Rookies

Morning came not with fanfare, but with light.

Soft gold poured through the wooden slats of the cabin, warm and quiet. The trees outside rustled in gentle rhythm, and the stream sang its usual, unchanging lullaby.

Red opened his eyes.

No groan. No stretch. No complaints.

Just breath, steady and calm.

He rose from his bedroll, feet touching the wooden floor without sound. His body moved on memory, decades of practiced ritual wrapped into a silent procession of self-discipline.

He stepped outside into the crisp air and walked to the stream.

There, he washed his face.

Cold water met scarred skin. He didn't flinch.

Then back inside, where a small basin and a crude but effective toothbrush awaited. He cleaned his teeth with powdered mint root, then rinsed with cold water. As always.

His breakfast was simple: leftover rice and dried fish. He stirred them over the fire and ate with no expression. Beside it, he brewed his coffee, fresh beans, hand-ground, steeped just long enough to draw out the bitterness.

He brewed it strong, mountain beans ground fine, boiled slowly over flame until it turned black and thick. The steam curled up around his fingers as he sipped, eyes closed, feeling the warmth sink into his bones.

He sat by the table, steaming cup in hand, and exhaled.

This moment, between violence and purpose, was his peace.

The most sacred part of the morning.

After eating, he inspected his weapons.

His sword was flawless. Clean. Sharp. The edge gleamed in the early light. He adjusted the strap on the scabbard and tightened the harness to his chest.

His armor followed, layer by layer, piece by piece. Leather underpadding. Iron-reinforced chestplate. Cloak clipped at the collar. Gloves last.

He stepped outside and checked his perimeter.

All seven traps untouched. No intrusions. No scent trails. Even the glyph alarm trap under the moss still pulsed faintly, active and ready.

Good.

The Kokoroko waited by the stream. The mount stood, alert and fed, feathers fluffed slightly in the cool breeze.

Red led it by the reins down the dirt path. He mounted, giving the forest a final glance.

Then he rode toward Silverhaven.

The sun was halfway to noon when Red passed through the eastern gate.

The guards gave a small nod, but said nothing. Everyone at the wall knew who he was, even if they didn't know his name.

He dismounted at the stables and returned the Kokoroko. The stablemaster greeted him with a tired smile. "Another one back without a scratch, huh?"

Red gave a brief nod, left the reins, and continued walking.

Inside the Guild Hall, familiar faces came and went.

Copper-rank rookies argued over wolf bounties. Bronze-rank pairs flirted with receptionists. A Silver-rank squad cheered over a kobold den they'd managed to clear. Loud voices. Nervous pride.

Red ignored all of it.

He approached the counter.

Sophia looked up from her paperwork. "Back already?" she asked, though her tone had lost the surprise.

He placed the twelve stamped quest slips on the counter.

Her brows lifted slightly. "You actually cleared all of them? In two days?"

Red said nothing.

She scanned the slips, mana-crystal flickering as the system verified the completions.

She tallied the reward coins with mechanical efficiency and handed over the pouch. 

Sophia: "Two gold, six silver, and quest point bonuses logged. The board's empty now, by the way. No more goblins have been reported since yesterday."

Red nodded once, then turned.

He approached the quest board anyway. Old habit.

But Sophia had been right.

No goblin requests. Just the usual low-tier nonsense: fetch herbs, guard a merchant, kill a few wolves.

Nothing worth his time.

He stepped away.

And for the first time in a long while, he left the Guild Hall not for a mission…

…but for a meal.

The tavern wasn't far. Nestled beside the blacksmith's row, "The Hollow Tankard" was known for its breakfast platters and strong liquor, not that Red cared for the latter.

He sat alone near the edge of the outdoor tables, back to the wall, facing the street.

The tavern girl brought him rice porridge, baked eggs, a loaf of warm bread, and, most importantly, coffee.

He ate quietly, never lifting his eyes from the plate.

But others watched.

Whispers began.

"That's him… isn't it?"

"The solo one?"

"No one's ever seen him talk."

"I heard he cleared thirty goblin nests in a week."

"I heard he doesn't sleep. Just walks around at night like a cursed knight…"

"Think he'd take a party request?"

"No chance. Look at that armor. That's not Bronze…"

Red ignored them.

They were Copper. Bronze. Some are not even ranked yet.

They talked because they didn't understand.

They admired from ignorance. Or fear. Or fantasy.

But none of them had stood where he had. None had heard what goblin nests sounded like from the inside.

Only his coffee mattered now.

So he drank his coffee in silence, pretending they weren't there.

But as the last sip passed his lips, a thought crossed his mind.

The food.

He stopped. Slowly blinked.

He'd left it.

He left the slum stockpile at home.

All that food. The packages. The potions.

Still sitting at home by the wall.

A small pang hit his chest, not guilt, exactly. But disappointment. In himself.

He finished his bread, stood, and left without a word.

The market bustled again.

He returned to the same merchants, buying in bulk, ignoring haggling, refusing compliments. Rice sacks. Fresh loaves. Hardened cheese. Dried fish. Instant gruel packs. Healing salves. Red potions. Bandage wraps.

All of it packed into a large burlap satchel over his shoulder.

He moved like a soldier provisioning for war.

But this wasn't war.

This was for people with nothing.

And he knew what that felt like.

He had lived with hunger. Slept with cold weather. Fought with no sword, only fists.

He had survived.

But they shouldn't have to.

As he left the market, weighed down with food and no regret, the sun cast long rays across Silverhaven's stone roads.

Red's face remained impassive.

But inside, where few ever saw, there was a small sense of satisfaction.

Not for the praise. Not for the gold.

But because someone in the slums would eat tonight.

And he could live with that.