Jukai stood in the middle of his new room and tried not to cry.
It wasn't much of a room.
In fact, it wasn't a room at all.
It was half of a broom closet, located behind the ramen shop's back pantry and accessible only by crawling through a door that looked like it belonged to a very small haunted dollhouse.
There was a mattress — probably older than he was — a crate acting as a nightstand, and a single lantern hanging from a crooked nail, casting shadows that moved even when he didn't.
There was also a spider in the corner that he had silently named Greg and immediately signed a non-aggression pact with.
"…I'm fine," Jukai whispered, sitting on the mattress. "Totally fine. Mentally stable. Living my best medieval life."
He opened the single drawer of the crate.
Inside: a fork, a note that said "Don't touch this fork - Doro", and a small packet of something that might've once been tea or ash or possibly bones.
He closed the drawer.
Then reopened it.
Then closed it again.
"Yeah," he muttered. "This is definitely a dream. A bad one. Like those dreams where your teeth fall out and you have to pay rent with expired Pokeman cards."
The ramen shop itself was a masterpiece of controlled chaos.
"House of Doro" looked like it had been built entirely by accident — a squat wooden structure nestled in the corner of a crooked street called Spicegut Lane, where the buildings leaned in like they were whispering gossip about you.
The outside was plastered in faded posters from a bygone war, talismans to ward off debt collectors, and one angry note that read "STOP LEAVING FLAMING OFFERINGS IN THE MAILBOX."
Inside, it smelled like comfort and sin.
Broth bubbled in iron cauldrons suspended over open flame pits. The air was thick with steam, garlic, and something vaguely ominous. There were five tables, one long counter, and three barstools — one of which was perpetually cursed and groaned whenever someone over the age of 30 sat on it.
Each wall was decorated with weapons Doro claimed he "didn't use anymore," old awards for culinary excellence, and newspaper clippings like "LOCAL CHEF DEFENDS SHOP FROM FLAME CULT RAID — WINS BROTH MEDAL".
Behind the counter stood Doro himself, ladle in hand like a battle standard.
He wasn't just a chef.
He was a broth warlord.
Jukai wandered out of the kitchen half-asleep and sat at the counter.
He hadn't slept much. Or at all. The mattress smelled like disappointment and salt. Greg, the spider, kept staring at him.
Doro looked over. "You look like death, junior."
"I feel like wet toast," Jukai mumbled. "Burnt on one side. Soggy on the other."
"I made miso. Want?"
"I literally have no choice."
Doro ladled some into a bowl and slammed it in front of him.
The moment the steam hit Jukai's face, something in his soul unclenched.
He took a slow sip.Warmth. Comfort. Trauma.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
"I'm not crying," he whispered. "That's just broth appreciation."
A BANG rang out, and the door flew open like it had been kicked by a bandit in a tavern scene.
Enter Mira, arms full of scrolls and a burnt muffin in her mouth.
"DO NOT ASK ABOUT THE MUFFIN," she shouted before anyone could ask.
Jukai stared. "Is that... smoke?"
She coughed. "It fought back."
"Did it win?"
"Too close to call."
Mira dropped into the seat next to him, her armor clanking softly. She yawned, stretched, then casually lit her fingertip on fire to toast the edges of her muffin.
It promptly caught fire.
She stared at it.
"…Yeah, that was gonna happen," she muttered, unbothered, then ate it anyway.
As Mira cheerfully chatted with Doro about "possibly" melting the city's east sewer gate again, Jukai sipped his soup and tried to pretend he was a functioning human being.
He smiled weakly.
He nodded along.
He focused really hard on not letting the part of his brain labeled "Everything Is Falling Apart" take over.
His thoughts:
"This is fine."
"I live in a closet."
"I have a cursed cat, cultists for neighbors, and flame powers that couldn't light a birthday candle."
"I have no money. No plan. No therapy."
"Mira's cute. Why is she cute? Stop that. Focus. You can't afford feelings right now."
He blinked and realized Mira had been staring at him.
"What?" he asked.
"You zoned out so hard your flame went out for a second."
"…That can happen?"
"Only to people with really intense inner turmoil."
"Cool, cool, cool," he muttered, slurping more soup. "Totally fine. Flame's just a reflection of the gaping void inside me."
Just then, the cat — Kurozu — slinked in through the window, tail swishing.
"You two going to sit here all day," he said, "or are you gonna finally take a quest and earn enough money to buy underpants?"
"I have underpants!" Jukai said.
Mira tilted her head. "You sure?"
"…Not good underpants," he mumbled.
"Alright, slacker," Mira said, slamming a flyer on the table so hard that Jukai spilled half his soup. "You're going on your first quest."
Jukai blinked. "Can I finish my bowl first?"
"No. Quests don't wait. Broth is temporary. Character growth is forever."
"That sounds fake."
"Get up."
As they walked through the winding streets of Embergrin, Mira explained:
"Quests are like government-mandated errands, but with higher chances of death and slightly more paperwork."
"You're really selling it," Jukai said.
"Everyone does them. It's how adventurers make money. You do enough dumb ones, your name goes on the board. Get a title. Make a rep. Sometimes they give you a hat."
