Ten Years Later
"Wake up, you're almost ready by now," Morn muttered, shaking Shimo with all the gentleness of an earthquake.
His short brown hair bounced as he stared at his friend with black eyes full of impatience and excitement—a dangerous combination, especially in the morning.
Shimo slowly opened his eyes. Still groggy, he rose from bed and walked to the mirror on the wall. His reflection showed messy blue hair that lightened toward the tips, longer than Morn's, and equally blue eyes half-closed with sleep.
He barely had time to inspect himself before a slap on his back—strong enough to wake a hibernating bear—made him gasp.
"By Zorhax's hair! We won't make it in time if you keep admiring yourself," Morn grumbled, tossing a pile of clothes into Shimo's face. The sting in his back had fully awakened him.
"Alright, I'm getting dressed," Shimo replied while pulling on the clothes. A question suddenly struck him, and he turned toward Morn. "But… who exactly is Zorhax? And why his hair?"
Morn instantly assumed a dramatic pose: one finger pressed to his temple, head tilted down, eyes closed like an ancient sage.
"It's a very useful saying when you want to insult someone—subtly."
"Right…" Shimo didn't sound convinced.
"But we can talk about that later. You remember the plan, right?"
"Unfortunately… yes," he muttered, not sounding confident at all.
Morn smiled with the satisfaction of someone about to cause trouble.
"Perfect. Then let's put it into action."
The two left their shared bedroom and headed down the hall toward the central courtyard.
The orphanage was composed of several buildings.
The main one was an imposing stone structure: classrooms on the first floor where children learned the basics, and on the second, the office of the enigmatic Baron Gregory Wilheim—a silent place filled with decisions that shaped destinies.
Beside it rested an old library, more dust than books, with shelves that creaked under decades—possibly centuries—of accumulated stories.
Across the courtyard stood another two-story building. The upper floor housed the kitchen, from which comforting aromas escaped daily. The lower floor was the dining hall, where children as hungry as wolves gathered to devour their meals.
And finally, the dormitory: not as grand as the others, yet home to whispered secrets, hushed laughter, late-night conversations, and dreams murmured before sleep.
It was a place of genuine kindness created by the Baron—a haven where past, present, and future intertwined to give desolate children a sense of purpose, however small.
The autumn morning was still stumbling awake. The first rays of sunlight appeared timidly, painting everything in golden tones. Shadows moved quickly across the courtyard—Shimo and Morn—walking like novice thieves.
Every step calculated.
Every corner scanned.
Every bush evaluated.
The fading darkness was their ally.
The plan demanded absolute secrecy.
They slipped past the classroom building with its gray stone walls, advanced a few meters, and finally reached the back of the kitchen.
Morn walked with exaggerated confidence, as if he knew the area as intimately as Chef Theodore knew his pots.
Shimo, however, touched his arm.
"There," he whispered, pointing discreetly toward the second window across from a solitary tree.
His voice was barely a breath, yet urgent enough for Morn to understand immediately.
The brown-haired boy nodded firmly. His eyes gleamed with the determination of a true adventurer about to face a dragon—or, in this case, steal a pie from the most feared man in the orphanage.
And there it was.
A Red Berry Pie, fresh from the oven, made by none other than Theodore Foodinger.
The mission began at that exact moment.
Shimo and Morn hid between the tree and the stone wall, analyzing the terrain. Through the open window sat the freshly baked pie—a culinary treasure.
The Red Berry Pie.
The pride, passion, and walking fury of Chef Theodore Foodinger.
Theodore was as imposing as his cookware. Straight posture, firm voice, wooden spoon always within reach—his symbol of absolute authority in the kitchen. His mastery over marinades, broths, and meats was indisputable. His patience, however, was as short as a wet fuse.
No orphan dared cross his path without apologizing first. Even the kitchen helpers walked in deadly silence when he was near. And even Baron Gregory, the most influential man in the orphanage, preferred not to interfere when Theodore began "culinary education." No one knew why such an exceptional chef worked here.
Rumors filled the halls:
Unpaid noble debts.
A dramatic escape from aristocratic life.
An old friendship with the Baron.
A disastrous culinary duel in a distant court.
No one knew the truth.
No one dared ask.
Theodore guarded his secrets with the same skill he used to flip a flaming pan.
"Did you bring the bag and the knife?" Morn whispered with military seriousness.
