< Back to the present...>
Leo gasped. The vision of the flowers, his friends... vanished like smoke between his fingers.
The knife fell from his hands. The goblins were already in front of him, surrounding him with their eyes gleaming with hunger, their drooling teeth ready to tear his flesh.
"How did I end up here... alone... in this world...?" Leo thought as his eyelids grew heavy and his consciousness faded.
Amidst the uncertainty and the inevitable end that awaited Leo, a sharp sound, a crash that shook the ground as if the dungeon itself had roared.
A figure descended like thunder from the darkness above. A colossal fist wrapped in golden light struck the first goblin with such force that it disintegrated into a shower of magical dust.
The other two had no time to react. The lifeless bodies of the others lay sprawled on the ground. The figure crushed them, without mercy.
One. Two. Three sharp blows. A flash of steel from one of the goblins' daggers echoed in the room along with a roar of pain. And then... silence.
Leo barely caught sight of a figure approaching, an imposing silhouette, a man with white hair and a gray beard, with eyes bright as fire, burning like embers. He wore a dark robe that moved solemnly in the air. His gait was firm. His presence, impossible to ignore and impossible to describe, could almost be called "divine." The goblins lay dead at his feet, their bodies strewn like broken and forgotten dolls.
"You have fought admirably, child..." he said in a deep, measured voice, as if each word were a bell ringing in the soul. "Even when you had nothing in your favor."
Leo tried to move. But his body no longer responded. He could only look at him, his face covered in blood and tears.
"Rest, child. Your story... is not over yet," the man finished in a deep tone of voice.
The man leaned over, and his shadow covered him completely. He reached out his hand to the dying boy, a firm, warm, strong hand, just as Andrés had done years ago among the flowers.
Leo, before losing consciousness, could barely move his fingers to reach it before darkness flooded his surroundings.
< A New Awakening >
A faint buzzing filled the air. The air was thick with humidity. There was so much dust that it hung in the light of a flickering torch dancing above his head.
When he opened his eyes, Leo saw a stone ceiling crossed by rotten wooden beams. Leo woke up with a start, gasping for breath. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his torso. He cried out through clenched teeth and saw the makeshift bandage on his side soaked in dried blood. The burning sensation from his wounds forced him to lie back down with a groan. His breathing was ragged. He looked around.
He was in what appeared to be an old, spacious basement, covered with cobwebs in every corner. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rust and aged leather. The stone walls were adorned with shelves crammed with old weapons: nicked swords, broken axes, corroded shields, bows without strings. There was armor of all kinds, much of it covered in dust, some of it partially destroyed.
In one corner, shelves were filled with dusty jars, books were stacked in open boxes, and a nearly burned-out oil lamp cast dancing shadows throughout the room. Several boxes were open, filled with broken potions and others that still seemed to glow faintly, as if their magic had not completely expired.
A threadbare rug lay under his feet, and a mirror broken in half hung crookedly on a central column. It was a warehouse forgotten by time.
With effort, Leo stood up again, letting out a groan as the pain shot through his side once more. He put his hand on his chest, feeling the bandages. He was shivering with cold.
Next to one of the shelves, he found a short sword. It had a nicked blade and a handle wrapped in worn leather, but it would do. He took it and leaned on it as if it were a cane, staggering as he made his way toward some old stone stairs leading up to the first floor.
< The Dining Room of Memories >
When he opened the upper door, a warm aroma enveloped him. The first floor of the cabin was... it was rustic, cozy, in a strange way. Polished wooden floors, though worn. A lit fireplace crackled softly in a corner.
The walls were decorated with old paintings of a large family. Men and women smiled with glasses raised, posing with weapons, children ran through flowery meadows, but there was one of these paintings that stood out in particular: a large table surrounded by a dozen people, and in the center, a man with a white beard raising a jug. A home that was once full... now silent.
Leo frowned. It was the same man who had saved him.
In the center of the cabin, a modest table, the same one in the painting, was set. In the center, a kind of grayish dough steamed inside a wooden bowl. It didn't look... appetizing.
Sitting in front of it was the same man, now without his robe. He wore an open shirt, revealing a broad, muscular body despite his prominent belly. His arms were hairy like a bear's and covered with scars, his white hair tousled. He held a huge glass of foamy beer, laughing softly.
"Ah, you're alive. Good sign," he said, raising a huge glass of beer that bubbled vigorously. "Come on, sit down. Let me introduce you to my specialty: Ash Drink Soup with Stone Root, Baby Boar Brains, Crocodile Gut, Rotwood Root, Underground Bat Liver... and a pinch of salt!
Leo didn't move. He frowned. It looked like mud. His eyes were fixed on the man suspiciously.
The man noticed and let out a hoarse laugh.
"Ah, of course. It's not the presentation that wins stomachs," he said with a crooked smile. Then, as if anticipating rejection, he opened a leather bag and took out two huge roasted legs of some small pig, still steaming and browned by the fire. "But this... this speaks the universal language of hunger.
"¡Eat, boy! ¡You're dying of starvation!"
He held it out to Leo, who hesitated for a second... The aroma was irresistible. Leo, suspicious, slowly took the leg of meat and took a small bite. The flavor hit him like a storm. The juice soaked his chin. He swallowed. Then another. And another.
Oil, salt, slow-cooked meat... Leo couldn't stop. In seconds, he was devouring the food like an animal, chewing little, swallowing a lot, tearing the meat with his teeth, feeling the heat fill him inside. Hunger transformed him.
He threw himself into the soup. Then the bread. Then more meat. He became a whirlwind of hunger. The pieces slipped through his fingers; he didn't chew, he just swallowed.
The man just watched him, drinking from his jug. His eyes were analyzed. The boy was thin. Very thin. Skin stuck to bone, but his eyes were lively. Quick. Observant. And his body, though skinny, had the fiber of someone who had survived more than he should have, someone interesting.