Scotch's house stood at the edge of Skytop, where the paths thinned and the noise of the village faded.
It was a hut.
Not small in a cozy way—small in a barely standing way.
The roof sagged on one side, patched with mismatched planks. Water dripped steadily from a corner where the rain had eaten through the wood. The door creaked loudly when Scotch pushed it open, like it hadn't been used gently in years.
Pine stopped just outside.
He stared.
"This is… where you live?" Pine asked.
Scotch glanced around, slightly embarrassed.
"It keeps the rain out. Mostly."
Pine stepped inside.
The room was dim. A single table. A chair with one short leg balanced on stone. Books stacked everywhere—on the floor, under the bed, against the walls. Some were wrapped in cloth. Others were old enough that their pages curled on their own.
There was no comfort. No decoration. No extra space.
Pine felt something tighten in his chest.
"You could live better," Pine said quietly.
Scotch smiled, not defensive. Just honest.
"I don't need much."
Pine noticed the bucket under the leaking roof.
"You live like this?" Pine asked again.
Scotch shrugged. "I sleep. I read. I think. That's enough."
After a moment, Scotch moved to the side of the room and lifted a loose floor panel.
"Come," he said. "There's something I want to show you."
Pine followed him down a narrow set of steps.
Below the hut was a bunker.
Not hidden badly—hidden carefully.
The space was reinforced with stone and metal scraps. Lanterns lined the walls. Maps covered almost every surface. Symbols, notes, layered drawings of the world above and below.
Pine froze.
"This…" Pine said slowly, "…this isn't the work of a fool."
Scotch scratched the back of his head. "I come down here when it's loud upstairs."
"You built all this alone?"
"Yes."
"And the Veil markings?"
"Trial and error."
Pine walked the room in silence.
This wasn't obsession.
This was discipline.
"You sacrifice everything," Pine said. "Money. Safety. Comfort."
Scotch nodded. "Knowledge costs something."
Pine stopped.
That line struck him.
Scotch looked up and added casually,
"Knowledge is controlled."
Pine's eyes widened slightly.
"…Who told you that?"
Scotch smiled. "Someone who understood the world better than most."
Pine didn't speak after that.
Pine stayed the night.
Then the next day, he stayed again.
"I still have work in Skytop," Pine explained. "I didn't know you lived here."
Scotch didn't ask questions. He never did.
They talked at night. About books. About history. About the lies hidden inside rules. Pine found himself impressed—not by Scotch's intelligence alone, but by how little he cared about himself compared to what he wanted to understand.
One afternoon, a man arrived at the hut.
He leaned heavily on a stick. His leg was wrapped badly. His clothes were torn.
"I want your help, i am literally poor. I haven't eaten from past three days and I'm very hungry. I can't work because I'm handicapped. Please help me." the man said weakly.
Scotch didn't hesitate.
He emptied his pouch. Coins. Notes. Even money meant for repaying debts.
Pine watched silently.
Later that evening, Pine saw the same man down the road—walking perfectly fine, laughing loudly with his friends.
"Let's drink tonight! I fooled that good for nothing Scotch again" the man shouted.
Pine returned to the hut.
"He lied to you," Pine said. "He isn't injured."
Scotch nodded. "I know."
"…Then why give him everything?"
Scotch thought for a moment.
"He came to me because he said he needed help," he said simply. "That was true at least once. What he does after isn't my concern."
Pine stared at him.
"You are insane," Pine muttered.
A few days later, trouble came again.
Scotch had barely taken three steps into the main street when a rough hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
"Where's my money?" the villager shouted.
People nearby turned to look. A few slowed. A few stopped completely.
"You've delayed long enough! Every time it's 'soon' or 'tomorrow'—today it ends."
Scotch winced but didn't pull away. "I told you," he said calmly, "I haven't forgotten. I just need—"
Pine stepped between them.
"Please," Pine said, voice steady. "Give him time. He will return it."
