Ding. Ding. Ding.
The crisp chime of a gong echoed through the dimly lit workshop, signaling the end of another long workday in Nasdom City, one of the many bustling trade hubs of the Raymond Empire.
"Finally, time to go home!"
Almost the moment the sound rang out, a chorus of relieved voices erupted from a small, cluttered room at the back of the workshop. Four or five young apprentices pushed back their stools, stretching their sore limbs as they chatted excitedly, eager to leave behind the day's labor.
As they made their way toward the exit, one of them suddenly glanced back at the long wooden worktable. A lone figure remained.
A young man, hunched over his work, his hands steady as he carved intricate patterns onto a delicate scroll.
"Ryan, aren't you coming?"
For a moment, there was no response. Then, slowly, the boy lifted his head.
His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His clothes, patched in several places, bore faint streaks of ink and dust. His fingers, stained from long hours of work, trembled slightly as he wiped his brow.
"...Just one more stroke," he muttered, voice hoarse with fatigue.
The apprentice who had called out sighed and shook his head.
"Forget it, Billy. You know how Ryan is, he won't leave until it's too dark to see his own hands."
"Yeah. Honestly, I don't get him," another added, clicking his tongue. "No matter how hard he works, it's not like the boss is going to pay him more. What's the point?"
The group's voices faded as they left, their laughter and idle complaints carried away by the cool evening breeze.
Ryan barely noticed. He simply smiled; a weary, bitter curve of his lips, before turning back to his work.
The minutes slipped by, the last traces of sunlight fading beyond the workshop walls.
By the time he finished, darkness had fully set in.
Footsteps approached from outside.
The wooden door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man dressed in a gray robe, his belly slightly rounded from years of comfort. His sharp eyes, however, missed nothing.
"Ryan," he said, his tone gruff yet not unkind. "If you can't see properly, stop straining yourself and go home. There's always tomorrow."
Ryan looked up, his fingers still clutching his carving tool.
"Just… one more stroke, Master. I'm almost done."
The man, known as Master Paul among the apprentices, sighed but did not argue. Instead, he crossed his arms and waited.
A minute later, Ryan finally put down his tool, exhaling deeply as he examined his finished work. The design on the scroll, which had taken him three painstaking days to complete, was now an almost perfect match to the reference beside it.
Paul stepped forward, picking up the parchment and scrutinizing it under the dim lantern light.
A satisfied smile tugged at his lips.
"Not bad," he murmured, nodding approvingly. "You're improving, boy. If you can cut your carving time by a third, I'll consider letting you study in the main carving room."
Ryan's eyes brightened with genuine excitement. "I'll do my best!" he promised.
Paul chuckled softly, then hesitated for a moment before reaching into his robe.
After a brief pause, he pulled out a small, blackened object and placed it in Ryan's hands.
It was a carving knife or at least, it had been. The wooden handle was darkened from years of use, the curved blade wrapped in an old, greasy cloth strip. The edge was dull, clearly long past its prime.
"It's not much," Paul admitted. "Just an old knife I used back in my carving days. It's a little blunt, but it's still better than those makeshift things you've been using."
Ryan stared at the knife, his fingers trembling slightly.
To anyone else, it was a discarded tool, something no one would bother picking up off the ground.
But to him, it was a treasure.
He gripped it tightly, his voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Master!"
Paul nodded, a rare warmth in his usually stern expression. "I left today's discarded scrolls in the bamboo basket outside. Take them if you want, and go home before you collapse at your desk."
Ryan hurriedly stuffed the discarded parchment scraps into his arms before heading toward the exit.
As Paul watched him disappear into the night, his gaze drifted back to the scroll Ryan had just finished carving.
He studied it for a long moment.
"...The boy's got talent," he muttered under his breath, a flicker of surprise in his tone. "He's only been here a little over a year, yet his carvings are already better than those of apprentices twice his age."
His eyes softened slightly.
"But more importantly… he's diligent. He doesn't waste a second."
A faint smirk crossed his lips as he turned back toward his own chambers.
"Just like me when I was young."
---
The place where Ryan worked was no ordinary workshop.
While the front hall of the store was dedicated to selling goods, the back courtyard was where the real work happened, a place where enchanted items were crafted and refined.
Ryan's role?
He worked on semi-finished magic scrolls, delicate parchments used as components in various magical tools and artifacts.
Each carving required precise detail and an unwavering hand, for a single mistake could render an entire scroll worthless.
And so, night after night, Ryan honed his craft, his hands steady even as exhaustion weighed on his bones.
For now, he was just a nameless apprentice, one of many.
But deep in his heart, he knew—
This was only the beginning.
---
The middle-aged, rotund man with dark complexion from earlier was none other than Paul, the owner of the magic tool shop where Ryan worked.
