Chapter 22: Eastern District Gate Challenge (3)
While Lanz was off scaring children and cackling in a grimy bathroom stall.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the buzzing Eastern District plaza, there was a young man named Theodore Prune that stood quietly near the entry queue for solo participants, his presence about as flashy as a shadow on a cloudy day.
He wasn’t hunched or tense, just there — duffel bag slung over one shoulder, simple but sturdy gear layered over a faded shirt, boots laced up neat with the kind of careful habit you only learn when you can’t afford to replace them twice.
A cluster of rookies a few meters away were practically vibrating out of their cheap chest plates, talking way too loudly about how easy this whole thing was gonna be, how they’d rack up highlight clips for their channels, how they’d split the prize money and blow it all on drinks afterward.
Theodore didn’t flinch at their noise, as a matter of fact, he didn’t even look annoyed. His eyes just drifted across them once, cataloging half-taped shoulder guards and dented buckles, the careless way they slung their swords around like props for a skit.
Then he turned his attention back to the gate line, expression as calm as ever.
It wasn’t arrogance that kept him distant. If anything, the way he watched people like a creep was just how he’d always been. Which needs some fixing to honest.
Even now, he let the buzz of the crowd wash over him like background static, the rising cheer of the big screen replaying a rookie getting face-planted by a slime trap while someone off to his right sold fried squid balls on sticks.
The smell made his stomach twist slightly, but he didn’t let the thought linger. He reached into his pocket instead, thumb brushing over a folded slip of paper tucked neatly between his fingers.
He unfolded it just enough to read the same lines he’d read a dozen times already this week — the header of the bill stamped with the clinic’s name, a long column of numbers he didn’t need to see again, and scrawled at the bottom in the neat, written in a slightly curved, childish handwriting: Be safe. Love, Lea.
For a moment, the noise of the plaza faded behind the memory of a cramped clinic room, the smell of antiseptic and warm broth that hadn’t been quite enough to cover the cold tang of metal and medicine.
Lea had been curled up in bed, blanket pulled all the way up to her chin, eyes wide in that way she did when she was about to say something she knew he wouldn’t want to hear.