Chapter Text
Derek is tired.
His life seems grayer than ever, with no purpose other than to travel and serve. To find a place to stay for a few days before moving on. The same old monotony is seeping into his bones because he has no permanent home, just inns and tournaments where he can earn a few coins to keep surviving.
Surviving. Nothing more. Because living has ceased to be a priority for him.
It would be easier if the war hadn’t taken his family away; it would be easier if he still had the wooden house where he grew up, but that now lies in the ashes of a forgotten village where the only reminder that it ever existed remains only in his memory. He’s tired of the life he leads, yet there are no other paths—especially now that his name is becoming more well-known.
d3rlord3, a soldier who kills people in tournaments for coins. Someone ambitious, that has enough power to ensure he isn’t bothered when he sits down at a bar to eat; those rumors are ridiculous. They make him look like a beast, an uncontrollable monster driven solely by greed. And while he does seek money, it’s because he needs it if he wants to keep food in his stomach.
He sits on a stone bench, a little way from the village. It’s more forest than anything else. In fact, the bench’s location is the strangest part of all: it faces directly toward where the sun sets, with the ocean reflecting the stars as the moon hangs in the sky. He’s just arrived at a new place, but he hasn’t gone into the village yet; he’s too busy lamenting the life he leads. Dawn is just around the corner.
Well, as long as he can eat the bread he managed to get, he really doesn’t see any problem.
Such lonely days. Eating a piece of bread bearing the name of a mercenary, alone, with no one to call family. Seeking solace in his sword, in training, pushing his limits, and only receiving praise from himself.
“I have to hurry! The sun’s almost up,” a voice is heard in the distance, growing closer and closer, soft, with a cheerful undertone—the kind of voice people have when their only meal isn’t just a piece of bread. He grabs his sword with one hand, looking in the direction the voice is coming from. “Just a glimpse! If my mom finds out, she’ll—”
The voice falls silent, and the stranger comes into view. A man, cloaked in a brown cape that hides his features, a leather bag slung over his shoulders and hanging down to his hip, along with a sword made of… wood? Does this guy want to die?
“Who are you?” the stranger asks, without hesitation or fear, his voice firm but not demanding, as he watches him while removing his cloak. A slime. Now that’s a surprise.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he replies, revealing the sword he’s holding to the stranger. It’s a clear warning that any move he makes will have consequences.
The stranger doesn’t even flinch; he smiles gracefully as he also proudly displays his wooden sword. “Well, this is my bench. So I guess it is my business.”
“Your bench? I don’t see a name on it. It’s just… a bench,” he repeats, eating the last bite of his bread.
“But it does have one. Carved into the other corner is ‘DeMayo’—you know, my father’s family name—and on the other side is ‘Ixchel,’ from my mother’s side. You know, the roy-…” Then he falls silent, his voice trailing off as he watches him. The golden armor, the worn red cloak, a pouch of coins tied to his waist, an unfamiliar gaze, and the clear confusion at the names mentioned. “Wait, are you an adventurer?”
A few seconds of silence. “…You could say that.”
“That makes a lot more sense. Sorry for being so rude!” The stranger seems to relax at the new information, approaching the bench with ease and sitting down on the other side with a smile. He climbs onto the bench and crosses his legs. “All adventurers are welcome here.”
Derek looks at him: a slime, wearing a cape, in a remote place that he seems to have claimed as his own, carrying a bag, with translucent skin and starlight glinting off his features, wearing a friendly smile as if he wasn’t afraid of him, as if the sword at his hip posed no threat to him.
“This bench is a family heirloom, which is why I’m telling you it’s mine.” He smiles, giving him a smug look. Before laughing into the ensuing silence, “Sorry for my bad manners. Let’s start over—I’m Avery.”
“…d3rlord3”
“That’s a strange name. Never mind, sorry about that. Welcome to: ta, ta, tara… Amo Xinechilkaua! Or, for foreigners, Kaua! The most prosperous and beautiful kingdom, city, or whatever you’ll find on your travels.” Avery smiles, holding out his hands. It’s a little strange how he seems to have shed all the inhibitions one should have around a stranger. Didn’t his parents teach him something as basic as not to trust a stranger?
D3rlord3 just makes a sound of agreement, finishing his bread. He should head back and rest at an inn; the tournaments are coming up, and he needs to practice for them.
“Kaua is known as the colorful province because of the flowers. There are even flowers in winter—so there’s plenty of work around here,” Avery smiles, rummaging through his bag to pull out… an empanada. The slime points out faint pink spots, which Derek later identifies as petals. “Since there’s such a wide variety of flowers, some of them are also used for cooking. The food tastes great! And they use them in drinks, too.” He breaks the empanada in half, holding out one half to him. Flowers and flour… he’s not sure if that’s a good combination. He takes the empanada, noticing a filling of meat, spices, and small colorful bits. Should he accept it…? It’s not a poisonous plant, is it…?
Avery doesn’t even wait; he eats the whole empanada, letting out a sound of satisfaction. He closes his eyes as he smiles. A few moments pass in silence before the sky begins to lighten; dawn arrives, heralding a new day, the slow and peaceful rhythm of the sun rising slowly on the other side, the sky growing brighter by the moment.
Avery stands up, watching the sunrise with a smile. The light bounces off his translucent slime skin, causing his body to glow. The bodies of slime people are certainly interesting; Derek has read a few facts about them here and there. Being in the presence of one at least confirms one thing: that their skin is often beautiful in the light.
And then.
“Oh my gosh, the sun’s already up!” He looks around as if he’s looking for something to pick up, then grabs his bag and pulls the drawstring tight. He pulls his hood back over his head, hiding his features. “D3rlord3, I have to go, but you can come here anytime. I want to hear about your adventures!” he waves goodbye, smiling broadly before starting to run back the way he came.
Silence falls once more, and his life returns to normal—lonely, even while witnessing something as beautiful as a new day. He looks at the food in his hands; it’s not that he’s a fan of these strange combinations, but he figures it’s part of the culture here.
Another thing to consider is that it might be poisoned. He’s a stranger, for God’s sake! One of the first things parents teach you is not to trust strangers, not to take food from someone else’s hands because you never know what it might contain. He thinks about it for a moment, looking at the petals before putting it in his mouth. It might be poisoned—so what? There’s no one waiting for him; dying over a piece of food won’t be the most heroic or virtuous thing, but no one will remember a mere soldier.
The taste is… good. The meat is cold, but the way it’s prepared makes it taste good even so; the petals combined with the texture of the dough is a combination he never thought he’d like. He waits a few seconds, and nothing happens: no stomachache, fatigue, or anything. It’s good to know it wasn’t poisoned.
The sun is already high in the sky, casting a new glow over the town he can see from the bench. He stands up, stretching as he yawns. He needs to check out the tournaments, the inns, what he’ll eat, and which city he’ll head to next.
He looks at the path the slime took; it must be safe enough to walk along and find civilization. He gathers his things and starts walking, leaving the bench behind.
One question lingers in his mind, regarding the slime. Should he come back here? He shakes his head; he has more important things to do.