Sir, I Believe Your Bread Has Been Stolen

The undead burst from the tree line almost without warning.

“There!”

Murry was already moving before the shout had finished leaving his mouth. His longsword swept upward in a heavy arc, splitting the first corpse from shoulder to hip before he immediately planted himself in the middle of the road.

“Kid! Left!”

Flint twisted at the waist, letting the first undead lunge past his shoulder before bringing the axe around in a clean horizontal sweep that tore through its neck. The body crumpled at his feet, but another immediately stumbled over it, jaws snapping.

“Ludmilla!”

“Hmph.”

A piece of white chalk danced between her fingers as she started sketching glowing lines across empty space, weaving together into an intricate circle of runes before she tapped its center with the back of her hand.

“Bind.”

The glyph shattered into ribbons of pale blue light.

Chains erupted beneath the charging undead, wrapping tightly around its legs just long enough for Flint to drive the back of his axe into its skull.

“…Useful.” Murry admitted.

“I don't make unnecessary movements.”

“Oh, don’t start sounding proud now.”

A second cluster pushed through the undergrowth.

“Everyone!” Isla called, raising her staff, “Three more!”

Her staff swept through the air, a cluster of wind spiraling around its tip before shooting forward and crashing into the nearest corpse, sending it tumbling along the path. The one behind it staggered just enough for Flint to step inside its reach, driving his shoulder into its chest and burying the axe deep into its skull.

The remaining two split apart.

“Ludmilla!”

“I’m ahead of you.”

She took another piece of chalk, this time tossing it into the air as the magical item stayed afloat. Without delay the chalk started tracing runes on its own along the air.

“Repulsion.”

The moment the undead crossed the glyph, a pulse of force erupted beneath their feet.

Both corpses were hurled sideways.

Murry laughed.

“Now that’s more like it!”

He stepped into them before either could recover, bringing his sword down with enough force to split the first while the returning backswing cut the second clean across the neck.

The road fell quiet again, save for the wind whistling through the trees as Flint let out a slow breath and shook the blood from his axe.

“I think we did alright.”

Murry sheathed his sword.

“I’ll admit… we did.”

He glanced sideways at Ludmilla.

“You Academy types are slightly less useless outside a library than I expected.”

Ludmilla adjusted her glasses.

“And yours is slightly better than I expected of a man your age.”

“Hey, I’m not that old!”

“I thought you said you were?” Flint tilted his head to the side.

“Older doesn’t mean old.” Murry sighed like a tired uncle.

“Haha… If you say so.” Isla laughed dryly

“See?” Ludmilla adjusted her glasses, “That’s what old people do. Make things awkward.”

“Why you—“ Murry huffed, turning his back. The tip of his boot landed on one of Ludmila’s glyphs, making him stumble back as it dissolved into drifting particles of light.

“Shit!” He cursed before regaining his composure, “Still don’t understand why people choose to fight with… chalk.”

Ludmilla’s weapon fell from the sky, landing neatly in her palm before she slipped it back into her satchel.

“It’s enchanted chalk.”

“…It’s still chalk.”

“It stores mana exceptionally well and allows for far greater precision than casting by hand.”

Murry scratched his stubble, quietly resigning.

“Too long didn’t listen.”

“Then how’s your magic different from Isla’s?” Flint asked, intrigued.

“I’m glad you asked.” Ludmilla adjusted her glasses with a proud grin, “Isla is a mage. Her magic flows directly from herself.”

Then she held up another piece of chalk.

“Mine doesn’t.”

She lightly tossed it into the air.

Instead of falling, the chalk hovered in midair as glowing lines slowly began sketching themselves around it.

“I write formulas.” With a small tap, the unfinished glyph disappeared, “So while she’s casting spells…”

“You ensure the spells land where they should.” Isla finished for her.

“Huh. I still think swinging a sword’s simpler.” Murray shrugged.

Flint scratched his cheek.

“Yeah… But hitting that second undead was very easy with the chains holding it down.”

Ludmilla’s proud grin widened.

“Precisely.”

Isla tilted her head, looking curiously around the defeated undead.

“Don’t you think we’ve been seeing more of them lately?”

“I had the same thought…” Flint frowned, “Maybe they’re migrating?”

“They’re not birds, kid!”

Ludmilla crouched down, examining them.