"Right here." Shimo handed him the items tied to his waist.
"Perfect. Now get into position like we practiced yesterday. I'll climb and—"
He didn't finish.
A thunderous roar erupted from inside the kitchen.
"WHO WAS THE IDIOT THAT MADE THIS DISGRACE?! NO SEASONING! NO FLAVOR! WHOEVER COOKED THIS IS A SHAME TO OUR PROFESSION!!!"
Shimo and Morn froze.
Theodore's voice boomed like thunderstorms against the kitchen walls. He slammed his spoon on the table where a pig sat in a bowl of… apparently the wrong ingredients.
"I ASKED FOR OIL! GARLIC! PEPPER! SALT! THESE HERBS RIGHT HERE! ONION! AND A TOUCH OF HONEY! NOW I'LL HAVE TO MAKE ANOTHER ONE, BECAUSE THIS WILL TASTE DISGUSTING!"
Then he stopped abruptly.
He turned to the lone helper nearby.
"YOU! HELP ME GET ANOTHER PIG! MOVE!"
Footsteps echoed, then faded.
Silence returned like a heavy blanket.
Morn inhaled deeply.
"This… this is our chance. Let's go," he whispered, trying to recover his courage.
He climbed the tree. Every movement calculated; every branch, another phase of the mission. Meanwhile, Shimo positioned himself under the window, alert to any sign of danger.
Morn reached the branch that stretched toward the kitchen window, balanced himself, gripped the outer wall, and finally secured his stance.
Now came the hard part.
Then he saw the pie up close.
And the world collapsed.
The pie seemed to radiate its own light.
The golden crust looked dusted with magical particles.
The scarlet filling glowed like freshly cut rubies.
The sweet aroma—warm, inviting, perfect—wrapped around Morn like a powerful spell.
He froze.
No blinking.
No breathing.
As if any movement might break the enchantment.
From below, Shimo recognized the symptoms.
Morn was falling into the Trance of the Supreme Pie.
He sighed, picked up a small stone, aimed…
Pá!
The pebble struck the back of Morn's hand with flawless precision.
"Aaah—!" Morn hissed, snapping out of the trance. He shot Shimo a grateful look while rubbing the spot.
Refocused, he drew the small wooden knife, double-checked the empty kitchen, and swallowed hard.
Time to cut.
The moment he pressed the blade into the shimmering crust, the aroma intensified dramatically, flooding the air like someone had opened a portal to paradise.
He sliced two generous pieces—fit for royalty—and dropped them carefully into the sack Shimo held open.
Morn signaled.
He tossed the bag.
It glided through the air in a perfect arc.
Shimo received it with a smooth, practiced motion—like someone trained to catch precious artifacts.
Flawless.
Everything was going too well.
Perhaps… too well.
Morn prepared to descend.
But as soon as he began retreating along the branch, he heard:
Crack.
He froze.
Crack… crack…
Every shift of his weight made the wood protest.
Scanning for a safe landing point, he spotted a generous pile of dry leaves—maybe enough to cushion an inelegant fall.
He inhaled sharply… and jumped.
The branch snapped instantly, as if waiting for its dramatic cue.
Morn flew.
In his imagination, he soared like a majestic heron gliding gracefully under the sun.
In Shimo's eyes…
He looked like a confused bird slamming into a window before tumbling helplessly.
He crashed headfirst into the leaves with a muffled thud.
For a moment, silence.
Then…
A small hand emerged, giving a thumbs-up.
Alive.
Whole.
A bit scratched.
But fine.
Shimo burst into laughter.
Morn joined.
For a brief moment, the world was nothing more than two boys laughing among the leaves, oblivious to whether Theodore had noticed the theft.
Until—
"What was that noise?" a distant, unfriendly voice boomed.
No doubt about it.
Theodore was returning.
"The mission isn't over… we need to get back to our room without being seen!" Morn whispered urgently as he staggered to his feet.
Together, they vanished across the courtyard, hearts racing, holding the sack like heroes returning from an epic quest.
Under the tender morning light, they sprinted toward the dormitory, carrying their precious loot. The cold air stung their faces, but triumph warmed their bodies.
They slipped through the side door and hurried up the stairs. The dormitory was still quiet—none of the other orphans were awake.
"Let's eat now. Everyone will wake up soon," Morn said, voice hushed with reverence.
