"You said before that whenever we get hungry, we can come find you anytime we want."
Mog remembered saying that, yes. But he also remembered Wojin saying something else. The big idiot had loudly declared that he would rather starve to death outside than come begging for Mog's inventions.
Well, in fairness… they weren't begging now. They were simply showing up.
"And you also told us to decide what we wanted to eat before coming over," Wojin added with confidence, snapping Mog out of his internal grumbling. "I already decided!"
He opened his mouth wide enough that Mog wondered if he intended to unhinge his jaw like a beast. Wojin stuck out his tongue, practically drooling.
"This time I want meat. Real meat. Big, juicy, fragrant meat."
His booming voice echoed across the shabby room. He looked ready to chew on the doorframe if Mog didn't hurry.
"I want fried rice," Machi said quietly.
Her tone remained as calm and light as always. She rarely wasted words, especially when Wojin was around making enough noise for the both of them. Compared to him, her simple request was almost elegant.
"Meat and fried rice. Got it."
In Meteor Street, rice existed, but not the clean white rice people in the outside world imagined. Here it was almost always yellowed, moldy, or mixed with husks. And meat? Fresh meat was a luxury that most children could not even imagine tasting. Anything warm and not rotten already counted as gourmet food.
With their requests accepted, Mog closed his eyes and searched through the catalog of inventions stored in his memory. He quickly locked onto a particular device.
"There is something similar to the Gourmet Tablecloth, something that can produce all kinds of food," Mog murmured to himself. "But it is not as convenient to use."
He lifted his head and looked around the filthy surroundings.
"What are you searching for?" Wojin asked, confused.
"A tree," Mog replied. "Or any plant."
Of course, this area of Meteor Street contained nothing but rusted machines, broken appliances, and mountains of discarded trash. Not even weeds grew between the rubble.
"There are no trees here," Wojin said bluntly. He seemed confused as to why a tree had anything to do with eating meat, but he still answered honestly. "Aside from the church and the outskirts, nothing survives here. Not even a blade of grass."
The outskirts. That was where Meteor Street bordered the outside world. It was also a place where children disappeared.
Sarasa had been taken from the outskirts forest. She had been caught by strangers from outside and never returned. Her cruel death was what pushed Chrollo and the others onto their future path, eventually leading to the formation of the Phantom troupe.
Mog knew this. Until his strength grew, he had no intention of going anywhere near such a dangerous area.
"Then we should go to the church," Mog decided immediately. "We cannot risk the outskirts."
"Can we even go there?" he asked as they prepared to leave.
"We can," Machi answered in her usual calm voice. "The church allows all children of Meteor Street to enter. The Elders guard the area. No one causes trouble there."
The church was luxurious, a shining anomaly in a land built from discarded ruins. Its golden walls and polished stone floors felt almost surreal compared to the surrounding piles of broken metal and trash. Any place that stayed this wealthy in Meteor Street clearly had strong protection or connections. In this case, both.
Some of the wealth collected by the church was given to the Council of Elders, who acted as its shield. Because of that, the building had survived untouched in this wasteland.
"So fancy. So rich," Mog muttered as they approached.
Wojin and Machi led him down a path lined with cracked concrete and rusted metal scraps until the golden walls of the church appeared, shining like a misplaced treasure among ruins. Mog had to squint from the reflection of sunlight off its polished surface.
This place looked more like a palace than a sanctuary.
Still, none of that mattered. What mattered was that the church had trees. Healthy ones.
While Mog wandered around searching for a suitable tree, Wojin and Machi remained quietly behind him, still unsure what any of this had to do with meat or fried rice.
Inside the church, in the richly decorated hall…
"You are back, Chrollo," said Lizoule, the priest dressed in spotless ceremonial robes and holding a Bible. His expression was gentle, almost saintly.
"Are you here to watch today's tapes and continue studying?"
"Yes. I want to learn," Chrollo replied softly.
He had safely returned with new information, and he greeted the priest with a polite nod. "When I came in, I saw that the number of gravestones outside has increased."
"These times are cruel," Lizoule said sadly. "Recently, criminals from outside have infiltrated the living areas of Meteor Street. Many children have been taken."
He sighed, a sorrowful, compassionate sound. "Never wander alone into the outer areas."
Children born in Meteor Street had no identity papers, no government record, nothing that proved they existed as citizens. Outsiders twisted this fact, claiming that people without legal identity were not real people at all. According to those twisted beliefs, harming them was not considered a crime.
That thinking led to the slaughter of hundreds every year. Seven out of ten victims were children under fifteen.
"I understand," Chrollo said softly.
He did understand. And he hated it.
As he nodded, his gaze drifted casually toward the windows.
Then his eyes widened slightly.
"Huh? Wojin??"