“It’s been over a week since we departed Celeste. And every day… they keep increasing in quantity.”

“You don’t think it’s that cursed sword drawing them to us?” Murry ventured.

“While it is a possibility…” Ludmilla ruminated, “Celeste would have been attacked way before we concluded our research.”

“Then we should probably keep moving…” Flint mused, “We should reach the closest town by nightfall if we take the mountain path, right?”

Flint looked at Isla, who nodded and confidently unfolded the map.

“Correct… we should be heading…”

She studied the parchment carefully before pointing toward one of the winding roads.

“This way!”

Flint stared at the map, then glanced over his shoulder at the road behind them before looking back at her.

“…Isla?”

“Yes?”

“I think that takes us back to Celeste.”

She furrowed her brows.

“It does?”

Murry shook his head.

“We're going to end up in Astra before we ever see the ocean.”

Isla puffed her cheeks, earning a small smile from Flint before he turned his attention back to the map. As he studied it more closely, however, he realized Farstar Isle wasn’t even visible at this scale; there were only winding roads, scattered towns and the distant eastern coastline.

That raised a much more important question.

“Uh… what did you say our destination was?”

Murry raised an eyebrow.

“For that godforsaken island nobody wants to sail to? Our best bet is Blackport.”

Ludmilla stopped walking, looking over her shoulder with a raised brow.

“…Blackport?”

For the first time since the conversation began, she looked genuinely concerned.

“Surely you don't mean that criminal-infested hub of pirates.”

Murry glanced toward her.

“Know another one?”

Flint looked between them.

“…What’s Blackport?”

Ludmilla adjusted her glasses.

“A coastal city that has spent decades turning the kingdom's laws into mere suggestions.”

Murry snorted.

“That's the Academy version.”

“And what’s yours then?”

“A pirate nest.”

Flint blinked.

“Smugglers, thieves, mercenaries, wanted men from half the continent…” Murry continued. “Even the guards are more likely to ask what a crime is worth than stop it.”

Isla lowered the map slightly.

“That sounds… unpleasant.”

“It is.”

Flint looked down at the map again.

“Then why are we going there?”

Murry pointed toward the distant eastern coastline.

“Because we need a ship.”

“Vega is the biggest port city in the continent.” Ludmilla countered.

“And how many captains in those ports are going to sail beyond established routes to an island that's been abandoned for generations?”

Ludmilla fell silent.

Murry folded his arms in triumph.

“Farstar isn't some merchant stop. No trade routes pass it. There's nowhere to resupply once you're out there, and anyone with enough sense to own a ship has enough sense not to risk it sailing somewhere with nothing waiting for them.”

Flint frowned.

“So nobody will take us?”

“Oh, somebody will.”

Murry tapped the map.

“We just need someone with considerably less sense.”

Ludmilla closed her eyes, resigning herself to the idea.

“…Blackport.”

“See? Now you're getting it.”

Respectable captains had no reason to risk their ships and crews sailing toward Farstar… but pirates were another matter.

“And how do we reach that place?”

Isla immediately raised the map again.

“This way!”

Flint took one look at where she was pointing before gently lowering her hand and indicating the opposite direction.

“…That’s Celeste again.”

Isla stared at the map.

“…Right.”

Ludmilla gently took the map from her, in the same fashion you’d disarm someone who didn’t know how to handle a deadly weapon.

“We don't need to plan the entire journey today. Blackport is still some distance away. For now, the mountain path will take us to the nearest town. From there, we continue east and decide our route as we go.”

Flint nodded.

“Then that's where we're going.”

“Eventually,” Murry said. “Assuming our navigator doesn't return us to the Academy first.”

Isla awkwardly folded the map.

“…Perhaps Ludmilla should hold this.”

“I believe that would be wise.”

𓌏

The mountain path gradually descended into rolling hills before opening onto a modest trading town nestled between the surrounding forests. Even from a distance, Flint could tell something was wrong—not because the town had been destroyed, but because despite standing perfectly intact, it somehow looked like it had.

The town was still functioning, but barely. People moved quietly between half-empty market stalls, several shops had already been boarded shut, and those that remained open had few customers inside.

“This place feels strange.” Flint murmured.

“These roads should be busier.” Murry frowned as he scanned the market square. “Towns this close to a major trade road usually are.”

Ludmilla quietly adjusted her glasses.

