Chapter 38: The Place Where the Fire Went Out (3)
Creeeak──
Under the faint morning sunlight,
the massive hotel doors opened, revealing two boys.
“I’ll head north. They say there are lots of abandoned factories there.”
“Got it.”
Ray watched Philip’s retreating back before turning south.
Tap. Tap.
The endless mountains of scrap metal teased at a half-formed memory.
Had he dreamed something?
He furrowed his brow, grasping at vague impressions of something important, but no clear images emerged.
‘…Just a useless dream anyway.’
He shook his head.
There was no time to dwell on trivialities—too much needed doing.
Ray quickened his pace, thoughts racing.
‘That man’s routine hasn’t changed since the basement fire.’
He’d verify it himself today, but Johnny from the restaurant across from the basement had confirmed it.
According to Cedric, the man would visit the hideout in four days.
「Five times? Six? He’s never missed a scheduled visit.」
The man would find only charred ruins where the factory once stood.
Given his obsession, he’d undoubtedly mobilize dozens to search for Cedric and the missing children.
Hiding would only delay the inevitable.
‘…Not that I intend to hide.’
Ten days in Sector 49.
He’d gained magic knowledge, improved mana control, and found clues about the rainbow.
Yet it wasn’t enough.
Revenge demanded faster progress.
That’s why he’d confront the basement man—where more tools and secrets surely lay.
His street-honed intuition insisted it was worth the risk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Lost in thought, Ray blinked as the southern junkyard materialized around him.
He hurried past scrap heaps until spotting a once-white, now grime-gray car in the corner.
Creeak—Clank!
He locked the money bag in the trunk.
His betting winnings had nearly doubled—2.27 million shillings.
A fortune unimaginable to street orphans.
‘Philip’s safe would be safer.’
But the car allowed quick escapes without hotel detours.
On 8th Street, Jeph’s gang scrambled away like startled roaches.
“...!”
“R-run!”
Before, they’d have picked fights. Now they fled.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The bookstore came into view.
Ray perched on a wooden crate outside.
‘She should be awake by now.’
Time blurred until Veronica came thundering downstairs. She threw open the door:
“Ray! Warn me next time!”
He stood, dusting his pants. “How?”
“Knock! Or shout at my window!”
“I’ll remember.”
“Good! I’ll listen for you every morning!”
She ushered him inside, failing to hide her relief.
“I worried! You didn’t come yesterday or—!”
Her words died as she noticed the burns on his clothes, the fresh bruises.
“—You fought.”
Her vessel flooded with white mana.
“Your skin’s burnt too!”
“It’s fi—”
Ray froze.
Beautiful.
Veronica’s mana shimmered like a miniature sun, tendrils of light dancing around a radiant core.
He’d never seen such a manifestation. Last time, her mana hadn’t felt this...
‘Is this because I can sense worry now? Or did her feelings change?’
“Let me heal you.”
Her mana surged toward his wounds—
—Until Ray seized control.
“Ah! My mana!”
The energy dissipated like smoke.
“Your grandfather warned about ambient mana addiction.”
“Oh! I didn’t realize...”
“It’s handled. Disinfected and bandaged.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Veronica.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you consider me a friend?”
Dead serious.
She blinked, flustered. The question tangled her thoughts:
Savior. Admirable resolve. Shared magic. But only three meetings...
After agonizing moments, she declared:
“Yes. You’re my friend.”
Ray nodded.
“Understood. Let’s visit your grandfather.”
“Huh? Wait!”
He was already climbing the stairs.
“What about you?” she demanded, chasing him. “Am I your friend?”
Silence.
Creaking steps filled the void.
Finally:
“No.”
Veronica halted.
Her face burned crimson.
“Yaaah—! You—!”
Her shamed scream rattled the bookshelves.
Knock. Knock.
“Grandfather? Ray’s here.”
“Enter.”
“Go ahead. I’ll feed the kids first.”
“Okay.”
“...Hmph!”
Ray watched Veronica stomp away, puzzled by her pout.
Creeak──
The old man sat propped against bed pillows, morning breeze fluttering the curtains.
“Three days since we last spoke. I fell asleep mid-conversation.”
He looked frailer.
“They claim elders need less sleep. Yet here I am, dozing toward eternity.”
A hollow joke—Somnia already stole 21 hours daily.
“Veronica mentioned your illness.”
“A vicious thing. Stealing what little life I have left.”
“How long?”
“Six months, perhaps. Unlikely now.”
Somnia: incurable, fatal. Victims sleep longer until breathing stops.
“Which means,” the old man said, voice heavy with farewell, “we begin your magic lessons today.”