"I like hats."
"Too bad. You're not getting one."
They stopped at the Quester's Hall, a rickety two-story building crammed between a potion shop and something called "The Screaming Turnip Inn." The board inside was covered with job slips ranging from "Retrieve stolen chickens" to "Exorcise haunted latrine."
Mira picked one labeled in bright red:
Quests, as it turned out, were less "epic tales of adventure" and more "local government outsourcing." At the Quester's Hall — which was basically a glorified tavern bulletin board — Mira selected a bright red slip that read:
URGENT (KINDA): Help Farmer Gruff Deal With Fire-Snails In Cabbage Patch. Bring salt. Or a miracle.
"Is this really the best we can do?" Jukai asked, staring at the ridiculous handwriting.
"You're a broke minor with a mysterious ring and trauma hair. This is your level."
"I don't even like cabbage."
"Tough. You don't like rent either."
The field in question was on the outskirts of Embergrin, nestled between two abandoned barns and a suspiciously squirming scarecrow. Farmer Gruff greeted them with a snort and one eye twitching.
"They slime the crops, they burn the leaves, they giggle while doing it," the old man muttered, pointing a shaky hand toward the fields. "I hear 'em laugh at night."
Jukai raised an eyebrow. "...Laughing snails?"
"I sleep with salt under my pillow."
They stepped into the field and immediately spotted them: bloated red-shelled snails with glowing underbellies, trailing fire across half-eaten cabbages.
Jukai's brain short-circuited.
"I'm gonna be honest, I thought this would be less literal."
"They're called pyro-gastro mollusks, thank you very much," Mira said cheerfully, already lighting a salt bomb. "They're technically sacred pests in some farming cults."
"I hate this world."
"Get used to it."
He sighed, walked forward, and immediately tripped over something hidden in the dirt. His hands sank into the soil and hit something cold, metal, and definitely not a snail.
"What now?"
He yanked.
Up came a sword — long, blackened with age, etched with faint silver runes, and sheathed in a scorched scabbard that shimmered slightly in the sun.
"Whoa."
Then it spoke.
"Unhand me, you sweaty peasant gremlin."
Jukai dropped it with a yelp.
Mira looked up from bomb-arming. "Oh! A sentient sword! Haven't seen one in ages."
"It just called me a gremlin!"
"That's basically affection."
"No, it's a diagnosis."
The sword, after some reluctant introductions, revealed its name to be Nilka — though she insisted on being addressed as "Scourge of Tyrants, King of Hell, and Master of Precision."
Mira called her "Nilly."
Jukai still preferred "Swordy."
They bickered the entire way across the field.
When one of the snails slithered too close, Jukai, on instinct, drew the blade fully from its sheath.
The moment Nilka's steel hit open air, the entire cabbage patch exploded in heat.
It was instant.
The sky dimmed. The flames that poured from Jukai's body weren't red or orange — they were white-hot, pure and violent, streaming like wind from his fingertips. His feet scorched the ground beneath him. The snails shrieked and melted on the spot. Even the nearby scarecrow caught fire and flailed like it was offended.
Jukai's breath hitched. His body shook.
The flame wasn't burning — it was consuming.
His ring, once dormant, pulsed violently. His eyes stung. He couldn't think. Couldn't move.
He dropped Nilka, and the sword hit the dirt with a loud clang.
Immediately, the fire sputtered, then collapsed like it had been punched in the gut. The heat faded. Color returned.
Jukai collapsed to his knees.
Mira grabbed him, pulled him back, and doused the scorched ground with one of her anti-flame vials.
They sat there in silence, panting.
"Okay," he wheezed. "That wasn't me."
"Nope," she said, trying to catch her breath. "That was Nilka turning you into a blowtorch."
"I didn't mean to—"
She shook her head. "Not your fault. Amplifier swords like Nilka don't have brakes. They just boost whatever flame you've got and let the world burn."
Jukai blinked. "So she's… like an extension cord for emotional instability?"
"Exactly."
"Rude." Nilka said from the ground. "I am a precision weapon. Not a toy for hormonal teenagers."
Jukai groaned. "I'm sixteen and I'm talking to a sword."
"Then stop waving me around like a tavern mop."
Mira dusted herself off, eyeing the burnt cabbage carnage. "Okay. So, good news: we did complete the quest."
"Bad news: we vaporized a third of the field."
"And possibly caused a small holy event."
They dragged the still-smoldering cabbage head back to Farmer Gruff, who accepted it with a blank stare and handed them two silver coins and a half-roasted lettuce.
"I'm not asking," he muttered. "Just go."
That night, back in his broom closet, Jukai stared at Nilka — propped against the crate with her runes glowing faintly.
He had so many questions.
Why did the sword react like that?
Why did it feel… good, in the moment? Like something inside him had clicked?
He wasn't sure he liked that feeling.
And yet, a part of him — a small, chaotic part — kind of wanted to try it again.
He rolled over on his mattress, pulled the blanket over his face, and sighed.
"This world's insane," he muttered. "I'm insane. The sword's insane. The ramen shop probably has ghosts."
From the corner, Greg the spider blinked again.
"…That's fine," Jukai whispered. "Totally fine."