“Astute observation for someone like you.”

“Oi!”

“Perhaps we should resupply for the road ahead,” Isla suggested.

They wandered between the market stalls until Flint stopped in front of a baker arranging the last few loaves of bread on a wooden shelf beside his shop.

“Good evening. How much for this?”

The baker barely looked up at him, expectations non-existent.

“Eight silver, kid.”

Flint blinked. For a moment he thought he had heard the man wrong.

“Are you sure?”

The man let out a tired sigh before finally meeting his eyes.

“You think I enjoy charging that much?”

Before Flint could answer, Murry wandered over after overhearing the exchange and emptied his coin pouch into his palm. Three lonely coins clinked against one another before he turned the pouch upside down and gave it an optimistic shake.

Nothing.

He looked at the baker.

“…We’re running out of money too, pal.”

The baker didn’t offer a smile.

“Then you’ve picked the wrong town.”

Ludmilla stepped closer.

“Supply issues?”

The man’s shoulders slumped.

“Trade’s collapsed.”

“What happened to the caravans?” Isla asked.

“None are willing to risk the trip.” He gestured vaguely toward the eastern road leading out of town. “Nobody gets past Bell Village anymore.”

The mage unfolded the map tucked beneath her arm, and furrowed her brows.

“Hm…”

Flint quietly reached over, turned it the right way around, then stepped back without interrupting the conversation.

Isla continued studying it with the same thoughtful expression.

“Bell Village, you say?”

“It sits right on the main trade road.” The baker nodded. “Every caravan that tries to pass through ends up surrounded by undead before it ever reaches the other side.”

“So people just stopped trying?” Flint asked.

“They had to.” The baker spread his hands helplessly.

“No merchants means no supplies. No supplies mean no fresh grain.”

He looked down at the remaining loaves.

“This is all I baked today.”

Before anyone could answer, a roar of angry voices erupted from deeper inside the town.

“DO SOMETHING!”

More voices answered immediately.

“Our children are starving!”

“We can’t survive like this!”

The baker closed his eyes, and rubbed his face.

“This again?”

The crowd swelled outside a large stone building overlooking the square. Dozens of townsfolk had gathered beneath its balcony, their exhausted anger echoing through the streets as guards desperately tried to keep people from pushing forward.

“Open the road!”

“How much longer are we supposed to wait?”

“We’ve buried enough people already!”

“If the undead don’t kill us, hunger will!”

The front doors finally opened and an elderly man wearing the mayor’s ceremonial sash stepped onto the balcony, looking more exhausted than authoritative.

“I understand your frustration.”

“You don’t understand anything!” someone shouted back.

“We’ve sent requests to the adventurer guild!” the mayor continued, raising his voice above the crowd. “Again and again! The few who responded… have yet to report back.”

“Then abandon the town!”

“And leave everything we’ve built behind?” another voice answered bitterly.

The square dissolved into overlapping arguments, while even the guards looked too exhausted to raise their voices anymore. Flint watched the crowd in silence, barely noticing when something brushed against his sleeve, but with the shouting swallowing the entire market, he barely noticed.

“Poor man.” Isla whispered.

“…Yeah.” Flint nodded quietly.

Then Flint noticed something felt lighter. He looked down at his hands and found the loaf of bread… gone.

“…Eh?”

The baker slowly turned toward him, his gaze moving from Flint’s empty hands to the equally empty spot on the shelf.

“My loaf?”

A small laugh suddenly echoed from above.

He looked up just in time to catch sight of a petite girl crouching atop the canvas roof of a nearby market stall. A weathered leather vest hung loosely over a dark crop top, while a pair of short daggers rested comfortably against either hip as though they’d belonged there for years.

She casually balanced the missing loaf of bread on her finger, while waving with a grin.

“Thanks!”

Then, before Flint could even open his mouth, she sprang effortlessly onto the next rooftop and disappeared across the square.

The moment Flint turned back to the baker, the man had already crossed his arms staring the young man down.

“Sir, I believe your bread has been stolen.” Flint said resolutely.

“She stole my bread.” He glared, “…Out of your hands.”

Flint scratched the back of his head.

“…Right.” Flint tightened his grip on the strap of his axe. “I should probably go get that back.”

“Probably?” Murry snorted.

And with that, he took off after the mysterious bread thief.