Shimo opened the sack and took out the slices. Even squashed from the adventure, they still exhaled a heavenly scent. He placed them on a makeshift wooden board.
They sat at the edge of the bed.
Picked up their pieces.
Exchanged a serious look.
A look that said:
"If we die after this, it was worth it."
They breathed in…
And took a bite.
The first chew brought silence.
The second, light.
The third, life.
The crust dissolved like snow under sunlight. The scarlet filling—strawberry, blackberry, blueberry—burst in layered waves of sweetness: bright, sour, fresh, deep. Each fruit told its own part of the pie's story:
from the seed buried in dark soil,
to the rain that fed the sprout,
from the sprout stretching toward the sun,
to the ripe fruit carefully picked,
and finally… transformed by Theodore's skilled hands.
It was as if the entire field lived inside that slice.
For a few blissful moments, both boys were transported there—into that simple, perfect world.
They devoured everything.
When they finished, the room fell into a deep, reverent silence. A sacred silence. A silence owed to a masterpiece.
Morn reacted first.
Two small tears rolled down his cheeks.
He stared into nothing, silently thanking the gods, the fruits, the wheat… even Theodore himself.
No words needed.
Shimo simply fell backwards onto the bed, as if the pie had drained his entire life force. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.
Blood.
Shimo jolted awake, heart pounding.
He looked at his hands.
Red.
Wet.
Dark crimson.
His mind jumped to the worst.
"Blood? Whose? What… happened?"
He scanned the room for Morn.
Didn't see him.
His breathing grew heavy.
"Morn?! MORN?!"
He sprang up—then saw it.
Morn lay on the floor, sleeping deeply, twisted in a way only someone exhausted (or extremely clumsy) could manage.
Shimo looked down at his hands again.
That red…
It was just pie filling.
He exhaled so loudly he nearly woke the entire orphanage.
With his pulse calming, he knelt beside Morn.
"Morn… come on. It's almost time…"
Nothing.
Morn didn't budge.
Shimo hesitated for a moment, then declared theatrically:
"Hm… seems like there's still a bit of pie left. Guess I'll just eat it all by myself…"
He didn't need to finish.
Morn shot up like a starving beast, eyes wide with horror—only to find the bitter emptiness of a well-executed lie.
Realizing the truth, he stared at Shimo with the pure betrayal of a lover wronged.
"You would really eat it all if there were any left?" he asked, wounded.
"Who knows?" Shimo shrugged, already heading for the door. "Come on, I don't want to be late for the selection."
Morn stood still for a few seconds, evaluating his friend's capacity for cruelty.
Conclusion:
Yes. Shimo absolutely would.
They left the dormitory and crossed the courtyard.
In the distance, they spotted Theodore pacing back and forth, sniffing the air like a hound searching for clues.
Shimo and Morn quickened their steps.
They slipped into the main building before Theodore's gaze could find them.
Inside the main hall, Baron Gregory was already seated, with Alphonse beside him holding a stack of papers.
The Baron, a large man still strong for his age, wore a white tunic with red details that concealed even his shield. His presence filled the room even in silence.
Alphonse, tall and slender, round glasses perched on his nose, sorted documents with the precision of someone whose entire identity depended on it.
The atmosphere was tense—but not unpleasant.
It was tension born of expectation.
Today was the day of the selections.
Even young, the orphans would take their first step toward future careers: a sort of initial direction chosen by the Baron to improve their chances of "becoming someone."
Gregory began calling names.
Cook.
Scribe.
Blacksmith.
Craftsman.
And so on.
No Aces.
Shimo and Morn were the last on the list.
When Morn's name was called, he stood proudly, puffing up like a bird trying to impress a mate.
And declared with unnecessary intensity:
"I SHALL BECOME A GREAT ACE, BARON GREGORY!"
Shimo quietly, to himself:
"Maybe a court jester…"
Morn heard.
And shot him a look that promised revenge.
Gregory laughed heartily.
"I'm sure you will, Morn. Now… Shimo. What would you like to become?"
Shimo inhaled.
"I… I want to become an adventurer as well."
A barely noticeable smile tugged at the Baron's lips.
He himself had once been an Ace.
"Very well," he said, closing the record. "That concludes the session. You are all dismissed for the rest of the day."
And so, the last two orphans made their choices.