004 Stories and Stew
Ron hadn’t expected Mr. Beck to cry. He had anticipated a contemplative silence, maybe a slow nod of approval, or even a polite smile laced with professional restraint. But when the older man wiped the corner of his eye with a sleeve and sat still as if stunned, Ron realized something deeper had landed. It wasn’t the exact reaction he had imagined… he had thought the ending would feel more melancholy than tear-jerking… but it was welcome nonetheless. Mr. Beck had liked it. Truly liked it! That alone was enough to ignite something steady and warm in Ron’s chest, a small but burning relief that just perhaps, he could survive in this new world with nothing but ink, paper, and stories only he could tell.
It made him smile without meaning to. His lips curved upward gently, and for the first time in a long while, he felt no rush, no pressure, and no fear clawing at the back of his mind about coin or career. He wasn’t just an ex-adventurer anymore. He was a writer… at least, he was trying to be one… and someone had read his work and felt something because of it.
Still, not everything had gone as he hoped.
Ron couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment at how the deeper mechanics of the story had gone unnoticed. The whole idea behind The Hidden Code of Swords wasn’t just about revenge or emotional closure… it was about potential, and the dormant magic that lived within objects waiting for the right person and the right trigger. The swords in the story weren’t mere weapons. They were silent witnesses to fate, holding within them conditions and unseen rules. The demon-possessed knight’s blade had awakened because a noble soul had been tempted by evil in front of it. Lancelot’s wooden sword, seemingly worthless, had become something divine because of his mother’s selfless sacrifice, her blessing unknowingly cast at the foot of that cliff where her child would someday stand.
That was the hidden code!
And Mr. Beck hadn’t given it a second thought.
Instead, the man had kept asking about sequels. What happened to Lancelot afterward? Where would he go? Would he join a knighthood? Would he ever find love? Ron appreciated the curiosity, truly, but to him, the story was complete. It was never meant to be a long saga or the first part of a series. It was a standalone tale, a light novel with a tight arc about grief, growth, and rediscovery. The power system wasn’t something he wanted to stretch across dozens of volumes… it was symbolic. It lived and ended with Lancelot’s first and final battle.
Still, he didn’t say all of that aloud. There was no reason to ruin Mr. Beck’s mood… or his own.
Later that afternoon, with the manuscript secured again in his satchel and his appointment behind him, Ron checked the weight of his coin pouch. A few silver coins remained, enough for a decent lunch. His stomach growled in agreement.
He followed the scent of simmering broth and charred spices through the winding cobbled lanes until he found a modest eatery tucked beneath a sloped roof, its wooden sign hanging askew but still legible: Ena’s Hearth. The place was half full, mostly working folk such as laborers, errand boys, and a few off-duty guards. Ron stepped inside, gave a respectful nod to the older woman behind the counter, and found a corner seat.
The meal that arrived was simple but far from bland. A bowl of thick barley stew steamed before him, filled with chunks of soft-root vegetables such as carrots, parsnips, and thick-cut potatoes, alongside slices of cured meat that melted into the broth. A wedge of brown bread came on the side, slathered in herbed butter, with a sharp, fragrant tang that cut the richness of the stew beautifully. He took a bite, letting the flavors coat his tongue, the warmth settling into his belly like a familiar hand pressed gently to his ribs. For a man who had lived on salted jerky and half-burnt camp rations for years, this was the height of comfort.
Around him, the din of chatter filled the room. It was the kind of idle gossip he’d once ignored entirely while adventuring, except if the talks were about dangerous monsters or dungeons. But now, as a writer, every word had a different kind of value to him. People didn’t speak in polished lines or dramatic monologues. They talked in pieces, in stutters and fragments… and that, Ron had learned, was where authenticity lived.
“You hear Old Man Harlan’s barn caught fire again? That’s twice this season.”
“Didn’t he say it was spirits last time?”
“He always says it’s spirits. More likely it’s his drunk son with a torch.”
“I saw a knight from the capital pass through yesterday. Real armor, too. Shiny enough to blind you.”
“Capital knights don’t come here unless something’s stirring. Probably another census or a land dispute.”
Ron ate slowly, listening, and filing the details away. Every voice, every suspicion, every rumor could one day become a plot thread, a character quirk, or the seed of an entirely new tale. The boy with a name lost to trauma had been born from whispers, too… fragments of ideas once dismissed, now immortalized in ink. Well, to call it immortalized might be too much, but hopefully one day, it will.
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He sipped the last of the broth, wiped his mouth, and leaned back in his chair.
“That’s the good stuff…”
Ron left Ena’s Hearth with a spring in his step and a satchel full of purpose.
While he walked, Ron reflected on Mr. Beck’s words.
The older man had closed their meeting with unexpected praise, not only approving the manuscript but offering a loan of silver to refine it. Not the story… Mr. Beck had been clear about that. The plot, the heart, the character… all of that was untouched. What needed improvement, he’d said, was the presentation. Ron was to rewrite the manuscript with finer parchment and better ink, enough to flatter even a noble’s eye. Mr. Beck had even encouraged him to make several copies, a suggestion Ron hadn’t anticipated. It was a sign. The man truly intended to sell it… and not as a favor, but as an investment.
