Rivered was heading toward the town municipal. Today his group was to receive medals for conquering the Night Championship, a contest that drew fighters from far and wide.
The streets were waking. Lanterns swayed gently in the morning breeze, their faint light lingering even as the pale sun began to rise.
The scent of bread drifting from bakeries mingled with the sharper tang of iron from the smithies. Somewhere ahead, a cart rattled over stone, its driver shouting greetings to the passersby.
"I better not be late today," Rivered muttered under his breath, tightening the lace around his ankle. His boots were a size too large, worn smooth from miles of travel. He had learned to bind them tightly to his legs, wrapping the leather so they would not slip while running.
The sound of the leather creaking under his fingers seemed louder in the morning silence, and for a moment, he paused to look at it. He almost smiled at the thought that even such a small thing could matter when the day ahead was filled with ceremony and pride.
Suddenly, a wheezing voice cut through the quiet behind him.
"I never thought a group of ragtag mercenaries would win against those noble dungeon hunters."
The voice was brittle with age and carried a rasp that seemed almost too faint to hear without leaning in.
Rivered turned his head toward it.
The speaker was an old man, leaning heavily on a crooked cane, his shoulders bent like the bow of a worn ship.
He walked slowly, the years heavy on his bones. His clothes were worn, patched in multiple places. His boots were cracked, one with a sole that flapped faintly with each step. Yet, despite his tattered appearance, there was a certain confidence in his stride, a quiet gravity in his presence.
"Steve Rogers!"
Riverend scowled, "What do you mean by that?!"
Steve sighed before replying, "Congrats on your win."
Riverend's eyes narrowed, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "For what?" he asked.
Steve chuckled, the sound rough and dry, like creaking timber.
"Who was the final boss?"
"Was it a chimera? Or a beast with an insatiable lust for human blood?"
"Don't be shy. I'm an expert, you know."
Rivered shook his head and replied, "A blood vampire."
Hearing this, the old man gave a hearty smile. With his broken teeth, it was quite a wicked grin.
He calmly asked, "So, what's the reward?"
His words lingered in the air as Rivered turned his back and walked away, showing no interest in answering the question.
Rivered kept walking but threw a glance back at him.
The old man didn't stop; he followed behind.
Steve matched his pace and glanced at Rivered.
"Come on," he said quietly. "You know I can help fetch a good price for it."
Rivered glanced at him, skeptical. "You expect me to believe that?"
Steve didn't smile.
Instead, his eyes gleamed. "You dare to call me a thief?"
"For this once great hero, I am branded a thief?"
"I was part of the first hero's party, long before you were even born. I am a legend, and you reduce me to a common thief! How could you be so foolish?!"
Rivered fell silent.
For there was no good, fighting an old senile man.
They walked through the marketplace, the smell of fresh bread growing stronger. Children darted between the stalls. A merchant shouted over the noise to advertise dried meat.
Steve cleared his throat. "Anyway, if you want to keep it secret, that's your choice, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me, at the Yondesa Tavern."
They walked in silence for a while.
The town hall came into view, its flag fluttering high above the steps. Its flag featured a lion with its mane holding a trident.
Rivered could hear bells ringing in the distance, calling the city to ceremony. He thought of his comrades, of the blood they had shed to earn this day.
His voice broke the silence once more. "You believe today is about medals, but no medal can ever measure the price of standing at the core of a place like the labyrinth and emerging alive."
Rivered paused, turning to face him. "And you, old man? What does glory mean to you?"
Steve Roger looked past him, toward the hills beyond the town. His eyes seemed to rest on something far away. "Being part of the hero's cohort is the greatest glory I have earned. you know, kid, I am not what I look to be, I am not senile."
Rivered really wanted to give a backhanded compliment but restrained himself from doing so.
Rivered mocked him in silence.
Steve Roger continued as they climbed the final steps toward the municipal building. "You, the Hero of Light and the Hero of Dark, both were twins, and one of them is a girl disguised as a man. Can you guess who it is? And what's more, the Saint of Light and Hope is a beastman. Yes, a freaking beastman!...there is more...did you know about the Chauffeur of Heroes? He is quite a gentleman.......for he is....."
Rivered's hand tightened as he saw the people gathered in the town hall.
The municipal steps were crowded now. Soldiers in polished armor stood in formation. Citizens pressed close, murmuring and pointing. His comrades were already gathered near the center, their armor still glinting from the fight, their weapons at rest.
The banners of the Night Championship hung above the square.
Steve Roger paused beside him, his voice softer now, almost like a confession. "Remember, kid. A man can stand and fight to his last breath. But some battles don't end with medals, they end with choices. And there's always a call to face after that."
Rivered looked down the street, where the crowd swelled.
Somewhere in the noise, the clang of a bell rang out. Steve's voice faded beneath it, but the words lingered in Rivered's mind.
Steve Roger stepped aside, leaning on his cane, his breath slow and measured. Around them, the city prepared for the ceremony.