Chapter 4: Soup, Scum, and Survival
The smell hit him first—warm, earthy, and oddly comforting in a place like Grayridge where comfort didn't exist. It drifted up from the dented pot over his makeshift fire pit, cutting through the cold air like something from a half-remembered dream.
Leon stood beside it, barefoot on cracked stone, his hair a mess from the wind and his clothes unwashed for three days. He was small for his age, all sharp angles and skinny limbs, but he kept his back straight.
In front of him sat the pot of soup. Behind him was everything he owned—a cloth sack and two wooden crates holding up a piece of patchy canvas that he generously called a stall.
It didn't look like much.
But the soup? The soup was perfect.
And it never ran out.
Leon almost smiled as steam curled upward in the fading sunlight. He didn't call out to customers or wave them over like the other vendors. He just stood there with his ladle, waiting.
The first customer came as the sun started to set—an old man, hunched over and shaking, the kind of thin that came from not having enough to eat. His eyes went straight to the pot like he was afraid it might disappear.
He dropped a single copper coin onto the crate.
Leon said nothing, just handed him a bowl.
The old man took a careful sip, then stopped. No words came, just the sound of steady slurping—slow and deliberate, like he was trying to make it last forever.
Finally, his voice came out rough and cracked. "What kind of magic is this, boy?"
Leon blinked. "Soup."
No smile. No explanation. Just that one word and the ladle held ready for the next customer.
The old man nodded slowly and shuffled away, holding the bowl carefully in both hands like it contained liquid gold.
Word spread fast.
By the third day, there was a line.
Grayridge didn't do lines. Grayridge did shoving, cursing, and stealing. But here, next to one scrawny kid and his beat-up pot, people actually waited their turn. Ragged children. Coal-stained miners. Exhausted mothers with babies wrapped in whatever cloth they could find. Nobody smiled at first, but after they ate, something in their faces softened.
Grayridge didn't change. But for a few minutes each day, it got quieter.
That was enough.
Of course, it couldn't last.
Late on the fourth day, as Leon was cleaning up, three shadows fell across his firelight.
He didn't look up. He heard their boots first—too clean for this part of town. Then came the silence, the kind that felt hungry and mean.
"Nice little setup, kid."
The voice was smooth but fake, like oil poured over broken glass.
Leon kept washing his ladle slowly. "Want some soup?"
The voice got harder. "We don't want soup, brat. We want the recipe."
Another voice joined in, higher and cocky. "Yeah. Hand it over, or you'll get hurt."
Leon finally looked up.
Three men. Scarred, armed, trying to look casual and failing badly. The shortest one was grinning like he enjoyed this part of the job.
Leon studied the leader's face. Cracked lips. Yellow teeth. Hands that wouldn't stay still.
Cheap bullies. Probably desperate.
He looked back at his pot. "It's water, some vegetables, and hope," he said. "Want me to write that down?"
The biggest one growled. "You making fun of us?"
Leon shrugged. "No."
But his hand tightened on the ladle. They were going to try to take everything.
His jaw clenched. Let them try.
The scarred leader stepped closer, his breath hot and rotten. "Last chance, kid."
Leon met his eyes without flinching. "Go ahead," he whispered. "Try it."
The man lunged forward.
Leon was faster.
He flicked the pot with practiced ease, sending hot soup flying through the air. It splashed across the thug's arm and chest. Steam hissed. The man's scream cut through the alley like breaking glass.
The thug stumbled backward, crashing into the wall. His friends just stood there, frozen.
Leon stepped forward, steam rising around him like smoke. The ladle gleamed in the firelight.
"You think I survived this long by being helpless?" His voice didn't shake.
The other two looked at their writhing friend, then at Leon.
They backed away without saying a word. No threats. No tough talk. Just footsteps disappearing into the darkness, dragging their injured friend behind them.
Leon stood there until they were gone. Only then did he let his shoulders sag.
His legs felt weak. He stared at the ladle in his hand—still dripping with broth, still whole.
Not just a ladle.
A weapon.
—
That night, he sat behind the inn with a bowl in his hands, looking up at stars that seemed to flicker like they were nervous. The soup had cooled, but he sipped it anyway.
He couldn't taste it.
Didn't need to.
It wasn't enough anymore.
Clean clothes. A room with a real roof. Coins hidden under a loose floorboard. But no real safety. No real strength.
He remembered the thug's hand reaching for him—remembered feeling small and helpless. How quickly things could have gone wrong.
The soup kept him alive. That was all.
But he wanted more than just survival.
He said it out loud. "I need more."
Something stirred inside him—like starlight humming under his skin. The vault responded.
Seven treasures. Still waiting. Still his.
A whisper echoed in his mind, wordless but clear:
Grow stronger.
His eyes turned east toward Duskmoor's distant glow through the trees—far away, but not impossible.
His grip on the ladle tightened.
"No more hiding," he murmured. "No more just getting by."
The soup rippled gently. He took that as agreement.
—
Later, in his room, moonlight painted silver stripes across the floor. Leon sat cross-legged on the bed. The infinite ladle rested beside him, warm and solid.
He closed his eyes.
Focus. Open the vault.
It responded immediately. A gentle hum in his chest. Not loud or dramatic. Just there.
Inside, seven treasures waited.
He'd only used one so far.
Time for more.
First: Cloak of Mild Invisibility.
It floated toward him, shimmering faintly around the edges like heat waves. Leon reached out and caught it as it folded neatly into his hands.
No bright flash. No surge of power. Just cloth that felt oddly stubborn.
"Mild," he muttered. "The magical equivalent of lukewarm water."
Still, he put it on and pulled up the hood.
Nothing happened. He turned to check his reflection—gone. He stepped back—there he was again. Another step—invisible.
He blinked.
Only invisible when nobody's looking?
He snorted. "That's ridiculous."
But his mind was already working. Escapes. Distractions. Sneaking around.
He folded it carefully. "Weird," he whispered. "But useful."
—
Next: Boots of Slight Comfort.
They looked ordinary—worn leather, no decoration, nothing special.
He put them on.
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. All the aches in his feet disappeared. The floor felt like soft grass after rain.
He walked around the room slowly, then again.
"Okay," he murmured. "These are actually amazing."
—
Last for tonight: The Orb of All-Elemental Affinity.
It floated forward like it was too important to be held carelessly. Leon reached out with both hands.
Colors flickered across its surface—red, blue, green, purple, gold. Elemental light shifting like it couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
He held it carefully.
"You're the important one," he whispered. "The real game-changer."
He focused, trying to activate it.
He tried once—nothing. Tried again—still nothing. Then, finally, a faint response stirred—not rejection, just a quiet delay. An answer that felt like: not yet.
He stared at the orb. "Seriously?"
No flash. No power. Just that same steady pulse.
It wasn't ready.
Because he wasn't ready.
He put it back in the vault, pressing his lips together.
"Fine."
Not yet didn't mean never, He had time, and he planned to earn it.
Because infinite soup would keep him alive.
But it wouldn't make him strong.
Not by itself.