I let myself fall backward onto the mattress.
"I could get used to this."
My eyes drifted toward the ceiling, how do I go back again?
The answer came almost immediately.
"Login."
The room dissolved.
Not with a flash.
Not with an explosion.
The edges of my vision simply blurred, like wet paint running across a canvas, the ceiling stretched into white.
The mattress disappeared beneath me.
Then.
Clunk.
The familiar rocking returned.
Wood creaked beneath my back.
I opened my eyes.
"I'm back."
The transition was so seamless that, if not for the memories of my bedroom back home, I could almost convince myself I'd always been Barry.
The supply wagon continued rolling down the dirt road exactly as I'd left it.
The driver remained on the front bench, humming quietly to himself while holding the reins.
One of the guards had his helmet tilted over his face, apparently taking a nap.
Another lazily scanned the road ahead.
None of them had moved.
Or rather...
Hardly any time had passed.
I glanced toward the back of the wagon.
The snow-covered mountains were already fading into the distance, their white peaks swallowed by the horizon.
"So..."
I leaned against one of the supply crates.
"It really is ten to one."
A day and a half at home.
Barely a few hours here.
That was...
Absurdly useful.
I rested my head against the wooden crate and watched the scenery drift past.
The endless white slowly gave way to patches of green.
Pine trees became thicker.
The air no longer bit quite as sharply.
The world felt...
Calm.
A strange feeling.
Just a little while ago I'd been arguing with Clary over stolen chicken.
Now I was sitting in the back of a merchant wagon carrying enough supplies to feed a village, on my way to an academy that will decide the fate of the world.
The wagon rolled on for another hour before the dirt road widened into a well-traveled highway.
Traffic gradually thickened.
Merchant caravans.
Horse-drawn carriages.
Adventurers in mismatched armor.
Farmers guiding carts piled high with grain.
Everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction.
Eventually, the trees parted.
Frostgate.
The first thing I saw isn't the city itself.
It's the walls.
Massive pale-gray stone walls nearly thirty meters high encircle the settlement, their surfaces scarred by centuries of blizzards and monster attacks. Thick watchtowers rise at regular intervals, each topped with enchanted braziers whose blue flames never extinguish, even during the fiercest snowstorms.
I caught glimpses of slate rooftops, tall chimneys, and countless buildings climbing the gentle slope toward the academy perched on the mountain beyond.
"So that's Frostgate..."
Long before the city existed, this location marked the only safe passage through the northern mountain range. Travelers referred to the mountain pass as the Frost Gate, because it served as the gateway into the frozen north.
As trade increased and settlers fortified the pass, a permanent settlement grew around it. Over generations, that frontier outpost expanded into the bustling city now known simply as Frostgate.
Even today, the name reflects its purpose. It is the empire's northern gate the last major city before the untamed wilderness and the mountain roads leading to the Heroes' Academy. Every student, merchant, hunter, and explorer heading north eventually passes through Frostgate, making it a city of beginnings rather than destinations.
I'll be back here in summer break.
It was larger than I'd imagined.
Not quite a capital city.
But far too large to simply call a town.
The wagon slowed as it joined the queue entering through the gates.
The guards performed quick inspections, checking travel permits and cargo manifests before waving each caravan through.
When our turn came, the old driver casually handed over a rolled document.
The guard barely glanced at it before nodding.
"Merchant convoy from Whitepine. You're clear."
The wagon creaked forward once more.
As soon as we entered the city, the driver pulled the reins.
"Whoa."
The horses came to a stop near a bustling market square.
"We're unloading here, lad."
I climbed down from the back of the wagon, boots landing on solid stone instead of frozen dirt.
The city buzzed with life.
Blacksmiths hammered glowing steel.
Street vendors shouted over one another.
The smell of fresh bread mixed with roasted meat drifted through the air.
After spending hour surrounded by snow and forests, the sheer noise almost caught me off guard.
The old driver climbed down from his seat and stretched until his back let out a satisfying crack.
"Well," he said with a chuckle, "this is where we part ways."
I smiled.
"Thanks for letting me hitch a ride."
"Bah." He waved a hand dismissively. "Would've felt wrong leaving a young man alone in those mountains."
"Still."
I reached into my pouch.
After fishing around for a moment, I pulled out several silver coins and held them out.
The old man blinked.
"What's this?"
"Payment."
He frowned immediately.
"I wasn't running a passenger service."
"I know."
I pressed the coins into his calloused hand anyway.
"I couldn't have made it here if you werent there, so the Wunderlich family will be in your debt, if you need any help you may ask them."
Yes.
I was absolutely pulling the noble card.
I had inherited it.
It would've been rude not to use the family membership benefits.
For a long moment, the old driver simply stared at the coins before letting out a helpless laugh.
"Hah..."
"You're an odd one, thanks kiddo"
He tucked the coins into his coat with a grateful smile.
He extended his rough, weathered hand.
"You seem to be traveling to the academy are you not, then I pray to Marlboro that you may have a safe trip."
[The God of Tobacco.]
Patron deity of lung cancer and poor financial decisions.
[Every miracle came with a complimentary pack.]
I bit the inside of my cheek.
No, don't laugh, hearing it in person, Was funnier than I thought.
Marlboro was the benevolent god of travelers, protection, and safe roads, and many more.
Not a cigarette.
I kept a perfectly straight face.
Because there was absolutely no way I was asking, "So... does your god come in menthol?"
I shook it firmly.
"I'll do my best."
With that, the old merchant climbed back onto his wagon.