The villager scoffed and looked Pine up and down.
"And who are you supposed to be? His keeper?"
Pine opened his mouth. "He's not refusing—"
"Oh, listen to him explain!" the villager laughed loudly. "You two practicing excuses together now?"
A few people snickered.
Pine stared at the man for a long second.
Scotch opened his mouth, but before he could speak—
"Sto..."
A new voice cut through the street.
A man stood a few steps away, holding a small pouch.
He walked up and placed it into the villager's hand.
"For his debt," the man said. "I'll cover it."
The villager blinked. "You will?"
"Yes," the man replied. "Now go."
The villager hesitated, then took the pouch and left without another word.
Scotch stared. "You didn't have to do that."
The man shook his head. "I wanted to."
"Why?" Pine asked.
The man smiled faintly. "Because I've seen him give away the last thing he had. More than once to help other people."
He looked at Scotch.
"People like that don't deserve to be dragged through the street."
"I'm Isoki," he said.
The same guy from Illenwood who sent Volow to meet Scotch.
Scotch bowed slightly. "Thank you. Truly."
From that day on, they began spending time together.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just… naturally.From that day on, they were rarely seen apart.
They argued over books. Laughed over bad meals. Sat quietly when words weren't needed. Pine wrote. Scotch studied. Isoki listened.
The bond formed without effort—natural and solid.
Then one morning, Isoki spoke quietly.
"My family is moving to Illenwood."
Scotch didn't reply at first.
Pine only nodded.
A few days later, Pine packed his things.
"I have to leave," he said.
Scotch looked down. "I see."
Pine rested a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Certain.
"The next time we meet," Pine said, "we'll be old enough to share our experiences about life."
Scotch nodded once.
After Pine left, the villagers returned.
Again and again.
In the days that followed, Scotch kept doing what he always had.
He helped an old woman carry water from the well, even when his arms trembled.
He sat with a child who couldn't read, tracing letters in the dirt until dusk swallowed the street.
When someone dropped a coin, Scotch chased them down just to return it, breathless and smiling.
And in return—
people shoved past him.
Spoke over him.
Called him useless to his face.
Shopkeepers closed their doors when he approached.
Children were pulled away from him.
Men laughed and asked when he would finally "become something."
Sometimes, someone spat near his feet.
Scotch never replied.
He lowered his eyes.
Stepped aside.
Let the words pass through him like weather.
At night, when Skytop slept, he stayed awake.
Reading by weak light.
Writing notes no one would ever read.
Learning truths the world worked hard to bury.
When he earned a little, he didn't keep it.
He left food at doorsteps without knocking.
Slid coins beneath cracked doors.
Gave his blanket to a man freezing by the river and walked home shivering.
People took advantage of him.
He knew.
When someone lied to his face, Scotch still helped.
Not because he didn't see the lie—
but because someday, someone telling the truth would stand there instead.
Scotch never complained.
Never defended himself.
Never asked the world to be fair.
He simply endured it.
Quietly.
Scotch began acting… differently.
Only when people were watching.
In the streets, he stopped suddenly to bow to stones.
Apologized to lamp posts for "standing in the way."
Counted his steps out loud, then argued with the number he reached.
Once, when a man demanded his money, Scotch stared past him and whispered,
"Shh… not now. They're listening."
The villagers whispered.
"He's lost it."
"All that reading finally broke his head."
"Poor thing."
They stopped pressing him so hard.
Behind closed doors, Scotch was fine.
He laughed quietly at his own reflection.
Straightened his notes.
Went back to reading, thinking, planning.
When people approached, the madness returned.
He talked to empty air.
Held long debates with shadows.
Nodded seriously at walls, as if receiving instructions.
It was ridiculous.
It worked.
The demands faded.
The anger softened into pity.
Scotch paid his debts slowly.
Deliberately.
Without panic.
Quietly.
And far away, the world kept moving—
unaware that one of its kindest minds had just learned how to survive it.