“I suppose that means he believes in it,” Ron murmured to himself as he stepped into the artisan quarter.
It wasn’t long before he found a reputable scribe’s stall lined with ink pots and bundled parchment sheets wrapped in waxed cloth to prevent moisture. He examined the goods with care, choosing paper with clean grain and ink with a rich, dark hue that promised legibility and elegance. The silver coins left his hand faster than he liked, but it was for the sake of the work. For his future.
After loading the supplies into his satchel and tightening the strap, Ron decided it was time to return home. His hut lay just beyond the outer walls of Harle… still within walking distance, but far enough to enjoy the peace of the forest. Before heading for the gate, though, he veered toward the marketplace. Selyn would be expecting food.
“Morning, Sir Retsej,” called a vendor from behind a hanging row of salted fish. “Your beast still giving you trouble with chicken?”
“She spits it out if it's not spiced,” Ron replied with a rueful grin. “A pain, that one.”
He picked out a few strips of venison and a pouch of dried spices fragrant with pepper, coriander, and a hint of cardamom. The vendor, an older woman with missing teeth but a sharp memory, chuckled as she packed them.
“You spoil that mutt like it’s your child.”
“She’s worse than a child,” Ron replied, handing over the coins. “But she earns her keep.”
He left the market to the sound of squabbling merchants and bargaining housewives, heading toward the outer gate. The guards waved him through without hassle… They knew him well enough. A few called him ‘Sir Ron,’ though the title felt more ornamental than practical these days. The knighthood had come years ago from a wealthy noble who’d been delighted by Ron’s wit during a long escort mission. A single act of amusement had earned him a small plot of land outside of Harle and a meaningless title, though Ron never complained. Land was land, and for someone trying to build a life without the backing of guilds or noble houses, it was a gift worth holding onto.
As the trees thickened and the air turned cooler, Ron’s thoughts returned to his home.
“I hope Selyn didn’t make a mess again,” he muttered under his breath, though he already knew the answer. That wolfdog had a habit of knocking over furniture when left too long. Worse, she only ate if the meat was seasoned properly. No bland stews or old scraps for her. But Ron didn’t mind. She had been with him since the start… his first companion, and his first friend in a dangerous world. She had saved his life more times than he could count, and while she didn’t talk or flatter like people did, her loyalty had been unquestionable.
The forest opened up briefly into a clearing, but before Ron could exhale and settle into the calm rhythm of the woods, something felt wrong.
He stopped mid-step. His hand immediately went to his satchel, easing it off his shoulder and placing it behind him gently on the mossy ground. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his dagger… standard adventurer’s issue, double-edged, and reliable. He didn’t grip it backhanded like so many overconfident fools did in taverns. That was a good way to lose your fingers in a real fight.
From between the trees emerged three men. One was massive, with a barrel chest and a chipped axe resting lazily across his shoulder. Behind him, two wiry figures followed… one with a rusted hook, the other spinning a dagger between gloved fingers.
“Well now,” the big man drawled, grinning wide enough to show stained teeth. “A pretty little satchel you’ve got there. Be a good lad and hand it over.”
Ron didn’t respond at first. He just sighed. Then he spoke calmly.
“And here I thought it was going to be a peaceful walk home.”
The big man barked a laugh. “Oh, we’ll let you walk, alright. Just not with your purse or limbs intact.”
Ron didn’t bother arguing. He had heard better threats from drunk mercs at taverns with half their tongues slurred. These were amateurs.
Twelve years of adventuring had taught him a single and consistent truth… survival didn’t favor the strong, but the prepared. He wasn’t flashy, and he didn’t wear a cape or boast his strength. But the moment the bandits lunged, it was already over.
Ron moved with clinical precision. He dropped low, sidestepped the swing of the axe, and carved a clean line behind the big man’s knees. The ligament cut was deep and brutal, and the large man collapsed with a guttural scream, unable to support his weight.
“What… what happened!?” the big man cried and panicked, flailing his axe.
Ron didn’t answer. He had already stepped away, his eyes cold and calculating. He dodged the axe swing with ease, his legs propelling him in a blur of motion. In his old life, Ron hadn’t had legs. Or hearing. Now that he did, he treasured them like a miser treasured coin. Like how a miser might polish his gold coin to jeep them shiny and pretty, Ron had done the same. His legs were trained, fast enough to seem inhuman to the untrained eye. His hearing was even sharper, allowing him to sense movement before steel met flesh.
The second bandit tried to strike from the side, but Ron ducked and twisted, driving the hilt of his dagger into the man’s gut before sending him crashing into a tree. The third, wisely, tried to flee. Ron caught him by the collar and slammed him to the ground.
He bound them all together using rope pulled from his satchel and used a precious piece of parchment… one he had intended for novel work… to scribble a note in bold, clear handwriting: “We’re bandits. Please send us to Harle for questioning. Sorry for the disturbance.”
With a grunt, he jabbed a stick into the ground and pinned the parchment to it above the unconscious men.
He stood over them for a moment, brushing dirt from his sleeve. Then, without spite, he murmured, “I just want to write. You shouldn’t have tried robbing me.”
And with that, he picked up his satchel, checked its contents, and walked home… never once looking back.