Chapter 272: Warmth Between The Walls

They kept walking, the streets narrowing as they drifted away from the main thoroughfare. Stone buildings pressed closer together here, their walls darkened by age, frost, and long winters endured rather than challenged. Snow had been shoveled aside in uneven paths, forming low white ridges along the edges of the road where footprints layered over one another, evidence of routine more than choice. Lantern light flickered softly overhead, pale flames casting long shadows that stretched and warped across the ground, bending with every step they took.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then the smell hit them.

Rich. Savory. Warm.

It cut through the cold like a blade, sharp enough to pull attention away from politics and power and walls. The Traveler slowed instinctively, his head tilting as his gaze shifted toward the side of the road. A small stand sat there, half-shielded by a canvas awning dusted with snow, its edges stiff with frost. Beneath it, a simple grill crackled quietly, glowing embers breathing out heat into the frozen air. A man stood behind it, bundled in thick layers, his movements steady and practiced as he turned skewers of meat over the coals.

The steaks sizzled softly.

Each piece was cut to the same size, thick, even slabs skewered cleanly onto smooth wooden sticks, uniform without being sterile. Fat dripped onto the coals, hissing sharply as smoke curled upward, carrying with it a mouthwatering scent that lingered stubbornly in the air. Juices glistened along the surface of the meat, catching the lantern light in brief flashes.

Perfectly cooked.

Bruce felt it before he acknowledged it, the way the Traveler’s pace slowed, then stopped entirely.

“…You’re unbelievable,” Bruce muttered quietly, not looking at him.

The Traveler grinned, already moving. “Hey,” he said lightly, drifting toward the stand as if this were the most natural detour in the world, “even tyrannical kingdoms can’t mess up street food.”

He reached into his coat, flipped a single gold coin through the air, caught it once, then placed it neatly on the stand. The vendor’s eyes widened, surprise flashing across his face, but before he could even speak, the Traveler had already lifted several skewers from the grill, steam rising faintly from them as the cold air met heat.

“Keep the change,” he said casually.

The man nodded quickly, almost bowing, hands clasping the coin as if afraid it might vanish if he didn’t.

Bruce watched as the Traveler approached, the scent growing stronger with every step.

“Cold weather like this,” the Traveler said, offering a few skewers out, “demands proper priorities.”

Bruce took them without hesitation. The heat seeped instantly through his gloves, warmth bleeding into his fingers and palms. Only then did he realize how deeply the cold had settled into him, how quietly it had worked its way into his bones while his focus had been elsewhere.

“…Fair,” he admitted.

They resumed walking, snow crunching beneath their boots as Bruce took a bite. The meat was tender, the fibers giving way easily. Juices burst across his tongue, rich and satisfying, seasoned just enough to enhance the flavor without drowning it. Heat spread through his chest, sharp and welcome, chasing away the edge of the cold.

He exhaled softly.

“Not bad,” he said.

The Traveler laughed outright. “Not bad? That’s a crime. That’s survival-grade excellence.”

Bruce glanced sideways at him. “You’ve done this before.”

“Many times,” the Traveler replied easily, taking a bite of his own. “Different worlds, same truth. If a place has good street food, it hasn’t completely lost its soul yet.”

They walked on, steam from the skewers mingling with the fog of their breath as snow drifted lazily around them. After a moment, Bruce spoke again, chewing slowly.

“So… this level we’re in right now.”

“Third-class district,” the Traveler said without hesitation. “Cheap food. Functional housing. Enough warmth to keep people alive.”

“But nothing extra,” Bruce added.

The Traveler nodded. “Exactly.”

Another patrol passed them then, Royal Guild insignias catching the lantern light as the soldiers moved by with measured steps. They didn’t slow. Didn’t glare. Didn’t acknowledge them beyond a brief, assessing glance.

Bruce took another bite, eyes forward.

“This kingdom’s built to endure,” he said quietly.

“Endure,” the Traveler echoed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Not thrive.”

They continued down the snow-lined street, hot skewers in hand, warmth pushing back against the cold as Eiskar unfolded around them one measured step at a time.

