild hall felt like it was mocking them. That door creaked on purpose. The air reeked of sweat, cheap beer, and collective failure. A true aquarium of losers, dreamers, and low-budget criminals.
They walked up to the counter. The receptionist was there, as always. Untouchable. Perfect posture, crooked glasses on her nose, and the expression of someone who woke up asking philosophical questions and decided that would be her only language for the day.
Kael took a deep breath, left what little dignity he had at the door, and said:
"Any chance someone's seen a ninja? Black hood, vanished into thin air… stole our bread."
She didn't blink. Turned a page in her ledger, dipped her quill, and replied without looking:
"But… what is a ninja, really? A person… or an idea? Something one sees… or merely senses?"
Kael held back a scream. Clenched his fists. Counted to… zero.
"I just want to know if anyone saw a suspicious guy. Yes or no?"
She slowly raised her eyes, adjusted her glasses with a gesture so theatrical it could've won an award.
"And what if… the true suspect… is the one who suspects?"
Tharon nearly snapped his own blade from grinding so hard.
"By the steel of my soul… SHE'S GOING TO KEEP THIS UP UNTIL SHE DIES."
Kael massaged his temple.
"Okay. Okay. Fine. The ninja wins. He takes our bread, our hope, our sanity. That's it."
He turned around, breathing deeply, trying not to punch a wall—or fate itself.
"Great. Mission: Spitting Herbs… failed."
The receptionist raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"But… did it fail… or did the mission simply reveal the failure within you?"
"I… I don't…" Kael froze. Blinked three times. Looked at the ceiling, the floor, and his life. "Miss, seriously… got any other quests? Anything. JUST not the frog."
The receptionist smiled. That thin, sharp smile—like a blade pressed against the jugular of patience.
"But… if the frog still croaks… is it a problem solved… or merely ignored?"
Kael and Tharon, in perfect unison, synchronized in suffering:
"NO FREAKING WAY."
"Hm…" she flipped through the ledger slowly, like someone choosing which form of torture would be the most entertaining. "And what if… I told you there's a farmer in need of help? But… help with what, exactly? Help… whom? Or perhaps… help yourself?"
Kael squinted.
"Help… how?"
"What if it were… a harvest? But… a harvest of what?"
Silence. The tension thickened in the air, dense as cold mushroom soup.
She adjusted her glasses, savoring the moment like a villain at the peak of her monologue.
"Crying… onions. But do they cry… or do they make you cry?"
Kael held back a scream with the strength of a thousand ancestors.
"This is a joke, right?"
"But… what is a joke, truly? Is life itself… not the greatest one of all?"
Tharon was vibrating, rattling like metal on the verge of combustion.
"I should've been born a pair of scissors."
Kael took a deep breath, staring into the void.
"…Fine. Fine. Onions. We'll take it."
"But… do you truly accept it? Or are you merely pretending to accept… to escape the anguish of the frog?" she replied, sliding the quest scroll across the counter.
They signed. No arguments. They didn't even have the energy left to resist.
Just as they were pushing open the guild door, Kael froze.
That chill—sharp, crawling up his spine. Not wind. Not hunger. Not a hangover. Not worms. Just… pure MALICE.
He turned his head. Searched. Nothing. Just drunks, card players, and a guy sleeping while hugging a barrel that was probably worth more than his dignity.
"Tharon…" Kael whispered, cold.
"I felt it," Tharon replied, his voice a low metallic whisper. "And it wasn't an onion."
They kept walking. The Crying Onions quest scroll fluttered in Kael's hand, silently promising that yes—life could still get worse.
"Sometimes I wish I couldn't read, Tharon."
"I wish I were a spoon," he groaned. "Just… a spoon."
They'd barely taken three steps outside the guild when Kael stopped again. Hand on his face. Eyes distant. That kind of silence that hits like a critical hit—without even rolling the dice.
"…Tharon." His voice came out dry, cracking. "We're out of bread… out of coins… and out of dignity."
Tharon, already back in full sarcasm mode:
"Wow. And here I thought we were rich in hope and expired mushrooms."
Kael squinted. "Nope. Can't do it. If we don't find food, not even onions will save us."
Silence. The kind that weighs like debt.
"We're going to the Serpent's Eye," he blurted, spitting the words like they burned. "We'll talk to old Thalga. Maybe… I don't know… maybe there's something left for us."
Tharon rattled, annoyed.
"You've lost it. She hates me."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "She hates everyone. That's never stopped food from coming out of her kitchen."
"She called me a lump of iron with a god complex last time," Tharon grumbled, rattling in his sheath. "And threatened to sell me for scrap."
"And you think I like her?" Kael shot back. "Let's go before it gets completely dark."
They walked on. Dragging their feet. Arguing on autopilot.
"What does she even cook with? Grease? Let's not forget I nearly died of poisoning last time," Tharon muttered with every step.
"You don't even have a stomach. Shut up," Kael snapped. "And she doesn't cook with grease. Anymore. I think."
The sky was already losing that orange hue—half romantic, half apocalyptic—giving way to purple, gray, and full-on gloom. Lanterns flickered on here and there, more to avoid tripping over drunks than to actually light the way.
They turned a corner. The street narrowed, dirtier now, reeking of mold, beer, and bad decisions.
"You sure she hasn't moved?" Tharon asked, suspicious.
"No one moves in the Serpent's Eye," Kael replied flatly. "You only move if you die. And she's too old for even death."
A few more steps and… dead end. Dark. The kind of dark where you could almost hear your own misery echoing off the walls.
And then… a glow.
That greasy yellow light, spilling from an open door at the end of the alley. The smell—oh, the smell. Stale beer, burnt bread, questionable meat, and… something that could honestly be anything.
There it was. The crooked sign, half-hanging, swaying in the wind:
THE SERPENT'S EYE"If it doesn't kill you, it feeds you."
"There… we made it," Kael sighed.
Tharon rattled bitterly.
"Last chance to run. We can still starve with dignity."
Kael cracked his knuckles, adjusted the torn cloak on his shoulders, and stared at the open door—where shadows danced in the greasy yellow light.
"Dignity doesn't fill your stomach. Let's go."
And so they crossed the threshold of hunger… or regret. Maybe both. Because in Anselm, if it doesn't kill you… it charges you for the stay.
End of Chapter 4.