The town was overflowing with people. Refugees from countless villages had gathered, forming a chaotic mass of desperate souls. Soldiers patrolled the area, trying to maintain order as long lines stretched toward registration posts. Tents had been hastily set up outside the town walls, offering shelter to those who had nowhere else to go.
After promising the soldiers that he would remain in town and find a place to stay, they didn't detain him further and hurried off. Before leaving, one of them had pointed him toward the registration area, where people were being recorded and assigned places to rest and wait for departure.
As Altair walked past a cluster of weary villagers, he listened to a soldier barking orders.
"Maintain order and don't wander around!" the man shouted. "Those who have already registered, stay with your groups. The next transport will arrive in an hour, so be prepared!"
A murmur of voices rose in response, but no one dared to openly complain. The mayor had ordered the relocation of villagers to the capital, where large strongholds were supposedly being built. People obeyed because they had no other choice—the capital was the only place still managing to produce food, thanks to the awakened individuals who could accelerate crop growth.
Altair's stomach twisted painfully. Hunger gnawed at him again. He had rushed to town without stopping to eat after all. He still had food hidden in his bag, exhaustion weighed on him. So, finding a place to rest came first.
As he made his way through the crowded streets, he glanced around, hoping to spot a familiar face. But instead, a rich, savory scent filled his nose, making his stomach growl.
The scent of food.
Following the aroma, he soon found a long line leading to a stall where rations were being distributed. His eyes lit up. Even though he had some money and food, he didn't know how long it would last, and free food was something he couldn't afford to pass up—especially when he had no idea how soon he'd manage to adopt a child and earn trust points to unlock the food warehouse in his system.
Slipping through the gaps in the line with his thin frame, he eventually reached the front. A worker handed him a bowl of thin soup with a few pieces of mushroom and egg floating in it, along with a piece of coarse bread. It wasn't much, but to him, it felt like a feast.
With his meal in hand, he quickly moved to a quiet corner, away from the bustling crowd, and sat down. Cradling the warm bowl, he brought it to his lips. The first sip of the soup sent a comforting heat through his body, soothing his exhaustion.
Then, a soft rustling noise caught his attention.
When he looked up, he saw a small figure standing a few feet away, staring at him intently.
The child, barely four years old, had thin limbs and tattered clothes that barely covered his frail body. His face was smudged with dirt, and his big, hazel eyes were fixed on the food in Altair's hands. His curly hair was tangled and unkempt, and he clutched an empty bowl in his small fingers.
Altair's breath hitched.
Was he a beggar?
His lips were slightly parted, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hesitating. Altair followed his gaze—he wasn't looking at Altair. He was looking at the food.
Glancing back toward the ration stall, Altair noticed that the line had already dispersed. The food had run out. Those who hadn't received any would have to wait for the next round.
Understanding dawned on him.
This child must have come to get food, only to find that there was nothing left.
His heart clenched.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The boy simply stood there, his bare feet shifting slightly on the dusty ground, as if uncertain whether he should approach. His fingers curled tightly around his empty bowl, but he didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
His hunger was written all over his expression.
Altair swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the edge of his bowl.
This was it.
The first child.