The horses snorted as he flicked the reins.
"Take care of yourself!"
"I will!"
The wagon rolled away, disappearing into the crowded streets.
I wandered through the market with absolutely no destination.
Well...
That was a lie.
I had a destination.
Food.
Years of living without a sense of taste had apparently awakened something primal inside me.
Now that my taste buds actually worked, they had become tiny dictators with impossible demands.
So naturally...
I obeyed.
The first victim was a bowl of thick meat stew.
Steam curled into the chilly air as I scooped up a spoonful.
Chunks of slow-cooked beef practically melted apart the moment they touched my tongue.
The broth was rich, peppery, and somehow managed to taste like an entire winter evening.
...
People had been eating this every day?
I'd been robbed.
Next came fresh rye bread.
Still warm.
The crust cracked satisfyingly beneath my fingers while the inside remained soft enough to tear apart without effort.
I took a bite.
It was...
Bread, it was good.
Then...
Smoked venison.
Slightly salty.
A little sweet.
Chewy without being tough.
It left behind a pleasant smoky aroma that lingered long after I swallowed.
Whoever invented smoking meat deserved a statue.
Preferably made of smoked meat.
Roasted mountain goat.
Surprisingly tender.
I'd expected something that fought back.
Instead, the meat practically surrendered.
The seasoning was simple.
Salt.
Herbs.
Garlic.
Apparently you didn't need seventeen spices if your ingredients actually tasted like something.
Berry pie.
I bought one because it looked nice.
A terrible financial strategy.
An excellent culinary decision.
The flaky crust shattered with every bite while warm berry filling spilled out like molten jam.
It was sweet.
Sour.
Comforting.
I immediately bought another.
This was called investing.
Mushroom soup.
Creamy.
Earthy.
Comfort in liquid form.
I briefly considered proposing marriage to the chef.
Good thing I didn't know where the kitchen was.
Then came hot herbal tea.
I wasn't expecting much.
Leaves.
Hot water.
How exciting.
I was wrong.
The warmth spread through my body almost instantly, carrying a gentle floral aroma that somehow made the cold air feel softer.
It didn't punch me in the face with flavor.
It simply sat beside me like an old friend.
I understood why old people drank this now.
Finally...
Honey-glazed root vegetables.
I stared at them suspiciously.
Vegetables.
Historically, not humanity's greatest achievement, according to Clary.
I took a bite anyway.
Whoever had coated these in honey deserved a raise.
The outside was lightly caramelized while the inside remained soft and naturally sweet.
I finished the plate.
Then looked around.
"Dessert?"
I should probably stop before I accidentally ate my tuition.
What I'm I saying I got twelve gold.
One more stall.
Then I'd stop.
Probably.
Maybe.
...Definitely not.
I was halfway through my second berry pie when someone grabbed my shoulder.
Hard.
I nearly launched the pastry into orbit.
"There you are!"
I turned.
Standing behind me was a broad-shouldered butcher wearing a flour-stained apron and an expression that suggested he had been personally offended by my existence.
He pointed a thick finger at me.
"I knew it!"
...
Oh no.
Whenever someone started a sentence with I knew it, nothing good followed.
"You've got the wrong person."
He snorted.
"Wrong person?, your Barry Wunderlich.
He pointed at the very obvious crest in my shirt.
"Oh then You got the right person."
"You've been walking around my market buying food from every stall except mine."
"...That's the accusation?"
The butcher crossed his arms.
"I watched you eat Old Hilda's stew."
"You bought Markus' venison."
"You even went to that stingy baker who calls his bread 'artisan.'"
His face darkened.
"But not one sausage from me."
"..."
"..."
I looked down at the pie still in my hand.
Then back at him.
"You were keeping score?"
"The entire market is keeping score!"
Before I could respond, an old woman selling herbs leaned over from the neighboring stall.
"He already bought my tea."
"And my pie!" another vendor called.
"My mushrooms too!"
"Three skewers from me!"
The butcher pointed triumphantly.
"See?"
I looked around.
Half the market was staring.
When had I become today's entertainment?
"I just..."
I gestured helplessly.
"...didn't notice it."
The market fell strangely silent.
The butcher frowned.
"...That's it?"
I nodded honestly.
"I couldn't taste anything for most of my life."
"..."
"So I'm making up for lost time."
The silence deepened.
The butcher's expression softened.
"Oh..."
An elderly baker lowered the loaf she'd been carrying.
"Well."
A woman selling honey rubbed the back of her neck.
"Now I feel bad."
The butcher scratched his beard awkwardly.
"Lad..."
He disappeared behind his stall.
A moment later he returned carrying an absurdly large smoked sausage.
He shoved it into my hands.
"Here."
"...I didn't buy this."
"I know."
"It's free."
"..."
"No arguments."
Before I could protest, another vendor walked over.
"Take a cheese roll."
"And have another pie."
"Someone give the boy more tea!"
A hunter tossed me a strip of dried venison.
"You look too skinny."
"I am literally eating."
"You could eat faster."
Within seconds my arms were overflowing with food.
This...
This had escalated dramatically.
Five minutes ago I'd been a customer.
Now I was apparently the market's adopted grandson.
I wasn't entirely sure how I'd gotten here.
But judging by the amount of free food...
I wasn't complaining.
Why would I complain about my luck?.
Looking down at the mountain of food in my arms, I reached a very important conclusion.
Kindness was terrifying.
Give people one tragic backstory and suddenly they started feeding you.
"...I should probably leave before someone adopts me."