Among the apprentices, he was privately nicknamed "Papi", a half-mocking, half-affectionate jab at his miserly ways. He was known for penny-pinching wages and cutting corners on materials, yet despite his reputation, he had a peculiar fondness for hardworking apprentices.
Ryan, being both diligent and uncomplaining, had earned better treatment than most. Occasionally, Pipilu even took the time to offer him advice. Seizing the opportunity, Ryan began calling him "Master", a title Papi didn't outright reject. That small gesture had subtly bridged the gap between them.
After leaving the workshop, Ryan navigated through a web of narrow streets until he reached a familiar market.
Near the entrance of a dimly lit alleyway, a man dressed in the worn garb of a peddler stood waiting. He carried a basket, its contents hidden beneath a rough cloth.
At the sight of Ryan, he grinned.
"Little brother, you're late today. Kept me waiting quite a while," he said with an easygoing air.
Ryan apologized as he reached into his pocket, pulling out three copper coins. "Sorry, I got out of work late. Here, this is for the food."
The peddler accepted the coins with a chuckle, pocketing them effortlessly. "No problem. Just return the basket when you come next time."
Ryan nodded. "Will do."
With that, the man vanished into the shadows, leaving Ryan to examine the precious contents of the basket.
Under the glow of the moonlight, he carefully lifted the cloth, his expression brightening ever so slightly.
"This much… should be enough for a good meal."
Though smiling, anyone who took a closer look at the so-called vegetables in his basket would likely frown in distaste.
Most of the leaves were wilted and yellowed, the discarded scraps that vegetable vendors tore off before selling the fresher portions. Some were already turning bad, the edges curled and darkened.
Yet Ryan didn't mind in the slightest.
With careful cleaning, he could salvage at least half a basket's worth of edible greens. Boiled together with broken rice, they would make a filling porridge, enough for his small family to last a whole day without needing to ration too harshly.
And that, to Ryan, was reason enough to be happy.
In this world, one gold coin equaled ten silver coins, which in turn equaled a hundred copper coins. Ryan's meager wage of five silver coins only amounted to fifty copper coins a month.
Even the lowest quality rice cost eight copper coins per pound, and even the worst vegetables were nearly as expensive as rice.
Before finding this job, Ryan had no choice but to scavenge for discarded vegetable scraps in the marketplace. Spending two copper coins to obtain a full basket's worth, something that would have taken him days to gather by hand, was an undeniable blessing.
With that thought, he strode away from the bustling city streets, moving toward the outskirts, where the slums lay.
As the night deepened, the air thickened with a foul stench, a mixture of damp wood, decay, and human misery.
But Ryan barely noticed it. For him this was his home.
His feet carried him unhesitatingly to a small, run-down thatched hut, where a faint flickering light shone from within.
Outside, a little girl struggled to lift a large iron pot onto the makeshift stove, her thin arms trembling under the weight.
Ryan's expression softened instantly.
He set down his basket and rushed forward, grasping the heavy pot with both hands and effortlessly lifting it into place.
The girl's wide, bright eyes lit up as she turned to him with a delighted smile.
"Brother Ryan! You're back!"
She threw her small arms around his hand, clinging to him with the pure joy of a child greeting family.
Ryan gently ruffled her hair, his voice warm. "Baby, is Aunt Eliza not back yet?"
The girl, Kelly, shook her head. "Mom said she had extra laundry to wash today, so she might be late." Then, with an eager grin, she pulled at his sleeve.
"Brother Ryan, you must be hungry! I saved you a bowl of porridge from lunch; come eat!"
Ryan allowed himself to be dragged inside, where the small, dimly lit room awaited.
A single wooden bowl sat on the rickety table, filled with dark porridge, the same kind he ate every day.
But something felt off.
Frowning, he examined the thickness of the porridge, much denser than usual.
His gaze flickered to Kelly, whose bright expression faltered as she noticed his scrutiny.
She quickly forced a bigger smile, patting her tiny stomach. "Kelly already ate! I'm full!"
But at that exact moment—
Gurgle.
A faint, unmistakable sound rumbled from her stomach.
Ryan's heart clenched.
He should have smiled, should have laughed at the little girl's terrible lie, but instead, he felt an aching sadness settle in his chest.
Without a word, he pulled Kelly to sit beside him. Then, gently, but firmly, he pushed the bowl toward her.
"Eat, Baby," he said softly.
"But—"
"No 'buts.'" Ryan ruffled her hair again, his voice gentle but unyielding. "You need it more than I do."
For a moment, Kelly hesitated, looking between Ryan and the bowl of porridge.
Then, slowly, she lowered her head and picked up the spoon.
Ryan watched as the little girl took small, careful bites, as if afraid he would suddenly take the bowl away.
His stomach twisted with hunger, but he ignored it.
Feeding her was more important.
Outside, the night stretched long and cold; but inside, within the fragile warmth of their home, the world felt just a little less cruel.