Chapter 107: The Weight Of Walking

The streets of Gryphon District buzzed with an energy unlike any before. It wasn’t the chaos of riots or impending danger; rather, it was the vibrant sound of prosperity announcing itself.

Overlapping conversations, clattering carts, hawkers shouting deals they would never honor, hurried footsteps striking stone, and the ever-present hum of people who believed that if they moved quickly enough, fortune might just notice them.

Sunlight poured generously between the buildings, glinting off freshly painted shop signs and hastily assembled stalls. The air was thick with a delightful mix of roasted meat, spiced bread, sweet pastries, and oils sizzling in iron pans.

Amid this bustling current of bodies and noise waddled a lone figure at his own pace. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, and his posture was stiff in a way that suggested he was trying, and failing, to appear dignified.

He was young, unmistakably so; however, the exhaustion etched on his round face made him look like a man twice his age who had already faced too many disappointments.

His cheeks were perpetually flushed, whether from heat, exertion, or sheer indignation at the world, and his body seemed to be locked in an ongoing negotiation between gravity and stubbornness.

With short legs and a wide frame, every step he took caused his noble robes,rich in material but tragically poor in tailoring, to audibly strain as if protesting their wearer. The fabric clung to him like an accusation.

“Disgraceful,” he muttered under his breath, lips pursed as he marched forward with all the determination of someone who had absolutely nowhere important to be.

“Utterly disgraceful. This city is a menace,a conspiracy! An affront to my dignity.” He paused mid-step to squint suspiciously at a stall on his left.

The stall was simple: a wooden frame with a striped canopy and a woman behind it flipping something golden and bubbling in a shallow pan. The smell hit him like betrayal.

His stomach growled loudly, freezing him in place. “No,” he whispered sternly to himself while tightening his clasped hands behind his back.

“Absolutely not. You just ate, not ten minutes ago! This isn’t hunger; it’s temptation.”

The pan hissed as the vendor flipped the food again; oil crackled invitingly.

His stomach growled louder as if offended by the accusation. “…It’s probably just a small portion,” he reasoned quietly while pivoting on his heel. “Barely a snack, hardly counts as food.”

Three seconds later found him at the stall.

“Five,” he said firmly while slapping coins onto the counter with practiced speed. “No, six! No wait… seven! And make them crisp, very crisp! If they aren’t crisp, I will cry, and nobody wants that.”

The vendor blinked once and then twice before shrugging and scooping more into the pan.

By the time he turned away, his mouth was already stuffed, cheeks bulging comically as he waddled back into the street, munching with deep satisfaction.

Oil stained his fingers immediately, and without a second thought, he wiped them on the front of his robe, grimacing at the new smear.

“This robe cost more than most people’s lives,” he lamented solemnly. “And look at it. Look at what I’ve become.”

He took another bite. “Worth it.”

He continued onward at a leisurely pace, as if the world would pause out of politeness. The district bustled around him; people darted past with purpose and urgency while he remained an immovable object in the flow of commerce and ambition.

With narrowed eyes, he observed them thoughtfully, chewing as if silently judging their every move.

“So many people,” he muttered. “All rushing. All striving. All pretending they know where they’re going.”

A cart nearly clipped his side. He sidestepped awkwardly, wobbling before regaining balance with an indignant huff.

“Watch it!” he called after the driver, who had already vanished into the crowd. “Some of us are large, sensitive targets!”

He shook his head and sighed, his expression shifting to something closer to melancholy.

“Honestly… is it too much to ask for a quiet life? A peaceful corner? A decent meal every hour or so? Is that truly excessive?”

His gaze drifted forward again, then halted in front of another stall. This one was worse: bread, freshly baked and still steaming. The golden crust cracked just enough to reveal its soft interior, with melted cheese glistening like a personal affront to his self-control.

He stared at the bread; it seemed to stare back.

“I will not,” he said firmly. “I will not be weak.”

But his feet betrayed him as coins clinked and disappeared from his pocket.

He walked away chewing, eyes unfocused and blissful, leaving behind a vendor staring at the rapidly shrinking pile of baked goods. As he continued through the district, his grumbling returned, quieter now but more introspective.

“They all think it’s easy,” he mumbled between bites. “Second son this. First son that. Always heirs, the chosen ones. What about the rest of us? What about those born just… slightly too late?”

He scoffed, a humorless sound escaping him. “’You should be grateful,’ they say. ’You live comfortably.’ As if comfort can replace affection.”

His hands tightened behind his back; knuckles pressed into soft flesh as his pace slowed down further.

The laughter around him felt distant now, muffled by swirling thoughts.

“They never even looked at me,” he continued quietly, eyes fixed on the cobblestones ahead. “Not really, just saw what they wanted to see or what they didn’t want to acknowledge.”

“But at least the food here is good.” He sniffed loudly and turned toward yet another stall.

Coins clinked as they fell, and just like that, his meal disappeared. With his mouth full again, he continued walking, feeling his mood lift ever so slightly. Food had always been a reliable companion, never one to judge him.

As he approached the heart of Gryphon District, the buildings around him grew denser, taller, and more purposeful. Here, shops weren’t just makeshift; they were solid establishments with a sense of permanence.

At the end of the street stood a building that commanded attention, a structure unlike any other in sight. It didn’t boast the grandeur of noble estates or flaunt gilded embellishments guarded by banners proclaiming lineage. Instead, it pulsed with life.

People gathered around it, entering and exiting while murmuring excitedly about what lay inside. Adventurers stood nearby, comparing badges and weapons slung over their shoulders, their eyes gleaming with ambition and hope.

The man slowed his pace. His chewing came to a halt. For a long moment, he simply stared at the building ahead.

“…So this is it,” he murmured softly. The structure loomed before him, solid and unyielding, its presence pressing against something deep within him.

He swallowed hard, suddenly conscious of his own size and appearance: crumbs on his robe and grease on his fingers.

In a flurry of movement, he wiped his hands quickly but not very effectively. “…Well,” he sighed as he tried to straighten up as best as he could. “No turning back now.”

He adjusted his robe, squared his shoulders, and took a step toward the entrance of the Adventurer Guild.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, someone inside would notice him.

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