Roy woke up to pain.
Not the gut-wrenching, soul-crushing pain of death or despair.
Just an old-fashioned headache, a hangover, a throb right between his eyes as if someone had stuffed a live hornet in his skull.
"Ugh…" He groaned, lifting a hand to rub in between his temples.
The pounding subsided almost instantly. That was new, as he didn't heal himself; it was almost as if it occurred automatically. He blinked a few times, groggy, then slowly sat up from the old sofa he'd collapsed onto the night before. The base was quiet, too quiet.
He glanced around. It was empty.
No people arguing over something. No Mella clinging to her bunny. No Kieran drooling on the spare bed. Not even the distant clatter of Ilya doing chores with military efficiency.
He ran a hand through his tangled hair.
"Huh," he muttered. "Where did everyone go? I guess I got abandoned."
He didn't blame them. Being cooped up underground in Nova's base was like being trapped in a concrete shoebox. Even the most disciplined, or stubborn, child would crack eventually.
"Probably out on errands," he muttered to himself. "Or just… anywhere else that isn't here."
With a small puff of breath, Roy closed his eyes and blinked out of the base with a soft shimmer.
He was home.
He appeared back in his modest dorm in the residential block provided to the outstationed college students. Sparse, but it had everything that really mattered in his dorm, like a couch, a bed, a TV and on-site plumbing that only threatened to kill him occasionally, as his flush barely works.
The moment he arrived, the reality of being awake hit him all at once.
He sighed.
"...Toilet," he mumbled as he dragged his feet across to it.
It wasn't glamorous, just necessary. When he stepped back out, with his mouth full with toothpaste and a brush, the next stop was his chair, where a towel hung like a limp flag. Then, with the grace of a tired cat, he turned around and wandered right back into the bathroom for a much-needed shower.
Steam filled the small room, fogging the mirror as warm water cascaded down his back. Roy let it wash over him, no thinking, not planning anything, just existing for the time being. A rare moment of peace everyone needs in their life.
To just decompress for a moment.
Afterwards, he stepped back into the bedroom and checked the clock with a towel around his waist covering him up.
1:03 PM.
A groan escaped him as he flopped onto the bed.
The soft thump of his body against the mattress felt oddly final, like he might just sink into it and not come back out.
There was nothing to do. No immediate threats. No looming homework deadlines.
Just… empty time.
Roy lay on the mattress, with his legs hanging off the bed touching the floor; this should've been nice. But it wasn't.
Roy stared at the ceiling for a long moment. It was blank, empty and white.
And then it hit him, like a punch from the inside out.
The Tournament of Richt starts in a week.
He blinked slowly.
"Oh, right."
He'd almost forgotten.
The biggest combat tournament in the region. Hell, the continent, was kicking off soon. Hosted by the Celestial Watch and broadcast across the globe, with scouts from all factions itching to spot talent.
And he was in it. Because, of course, he is in it.
However, it was pretty easy to get into the tournament, as there are smaller tournaments leading to the main one.
Thanks, Brock.
Roy sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "I should really stop letting other people do stuff like this for me."
In truth, he hadn't put much thought into it. The idea of winning wasn't appealing to him. He had no wish to become a military poster boy or land a cushy recruitment deal.
He didn't really have anything in mind to do in the future, since he was already neck-deep in Nova in Veil; however, Kieran had a dream, something Roy lacked as of right now.
Maybe he would one day have a dream or a goal to work towards.
Still, he'd do alright
He'll put on a decent show to make up for the fact he is a scholarship student and get knocked out in the middle to later rounds, maybe even get to the first stage of the main tournament.
That should be enough to not raise an eyebrow, just enough to keep the expectations low.
With a groan, Roy peeled himself off the bed, shoved on a shirt and then a black hoodie with a little art on the front.
His allowance had come in that morning; just enough for supplies, if he was careful with his spending. Not that it mattered too much. Noa covers most major expenses these days, but after the whole incident at the mansion, most of the group's funds had been locked away by the strategist.
"Not that I blame her," he muttered, locking the door behind him. "If I had to trust me with money, I wouldn't either."
The train rocked gently beside him, metal wheels clicking rhythmically over the tracks like a lullaby made of steel and inertia. Roy sat by the window, arms folded, hood pulled halfway over his face, as the scenery blurred past in streaks of brown and green.
He wasn't in a rush; he just… needed to get out for a while, so he used the excuse of getting groceries even though he wasn't trying to convince anyone.
The Nova base had been very quiet lately. Home felt too still. His thoughts had started echoing off the walls like ghosts.
