Chapter 7 – Rats, Ashbread, and Rusted Eyes
Axel's boots hit the cracked, uneven cobblestone streets of The Eternal Slums with a hollow sound. Every step echoed in the silence of the alleyway, swallowed by the haze of smoke and despair that seemed to saturate every inch of this broken place. The city wasn't what he had expected. There were no towering spires of glass or stone here, no busy marketplaces bustling with life. Instead, the streets were lined with crumbling buildings, many of them little more than half-destroyed shells, their windows shattered, their walls blackened with soot.
It was a city where time had been forgotten, left to rot in the shadow of its former self. And Axel was walking through the wreckage.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and the acrid tang of something burning. A few yards away, a group of men and women stood in a circle, cheering and shouting at something Axel couldn't see. The sound of clashing metal and guttural roars filled the air, as if the city itself was a boiling cauldron of violence and hunger.
Axel's gaze flicked from side to side, trying to make sense of the chaotic scene before him. His hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his blade, the cool metal a comfort in a place that reeked of danger. But there was no immediate threat here—just the gnawing feeling that he was trespassing in a world where the rules were different, twisted by years of neglect and corruption.
"Beast fights," Elyria's voice echoed in his mind, low and steady. "This is what you'll find in The Eternal Slums. Beasts, broken and wild, tamed by drugs and magic. The people here bet on their lives with blood."
Axel's stomach twisted at the thought of what he might be witnessing. But he didn't move forward. Instead, he kept walking, keeping his eyes on the ground, careful to avoid the crowd of ragged figures who seemed to populate every corner. His goal was clear—to get a meal, find some supplies, and move on. This city had nothing to offer him, nothing worth lingering for.
As he rounded a corner, a makeshift stall came into view. A woman sat behind a battered counter, her eyes dull but sharp, as if they had seen everything the slums had to offer. The stall was nothing more than a few crates stacked haphazardly, covered by a tattered cloth. But the smell that drifted from it was unmistakable—a blend of stale bread and burnt offerings.
"Looking for food, stranger?" The woman's voice was harsh, like it had been ground down by years of harsh living. She was older than Axel had first thought, her face etched with wrinkles, eyes sunken deep into her skull. But the hunger in her gaze told him everything he needed to know about the kind of life she had led.
Axel nodded and stepped closer, inspecting the goods she had on display. There was no meat, no vegetables—only dried, flat loaves of something that barely resembled bread. The crust was as hard as stone, the color a dull grey that reminded Axel of ash.
"Ashbread," the woman said, seeing his hesitation. "It's what we eat around here. It's cheap. It's filling. Keeps you going when there's nothing else."
Axel didn't respond. He didn't need to. He knew that food in this place was a commodity, not a luxury. He dropped a handful of copper coins on the counter and took one of the loaves. It was as heavy as a brick, and he could feel the absence of any real substance as he held it in his hand.
"Is it fresh?" Axel asked, though he already knew the answer.
The woman snorted, her laugh sharp and brittle. "Does it matter?"
He shrugged and took a bite. The taste was worse than he could have imagined. The bread was dry, like chewing on a mouthful of dust. It had no flavor, no warmth, no comfort. Just emptiness. The texture was closer to chalk than anything edible. But as the crumbs slid down his throat, something else happened. His stomach gave a slight grumble, but his body seemed to respond. A dull warmth spread through his chest, faint but undeniable. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Elyria's voice echoed again, quiet in his mind. "Ashbread is a poor substitute for real food, but it provides a temporary burst of energy. It's made from whatever scraps the people can find, mixed with dried roots and weeds. It's a survival food, nothing more."
Axel's mind wandered to the memory of the Mana-Braised Boar Belly, the warmth and vitality it had provided. He'd barely realized it at the time, but it had been the first time he truly felt a connection to the food he had prepared. It wasn't just nourishment—it was magic, a gift.
But here… here it was different.
The Ashbread was nothing but a symbol of desperation. He chewed another bite, feeling the dry texture settle in his stomach like lead. No amount of chewing would make it palatable.
He finished the loaf without comment, though his stomach still felt empty. It wasn't real sustenance. But it would have to do for now.
Axel turned away from the stall, nodding to the woman. She didn't acknowledge him, too busy eying the next person walking past. The streets were bustling with activity, a strange sort of silent agreement among the people here. No one spoke of their pasts. No one shared their hopes. They simply existed, moving through the world of the Slums like rats in a maze.
He walked for a few more minutes, then ducked into a narrow alley. The air grew denser with the smell of refuse and the occasional burst of heat from open fires burning waste. There was a makeshift fire pit in the center, a large pot bubbling with something foul-smelling. A group of children huddled nearby, their faces gaunt and hollow. Some of them had marks of burns or cuts, others wore rags too large for their bodies, but all of them were eyeing the pot with hunger.
A boy, no older than ten, turned to Axel, his face streaked with dirt. "Got any dried beast meat? You buy, we'll trade."
Axel could feel his heart tighten in his chest. The boy was thin, his ribs clearly visible under the loose shirt he wore. His eyes had the look of one who had known too much pain for too long.
"I don't have any meat," Axel said quietly, shaking his head. He paused, then added, "But I could cook something for you. A real meal. Something that'll fill you up."
The boy blinked, as though surprised by the offer. His gaze flickered toward the others, who were now watching him closely. "You cook?" he asked, his voice hesitant, almost disbelieving.
Axel nodded. "Yeah. Just need a few things."
The boy hesitated for a moment longer before running off, his small form disappearing into the crowd. Axel stood by the fire, hands on his hips, trying to ignore the sting of hunger that had settled in his stomach.
Within moments, the boy returned, carrying a small bundle of wilted vegetables. They were little more than scraps, but Axel could make do. He turned toward the fire, gathering a few more odds and ends from his pack, then set to work.
His knife sliced through the vegetables with ease, the familiar motions calming him in a place where nothing was calm. He set a pot on the fire, throwing in some water, the vegetables, and a pinch of seasoning—nothing extravagant, just a simple, basic vegetable soup. It wasn't much, but it was something.
As the soup began to bubble, a faint warmth began to fill the air, and Axel could feel the magic of his [Sovereign Cooking System] stir inside him. The flavors began to meld, and though the meal was humble, it would do what it needed to.
He ladled the soup into a few bowls, handing them to the children, who took them eagerly, their hands trembling slightly with anticipation.
"Eat up," Axel said, his voice a little rougher than he intended. "This should give you some strength."
The children didn't waste a second. They hunched over their bowls, slurping the soup down as if it was the first real food they had eaten in days. Axel watched them, his heart heavy. They were starving—not just for food, but for something deeper. Hope. A reason to keep going.
And then, as if from nowhere, an old voice broke the silence.
"You cook well, boy."
Axel turned toward the source of the voice—a man, bent with age, one of his eyes completely clouded over. His face was lined with deep creases, his skin darkened by years of sun and dirt. A scar ran down the side of his face, and his hands, though gnarled, were strong and steady.
Axel raised an eyebrow. "You've been watching me?"
The old man chuckled, a sound like gravel grinding together. "Noticed you were cooking for the children. Not many here do that. Most people feed 'em scraps, or take from 'em, make 'em fight for their meals." He spat to the side, the bitter taste of the city evident in his voice. "Not many folks left with a heart here, but you've got something. Something different."
Axel didn't know what to say. He was about to turn away when the old man added, "Watch out for what's coming, kid. Your path smells like fire and royalty."
The words