Preparations and a Nostalgic Face

WHUUM—KRASH!

Ayato’s back slammed into an old pine trunk—and stopped. Not because the wood was soft, but because a pane of ice had formed behind him, thick as a palm, halting his momentum before bones could scream. The ice fractured like spun sugar, then dissolved into cold mist.

“I can’t be hurt by my own ice,” Ayato muttered, half in reminder, half in assessment of the dull ache left behind. That was one of the conclusions from the past two months—born of dozens of structural tests under the eyes of a perfectionist named Elpharia Lys Reinn.

“Good.” Lys’s voice rang clear and flat from ahead. “Again. Variation three: heat, frost, void.”

Ayato pushed off the trunk and raised his hand. Bwoosh—CRACK—…hollow. Three layers of energy fired in sequence, short, none interfering. Two months ago, he would have been winded. Two months later, his breathing stayed steady. A new distance had opened between exhaustion and collapse.

Since that “resonance,” he felt when battling Ragna, the magic in his body flowed more pliantly. Aurellia had shaped it into drills—breath rhythms, step patterns, when to force, when to yield. Lys chiseled the rest: precision in magical construction. The result—Ayato no longer drained himself the instant he invoked both heat and frost; his iron stamina finally had a proper stage.

Silence hung; leaves whispered. Lys floated half a step above the ground, head tilted. “Again. We—”

She stopped, pupils narrowing. Wumm— A thin crystal at her ear flared, split into three, then rejoined. She turned, lips moving swiftly without sound—magical communication.

“That’s enough.”

Lys lowered her palm. “We stop here. There’s an emergency.”

Ayato exhaled. His arms tingled numb, his skin flushed where the hot wind had struck earlier. Lys drifted closer, presenting a small green stone.

“Crush it in your hand.”

Ayato obeyed. Crack. Warmth seeped through his skin, like sweet tea running from palm to elbow. Lingering pain ebbed. He flexed his wrist. Good.

Healing stones sure come in many kinds, huh...

He mumbled, comparing the Korvath type—which had to be cracked in his mouth—to the kind he usually used, like the one Lys had just given him.

“Two months,” Lys summarized bluntly, like closing a long experiment. “You’ve grown fast. Aurel will handle the tactical portion tonight.”

“Any… daily score?” Ayato asked, half-joking.

“None of that matters,” Lys replied flatly—before turning back to the crystal’s voice. “Go.”

Faced with that flat response, Ayato instantly regretted making a joke. Lys seemed like an entirely different person when giving instructions compared to when they’d first met.

He nodded, grabbed his cloak, and descended the training hill.

...

The capital at night resembled patchwork starlight. Oil lamps lit stone streets; in alleyways, badly scrawled posters clung at angles. Ayato slipped into the slums—his gang’s turf—down narrow steps toward a meeting room always too crowded for its mismatched chairs.

“Boss,” greeted the former thief—the first he’d beaten before recruiting. His hair was tied tight; his eyes sparkled with gossip. “We harvested plenty today.”

Ayato sat. On the table, cracked cups lined up, maps were weighted with stones. A child-runner reported patrol routes; two laborers spoke of warehouses suddenly busy at night. Ayato marked quickly: not neat, but his mind kept it neat.

“And then?”

“And then… this.”

The thief glanced at the door. “Come in.”

The door creaked. A scruffy brown-haired teenager peeked, then shuffled inside. When his eyes found Ayato, hesitation burst into a small cheer.

“Bin-oniisan!” He bounded two steps, then froze as if remembering manners, bowing too deep. “I—I’m Faaja.”

Ayato blinked. For a moment—blank. Then Lunareth’s memories tapped the back of his head: rain on tin roofs, wolf-meat feasts under stars, ugly scrawls on message boards. “…Faaja?”

“Y-Yes!”

His breath was fiery. Words piled. “I… we… well… the head thief in the slums—not the bad one—the one who trades info for bread—I met him. I thought if Bin-oniisan was in the capital, he’d redo what he did in Lunareth: gather info from the bottom. I searched and searched, then—”

“Then you found ‘Vin’?” Ayato smiled faintly. “And guessed ‘Vin’ = ‘Bin’?”

“At first I wasn’t sure.” Faaja scratched his head. “But lately I heard people whisper ‘Boss Vin’ goes jogging on rooftops—ah, that’s so Bin-oniisan. So… I slowly asked to join the ex-thief gang, helped out, and—”

His head lifted, eyes sparkling. “Now I’m certain. Boss Vin is Bin-oniisan.”

The room burst in short laughter. The former thief grinned like he’d found treasure. Ayato rubbed his temple—half amused, half sorry. “How did you reach the capital?”