The train's motion, that constant forward hum, was something he could rest inside.
The vibration of the floor beneath his boots, the dull creak of the old seats, and the gentle swaying of the car… all of it lulled him. His mind began to drift, thoughts dissolving like mist, and the dull ache behind his eyes slowly faded.
Just a few minutes, he thought, his head resting lightly against the cool glass. Just a little…
Sleep came quickly, unannounced.
Not the kind filled with dreams or a nightmare, just stillness.
The sharp blast of a horn shattered that stillness.
Roy jolted upright, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat as the announcer's voice blared overhead.
"This is the final stop. Central District Terminal. All passengers, please disembark."
The train hissed as it slowed to a stop.
Roy rubbed at his face, blinking blearily.
"How long was I out…? " he muttered, glancing around.
The car was nearly empty. Just a few stragglers grabbing their bags. Outside, Westvale buzzed with noise, energy rising like steam from a boiling pot.
He slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped out onto the platform, greeted immediately by the chaotic murmur of crowds and vendors.
The sun was warm today. Not scorching. Even though it was September, a month notorious for being very cold.
I guess winter didn't come yet.
The streets outside were busy as always, full of students (the only reason Roy didn't go to school today was that in week 2 on his timetable he has no lessons, so there is no need for him to turn up), citizens, and vendors shouting their daily chants. The town centre was alive with noise: people bargaining, musicians playing half-decent tunes, and the occasional squad of Watch officers patrolling the perimeter like hawks.
Roy lowered his hood and slipped into the crowd.
He wasn't a fan of shopping, but he wasn't completely hopeless at it. A few basics, like buying instant rice, tea, some protein bars, and a toothbrush to replace the one Kieran had "accidentally" used for cleaning his boots.
With a few bags in hand, he stopped by a small vendor selling grilled chicken skewers. They were overpriced, half-charred, and probably not entirely legal.
He bought two.
One for now.
One for later.
He sat on a low wall nearby and ate in silence, watching the flow of people pass him by. It was strange, this feeling. Like the world was moving, fast and free, and he was just… standing still.
He had the tournament coming up. Nova's plans were in motion. Ilya had a whole file on emerging threats. And Kieran was probably at school right now in a lesson, probably dreaming about sword fights or girls or both.
And yet…
Roy chewed slowly.
What am I doing with my life?
Not with his afternoon, but with everything.
And sometimes it felt like he was just coasting.
Maybe that's why he didn't want to win the tournament. Maybe that's why he didn't want anything.
Because the moment you want something?
You have something to lose.
Roy finished the skewer and flicked the stick into a nearby trash bin. His phone buzzed. A message from Brock:
"Training later. Bring snacks."
He snorted and realised, why did Brock send them message of training when he isn't even taking part
Typical.
Roy stood, stretched, and slung the bags over his shoulder.
For he had no revelation.
Just shopping, a cheap skewer, and the slow, creeping dread of participating in a tournament where people would try to kill him for sport.
Still, as he walked back toward the residential quarter, he looked up at the sky.
The clouds were shifting, sunlight spilling through in places. Not beautiful. But honest.
And somehow, that was enough to keep moving.
He hadn't exactly forgotten that the tournament of Richt was starting in this city.
But seeing the streets more packed made it real. Tourists. Competitors. Merchants dragging in crates of overpriced snacks and fake memorabilia. Even a few shady dealers hocking "enchanted gear" that was probably just polished junk.
Roy yawned, stretching his arms overhead as he strolled into the town's open-air market.
He made his way through the stalls, eyes scanning for the usual essentials: vegetables, spices, and whatever else could keep him from surviving off instant noodles and sarcasm.
Here, in the heart of the market, prices weren't fixed. This area still worked on an old system of bartering: equal parts tradition and performance art.
Roy wasn't a master of it, but he'd been around long enough to know the game.
At one vegetable stall, he picked up a bunch of carrots.
"Ten for three," the vendor said.
Roy raised a brow. "Ten for two, and I don't tell the woman two stalls down that your turnips are last week's stock."
The vendor's mouth opened, then closed.
A pause.
Then a sigh. "Two it is."
And so the dance began.
He moved from stall to stall, bartering for onions, greens, and even a jar of preserved garlic from an old man who insisted on telling a five-minute story with every item.
It was exhausting. But there was something… grounding about it.
Every word, every exchange, reminded Roy of the human parts of life. The mundane, messy, honest parts that can't be changed.
With his satchel full and his wallet only mildly offended, he finally exhaled.
"Done," he muttered. "Now I can go back and…"
And that's when he saw it.