The further they went, the quieter the city became. Foot traffic thinned until only the occasional passerby crossed their path, heads lowered, steps efficient. Buildings grew sturdier here, stone blocks thicker, windows narrower, doors reinforced with iron bands instead of decorative trim. Patrols appeared more frequently, their footsteps steady and unhurried, armor muted beneath heavy cloaks that swallowed sound. The air felt tighter in this part of the city. Watched. As though the streets themselves were paying attention.

The Traveler slowed again.

Bruce caught the flicker of his gaze as it drifted toward another grill stand up ahead, smaller than the last, flames dancing low as meat turned slowly over the coals. The scent drifted faintly toward them, tempting, familiar. The Traveler looked for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he looked away.

He sighed.

“You know,” he said casually, finishing the last bite of his skewer, “there’s a reason we’re walking like normal people instead of getting where we’re going in… oh, ten seconds.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He already knew the answer. They walked a few more steps before he spoke, his voice even, unhurried.

“Is it because it’s banned,” he asked, “or because it’s frowned upon by the monarchs here?”

The Traveler stopped.

Then smiled.

Slowly.

“…You’re smart,” he said, tilting his head. “Annoyingly so.” He flicked the empty stick aside, watching it disappear into a snowbank, then shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “High-speed traversal. Spatial distortion. Mana bursts above a certain threshold,” he continued lightly. “All of it gets flagged here. Doesn’t matter if you’re not hostile.”

Bruce glanced ahead, toward a patrol moving in disciplined formation.

“They track it.”

“Oh, instantly,” the Traveler replied. “And unlike Valkrin, they don’t ask why first.”

He exhaled, breath fogging thickly in the cold air. “So now,” he went on, tone shifting just a fraction, “we need to travel all the way to the deepest walls of this kingdom.”

He looked at Bruce expectantly.

Waiting.

Bruce said nothing. Not a word. He simply kept walking, boots crunching steadily through the snow.

The Traveler stared at him for a second.

Then clicked his tongue.

“…You’re boring, Bruce,” he muttered. “Boring.”

He rolled his shoulders as if shaking off irritation, then snapped his fingers.

The air in front of them folded.

Not violently. Not loudly. It simply opened. A vertical seam of distorted space split the air, light bending inward as a portal formed, its edges shimmering like heat haze trapped in ice. The Traveler stepped forward without hesitation. The portal closed instantly. It was unknown why Traveller was doing the exact thing he said was flagged. But Traveller seems to have made a resolve within when he made this

“To help you,” he said over his shoulder, “the Traveler is useless.”

He walked through the portal…

Then another portal bloomed open right behind where the first had been.

From it stepped a man dressed in neat, formal attire. A dark coat with clean lines. Gloves fitted perfectly. On his head sat a simple cap bearing the tiger emblem of the Adventurer Guild. He looked the same.

And yet, He stood straighter. His movements were economical. His presence was grounded, restrained.

Less chaos. More intent.

Bruce stared at him.

“…Seriously?” he muttered.

The man adjusted his coat calmly and spoke in an even tone. “Traveler is useless,” he said. “But I, Duke, will be most helpful in this quest of yours.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to his face. Then to his mouth.

“You still have oil from the steak on your lips.”

Duke froze.

For half a second.

Then he quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and cleared his throat, a trace of awkwardness slipping through the composure. “Irrelevant.”

Bruce sighed.

At the same time, he noticed something else. People were around them, pedestrians passing by, a patrol moving close enough that their boots brushed the edge of the street.

No one reacted.

No one stared.

No one had noticed the portals at all.

Bruce frowned, then lifted his gaze. Even from here, insanely far away, his enhanced vision caught it.

The second wall of Eiskar.

It loomed tall and imposing, darker than the first, its stone reinforced with thick mana-etched plates that pulsed faintly beneath layers of snow. Watchtowers rose at measured intervals, their silhouettes sharp against the gray sky. Guards lined the gate in heavier armor, their presence unmistakably more severe.

The barrier that separated third-class,

From second-class.

Bruce’s gaze hardened as he took it in.

***

A/N:

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