“The Lunareth kids pooled money,” Faaja answered, suddenly serious. “We worked. Some as carriers, some helping blacksmiths, some… writing flyers.” He ducked his head, embarrassed. “Our handwriting… ugly.”

“Ugly,” Ayato repeated softly, remembering.

“Then someone came,” Faaja lowered his voice as if telling a secret. “He read our flyers and asked, ‘Who taught you to write this ugly?’ We thought he mocked us, we got mad—one kid slipped and said, ‘Bin-oniisan!’”

Faaja chuckled. “That man smiled, then… helped us. Called himself ‘K.’”

“K…?” Ayato leaned forward.

“He never gave a name,” Faaja shook his head. “Just ‘K’ on paperwork. He arranged small jobs for us—carry, sweep, deliver. Enough to buy the cheapest train ticket. So I could follow.”

Ayato froze a moment, then… laughed—short, but free. “Good.”

The room brightened—rare to see their boss laugh honestly.

“In that case,” Ayato smacked the table, “tonight we feast. Double meat bread, big potato stew, and… what do you like, Faaja?”

“Umm… baked apples?”

“Baked apples,” Ayato repeated. “Add baked apples.”

Cheers erupted. Some dashed to the night market, some spent bread savings. Faaja stayed, staring at Ayato as if afraid the dream would vanish.

“Good work, Faaja,” Ayato said softly. “You… came far, alone. I appreciate that effort.”

Faaja nodded fast.

“I… I’m glad.”

He looked around, took a breath.

“This place, even shabby, feels warm.”

“Sha—” the thief feigned protest, but his grin stretched. “Warm, yeah. Warm.”

That night, the meeting room turned into a small tavern. A stew pot bubbled; bread was torn apart; meat sliced uneven—clearly not by a chef. Laughter bounced, shifting between work tales, neighbor gossip, and arena chatter still flooding the city.

“Boss,” someone raised a clay cup. “To Vin—uh, Bin—eh, whatever, to us!”

“Cheers!”

Ayato raised his cup too. A soft clink rang.

He rarely let his chest ease like this. But tonight—was special.

In the corner, a worn rucksack leaned on a table leg. Krrt…—a communication crystal blinked once, dim.

Nobody noticed. The blink died, then returned brighter—like someone tapping glass from afar.

Ayato laughed at Faaja’s apple joke. He glanced at the bag—reflex of habit—then returned to talk. “Tomorrow we’ll check routes from the southern warehouse,” he told the thief. “There’s a pattern that—”

Krrt—krrt.

This time three blinks. Faaja, closest, turned. “Bin-oniisan, your bag…”

Ayato froze. The room’s laughter dried instantly—not from chill, but from Ayato’s face shifting serious in one breath. He pulled the crystal free. Its surface was black as midnight water.

He looked up, weighing. The feast can go on without me.

He ruffled Faaja’s hair lightly. “Eat plenty. Tomorrow morning, come run with me—if you’d like.”

Faaja straightened. “Yes, I’d love to!”

Ayato stood. “I’ll be out for a while,” he told the room. “Hold the place. No heroics if you hear noise outside. Double-bar the door as usual.”

“Got it.”

He covered the crystal, activated the channel, and slipped out through the alley to the rooftop. Behind him, pots, bread, and laughter resumed—slower, but alive.

Capital winds brushed his cheek as Ayato emerged on the roof. He looked at the stars, settled his breath, then pressed the crystal to his ear.

“Vin-chan.” Lys’s voice was clear, playful. “Got time tomorrow morning?”

“There’s a little feast right now.”

“Perfect. Feast all you like—then tomorrow, come to the Magic Tower. My office. With your notes, of course.”

“Understood.”

“Fufu, if they’ve got baked apples, save one for me.”

The link faded. Ayato compared Lys’s tone to her drill-sergeant mode—night and day. He gave a small huff at the contrast.

He looked down—the meeting window glowed warm; Faaja laughed at some silly joke; the thief slapped someone’s back too hard. Warm. He slid the crystal back to his pocket.

He stepped in again, greeted by cheerful faces flushed from drink, and Faaja trying hard to keep up with the mood.

Ayato nodded, laughed shortly—content with the sight.

“Everyone, eat your fill. Enjoy the night until dawn breaks!”

That night they ate until the pot was empty, laughed until their voices cracked, and tidied the room together—stacking cups, sliding tables. Faaja wrapped his leftover baked apple in cloth to take home.

The door shut, double-barred. Oil lamps dimmed one by one, leaving a single glow in the slum alley.

Ayato leaned on the doorframe, smiling faintly.

Is this… the place I belong to? Or is it yet another...

Night closed the quarter, and the little alley light burned on.