Chapter 25

  One month later, Ren stood at the edge of a moss-covered terrace, looking down at a bubbling stewpot balanced precariously on an enchanted heatstone. A faint shimmer of mana curled from the broth, suffused with hues of gold and pale blue. The air was thick with the scent of roasted root game and seared duskleaf—savory, smoky, and tinged with something foreign that made the back of your throat hum.

  You have cooked [Duskskin Hunter’s Broth]!

  ? Restores 20% Health and 15% Stamina.

  ? Temporarily heightens night vision and mana sensitivity (15 min).

  ? Grants a 5% bonus to tracking skill while active.

  Ren exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from his brow. Level 14. In just four weeks.

  Ethan had been right.

  Cooking with new ingredients, especially ones native to the old elven forest, pushed the system harder than anything else. It was like the mana here recognized novelty as progress. The more exotic the ingredient, the greater the skill gain. Even failures—like the week he’d accidentally summoned a hallucinogenic fog mushroom into the mess tent—had taught him something.

  His cooking was sharper, cleaner. He could identify magical traits on sight now, could pair properties like cold resistance with stimulants to balance recovery meals.

  And fighting? He wasn’t about to win a tournament, but he could defend himself now. Dodging. Parries. Footwork He learnt how to hold on and survive till backup arrived and if it couldn't, how to stagger enemies and take the chance to escape.

  —a lean swordswoman named Tirra who only scowled slightly less than she stabbed. Ren had bruises in places he didn’t know could bruise, but his footwork was improving. His reflexes were tighter. His mana control, especially through cooking, had taken a huge leap.

  He wasn’t dangerous. Yet.

  But he could keep up -if only for a short time.

  And more importantly, he didn’t freeze anymore.

  It was mid-afternoon when he found Ethan in the overgrown amphitheater-turned-training ground, watching two Writ-bound duel with wooden blades. The older man didn’t flinch when Ren approached, only glanced sideways.

  “Fourteen, huh?” he said, voice even. “Not bad. Took me three months to get there.”

  Ren grinned faintly. “I had a head start. I already knew how to fry eggs.”

  Ethan snorted.

  There was a moment of quiet before Ren spoke again.

  “…I was wondering. Could I go back? Just for a bit. To the town. I know I’m not ready for anything serious, but—just to see it. Maybe talk to a few people.”

  Ethan didn’t answer at first. His face darkened—not with anger, but something older. Sadder. Like someone had just asked about a place he couldn’t return to.

  Then, just as quickly, the expression vanished, replaced by his usual dry calm.

  “Sure,” he said. “After training today. Take a scout with you. And don’t stay past nightfall. You’ve got lessons in mana infusion tomorrow, and I want you rested.”

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  Ren blinked. That had gone smoother than expected.

  “Really?”

  “You’ve earned it. Just don’t get sentimental. That world moved on without you. Doesn’t mean you can’t walk through it. Just means you don’t belong to it the same way anymore.”

  Ren nodded slowly.

  “I know.”

  He didn’t. Not fully. But maybe soon.

  And as he returned to the kitchen corner he’d carved out of the ruins, prepping slices of spice-bark to fry with cloudcarp belly, he couldn’t help but wonder—who was still waiting in that town? And would they even recognise-or even accept- this new him hardened by bruises and knowledge that he could never share….. Well, he would see tonight.

  ____________________

  The town hadn’t changed much. The main street still smelled like dust and horses. The tavern had a fresh coat of paint, slightly darker than the last. The baker’s daughter was still shouting at her brother for burning something.

  But, when he stepped through the Sleazy Snake’s doors, it felt like he’d been gone for a decade.

  Farin was wiping down the counter when he looked up—and froze.

  The rag dropped from his hand.

  “Ren?”

  Ren managed a small, sheepish smile. “Hey.”

  Farin stared. “You’re—wait. You’re alive?”

  “Well, yeah. Unless I’m a very charming ghost.”

  “I thought they executed you!” Farin’s voice cracked. “Your house was broken into! The damn Church came sniffing through town, and then you vanished, and your kitchen was a wreck! We thought you were taken!”

  Ren blinked. “I… kind of was.”

  Farin grabbed him by the shoulders. “You’ve been gone for a month! Do you know how close I was to putting your face on a commemorative bottle of spiced mead?!”

  “That… seems dramatic.”

  “We funded a rescue party. Your regulars. We scraped together coin, got those adventurer friends of yours involved-we were ready to search for months.

  And then the Church broke it up. Called it heretical. Said you were ‘claimed for judgment.’”

  Ren went quiet.

  Farin exhaled, his shoulders falling. “We thought we’d lost you.”

  For a long second, Ren didn’t know what to say. So instead, he reached into his satchel and handed over the small, still-warm container.

  Farin opened it, paused, then frowned in disbelief. “Is that… avocado?”

  “And smoked goldenroot,” Ren said. “Careful, it tingles a little.”

  Farin sniffed it, then took a tentative bite. He froze. His pupils dilated. Then he sat down abruptly.

  “…This is mana-infused?”

  Ren grinned. “Welcome to my month.”

  Farin groaned. “You vanish for weeks, reappear out of the woods like a cryptid, and instead of explaining, you bring me the best thing I’ve tasted in five years?”

  “I figured it’d go down easier than the full story.”

  Farin was still chewing slowly, eyes narrowed. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

  “ I-I cant, I’m System-bound.”

  “What!? What could possess you to do something like tha-”

  “They saved me Farrin! And I needed to agree to the Oath if I wanted to live.”

  Farin sighed. “Fine. But you’re cooking dinner. And breakfast. And maybe founding a second restaurant branch while you’re at it.”

  Ren just laughed.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying. But for now, being back—being known—felt good. Even if the world beyond the tavern doors had shifted, some things—like Farin’s stubbornness—remained blessedly the same.

  __________________

  Ethan stood at the edge of the ruined balcony, one boot braced on the crumbling stone ledge as he watched the sun crawl above the horizon. From here, the old elven city looked less like a ruin and more like a memory—the way the light caught the spires, the soft gleam of dew over vines, the hush of morning winds whispering through broken arches.

  Below, training had already begun. He could hear the clang of practice swords, the sharp bark of instructions, the dull thuds of mistakes.

  He didn't move. Just sipped slowly from a chipped metal mug, steam curling around his jaw.

  “So,” came a voice from behind him, low and amused. “You let him go.”

  Ethan didn’t turn. “He needed to.”

  “Risky.”

  He gave a small shrug. “The ones who never look back aren’t the ones who last. He needed to see it still exists. That those people still matter and still care about him… even if it’s not exactly what he thinks.

  There was a pause. The other man—Sinclair, one of the senior scouts—leaned beside him, arms folded.

  “Think he’ll come back?”

  Ethan’s eyes followed the path disappearing into the forest, where Ren had vanished just that morning.

  “He’s not finished here,” he said simply. “Not yet.”

  Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “That a prediction or a hope?”

  Ethan’s lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Same thing, really.”

  And with that, he turned back toward the training grounds—where another dozen hopefuls swung their swords like they were still trying to remember which end was the business one.

  There was still work to do. Always was.

  But for once, he allowed himself a moment of quiet trust. Ren Saito would return.

  He just had to figure out what, exactly, he was coming back for.