The narrow street leading to their hut was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the ears and made every footstep echo too loudly. Even the wind seemed hesitant to move, as though it, too, feared what might unfold inside. Mikayle, Ivan, and Yuhan approached cautiously. The hut's door hung wide open, creaking faintly in the occasional breeze. Caution flared like a living thing in Mikayle's chest. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, though he knew it was useless here.
"Something's off," Mikayle muttered.
Ivan, ever the optimist, whispered behind him, "Maybe she's just hungry… or maybe she wants to teach us another life lesson through starvation."
Yuhan rolled his eyes. "Or maybe she's just dramatic. Ever consider that?"
Stepping inside, the trio immediately noticed Mira. She sat on a simple wooden chair in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, her posture casual yet undeniably poised. Her roughspun clothes, the same as the others, clung to her wiry frame, but somehow, she made them look like a high-fashion statement. Mikayle's stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from irritation.
"What are you doing here?" Mikayle demanded, trying to keep his voice firm, though it wavered slightly with that unacknowledged hunger gnawing at his insides.
"Oh," Mira said, her tone breezy, as if she were announcing the weather, "I just brought food for you."
Ivan and Yuhan froze, eyes widening. After days of surviving on little more than stale bread and bitter roots, the sight of freshly baked bread, a few root vegetables, and a small pot of green soup seemed like manna from the heavens. Ivan let out a soft, almost reverent whistle. "She brought… food…"
"We're not hungry," Mikayle snapped, though his stomach betrayed him with a loud, humiliating growl. "Take it and leave."
Mira's gaze flickered between Ivan and Yuhan, and for a moment, it softened. The two stared back, dumbfounded. Yuhan's jaw slackened slightly, and Ivan gave Mikayle a light slap on the back—a gesture so casual it was almost comical—and then bowed politely to Mira.
"Thank you," Ivan said, his voice almost trembling.
"Nothing," Mira replied flatly, but there was a faint warmth in her tone, like a crack in a perfectly polished stone. "We're friends. That's normal, right?"
Yuhan twisted his neck awkwardly, trying to look casual while feeling like a penguin on hot sand. "Right… of course we're friends," he stammered.
Mira's sharp eyes returned to Mikayle. "How come this guy is pouting like a child? It was just a practice duel. Chill."
Ivan sighed, stepping in as a mediator, though with little hope of success. "He feels humiliated. He's never lost like that, especially not in front of a student."
Mira laughed abruptly, a short, sharp sound that seemed to ricochet off the walls. "Student?" she mocked lightly, as if the word itself were a flavorless joke.
"Well," Ivan explained carefully, "we're used to him being… excellent with a sword."
Yuhan, trying to keep up, nodded vigorously. "Yeah, basically, he's a walking sword encyclopedia. Defeat is… unusual for him."
Mira's chuckle deepened, now bordering on cruel amusement. "Good. He didn't swoon for five seconds! I was worried there for a moment." She erupted into laughter, the sound bouncing off the wooden walls, making the air seem lighter and heavier at the same time.
Mikayle clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Rage boiled under his skin, but before he could act, Yuhan stepped forward, hands raised in mock diplomacy. "Why don't you eat with us?"
Mira tilted her head, considering him, then shrugged and sat down on the floor, cross-legged. The trio joined her, surrounding the small pot of soup and the bread as if preparing for a sacred ritual. Mikayle, still in his training clothes, ignored the bloodied remnants of practice duels smeared across his arms and chest.
"Come on, don't pout like a child," Mira said again, poking him lightly with the tip of her finger. "People die on this soup and bread. Eat!"
Mikayle's pride fought him for a moment, but the growl of his stomach made him reconsider. Slowly, cautiously, he picked up a piece of bread. He inhaled the aroma as if it were a treasure. One bite. Then another. Then, without warning, he attacked the food like a starving animal, devouring everything in sight. The green soup disappeared from the bowl in seconds, bread crumbs littering the floor like confetti at a festival of hunger.
Yuhan and Ivan exchanged glances, lips curling into faint smiles. They had seen the transformation before: the once-dignified warrior reduced to a ravenous beast by necessity. They understood now, perhaps more deeply than ever, that the struggle wasn't just about pride—it was about survival.
Mira, seemingly amused by the spectacle, leaned back on her hands and watched Mikayle devour the meal. "Finally," she said with a satisfied grin, "the fire returns. There's nothing quite like hunger to remind someone of their place in the world."
Mikayle, cheeks flushed, muttered through a mouthful, "I'm… not… weak."
"Not yet," Mira replied lightly, her eyes glinting with mischief. "But that anger of yours—useless if you don't have the strength to back it up. Weak… not again, huh?"
He swallowed hard, a lump of bread stuck in his throat. Weak… never again. That word burned more than any sword could. Mikayle felt resolve creeping back into his bones, knitting itself into his muscles and sinew. Strength, he realized, wasn't just about swinging a blade or winning duels—it was survival, it was stamina, it was the stubborn refusal to bow to weakness.
Ivan, munching quietly beside him, whispered to Yuhan, "She's… scary, isn't she?"
Yuhan nodded, shoving another piece of bread into his mouth. "Yeah… but in a good way? Like, terrifyingly good. And maybe funny? I think I laughed like three times just now. Did you notice?"
Mira, standing to leave, glanced at Mikayle one last time. Her eyes carried a quiet challenge. "What's the point of this anger when you're weak?" she said. Then, with a swirl of her cloak, she disappeared out the door, leaving a faint scent of herbs and mischief behind.
Mikayle's fists clenched again, not in rage this time, but in determination. The fire inside him burned brighter now, fueled by the twin embers of humiliation and inspiration. Strength was his only answer, and he would seize it. Not for pride. Not for vengeance. For survival. For mastery. For the day when weakness would dare not approach him again.
Yuhan and Ivan watched him, lips twitching with amusement, and perhaps a little respect. Here in the quiet of their modest hut, over stale wooden floors and a few bowls of simple soup, a lesson had been learned: in the Forsaken Wastes, only the strong endured—and only the stubborn survived.
Mikayle finally exhaled, licking the last crumbs from his fingers, and muttered, "I'll never lose again… not like this."
The room settled into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional slurp of broth and the soft creak of the wooden floor. Even hunger, it seemed, had a way of teaching humility, humor, and the kind of bond that came from shared struggle. They were no longer just Mikayle, Ivan, and Yuhan—they were a team, bound by the absurdities and necessities of life in the Forsaken Wastes.
And somewhere outside, Mira's laughter seemed to linger in the air, a reminder that strength was earned not only in battle but in the quiet, ridiculous, chaotic moments in between.