Alex, the head chef of one of the famous restaurants in Sidian County—well-known among the commoners, though not among the nobles—was traveling back to Sidian County with a few laborers.
The faint scent of spices and roasted meat still clung to their clothes as they returned after celebrating the birthday of the daughter of Baron Leopold Montagu.
The Baron had invited Alex to be the chef for the party, and he had gone, along with all his people, to handle the catering for the Baron’s daughter’s birthday.
Now, with the work behind them, the group walked along the road, their steps unhurried.
They talked and laughed among themselves, voices rising and falling in the cool air, joking about the nobility—about the way those noble people lived, their extravagance, their strange habits.
A few chuckles broke out as someone mimicked the Baron’s manner of speaking.
Then suddenly, Alex’s steps slowed.
A boy stood ahead on the roadside, just a few meters away.
He looked to be around sixteen years old.
His eyes were closed—no, not just closed, but marked with scars across them.
In his hand, he held a wooden stick, resting it lightly against the ground.
At first glance, one might have felt pity.
But Alex didn’t.
He couldn’t.
There were bloodstains on the boy’s face—dark, drying streaks against his skin.
More stained his hands.
And near his side, around his wooden, the blood was even more apparent, the metallic scent faint but unmistakable as the breeze carried it over.
The laughter behind Alex died almost instantly.
The group stiffened, their earlier ease vanishing.
A few of the laborers instinctively shifted their footing, eyes narrowing, bodies tense.
This isn’t normal…
After all, anyone would become alert if, while walking peacefully, a bloodstained person suddenly appeared in front of them.
Alex raised a hand slightly, signaling the others to stop.
They halted a few meters away from the young man, maintaining their distance.
The road felt quieter now, the air heavier.
Keeping his voice steady, though his eyes remained sharp and watchful, Alex spoke,
“What do you want, young man?”
Issho spoke in a polite, steady tone, “I apologize for appearing directly in front of you like this, but I had no choice.
My name is Issho, and will you guys be interested in buying a boar?
I have just hunted it a few minutes ago.”
Hearing the young man’s explanation and introduction, Alex felt puzzled and looked towards his workers.
They also were equally perplexed.
A blind boy… hunting a boar?
That doesn’t make sense.
Alex didn’t immediately believe the young man.
In fact, he doubted it quite a bit.
How could a blind young man hunt even a chicken, let alone a wild boar?
Still, keeping an attitude of let’s see first, Alex said, “If you really have hunted a wild boar, then I can definitely buy it, but I need to see the hunted boar first.”
He gave a small nod.
“Show me the boar.”
Issho nodded in acknowledgment.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, the wooden stick lightly tapping against the ground.
Moments later, the sound changed—something heavy being dragged across the grass.
Issho emerged again, pulling the boar behind him.
Notably, he did not drag it onto the dirt road where the soil would stick to it.
Instead, he kept it on the grass at the roadside, presenting it cleanly for them to see.
Alex’s eyes sharpened the moment he saw it.
The boar was real—and freshly hunted.
The faint metallic scent of blood lingered in the air.
Without wasting time, Alex crouched down to inspect it carefully.
There were two wounds: one clean strike on the forehead, precise and controlled, and another deep cut at the neck—that was clearly the killing blow.
Alex stood up, brushing his hands together before facing Issho.
“Well, what you are saying is the truth.
So looking at the size of this boar and everything, I can say it should fetch between eight to ten Tales.
To determine its price, first I will need to cut it and check how much meat this boar has.”
Issho nodded, clearly understanding Alex’s reasoning.
“Okay.
But can you give me one silver coin first?
Because I don’t have a travel permit to enter the county, so I can only enter as a foreigner, and you might already know that one silver is the fee.”
Alex nodded.
“Yes, there is such a case.
Don’t worry, I will give you one silver coin.”
His gaze lingered briefly over Issho’s bloodstained appearance.
“But I suggest that you first wash yourself.
You wouldn’t want to go and enter the county like this—stained by blood.”
Issho paused slightly.
Right… the blood.
He tilted his head faintly as realization set in.
“But I don’t have any water.
Do you have something with which I can wash?”
Alex nodded and took out a leather pouch filled with water.
“Okay, I will help you.”
After that, Alex pointed out the visible bloodstains on Issho.
Issho carefully washed his hands and face, removing the dried blood thoroughly.
The cool water washed away the metallic scent clinging to him.
Once it was done, Issho followed Alex and his group toward the county gate.
Issho returned to the county gate again, from where just around the afternoon he had been pushed away with disdain.
Now he had returned again.
But this time, he had money—and the ability to enter.
It was evening now, and there were very few people around.
Alex walked at the front, and Issho followed behind, guided by the sound of footsteps and voices.
Alex greeted the guards casually.
The guards knew him and had a good impression of him.
After all, these guards were just normal guards—not even trainee knights—so they were commoners with slightly more power.
Since Martha’s restaurant was quite famous among the commoners, these guards often went there to eat and had a good relationship with Alex.
Alex showed his entry permit according to protocol and entered.
Then the guard looked toward Issho.
His face immediately darkened.
“You returned again?” he snapped.
“Did you not understand the first time I told you to get out?
Do you have a death wish or something?”
Issho didn’t argue.
He didn’t give any justification.
He simply extended his hand.
In his palm was a single silver coin.
“I would like to enter as a foreigner.”
The guard looked at the coin and then glanced at Alex, as if realizing something.
“You are doing charity for some blind person?” he said.
“You know that if he dares to beg in the county, then he will be kicked out the next day.”
Alex shook his head calmly.
“No, you are misunderstanding.
I am not doing any charity.
I just bought a wild boar from him, which he had hunted, according to him.
And the way he looked—stained with blood and all—he definitely had hunted the boar.
So I bought it from him.
I did not give him money out of charity.”
The guard frowned slightly, clearly doubtful.
A blind person hunting a boar?
But after a moment, he simply shook his head.
“Whatever.
How he got the money or not, that’s not my job.
If he dares to beg on the street, then he will be kicked out automatically.
So I don’t have to say anything else.”
He took the silver coin.
“What is your name?”
“Issho.”
The guard nodded and moved to prepare an iron plate.
Issho had to wait for about five minutes.
The plates were available, but the stamping process took time.
The steady clang of metal echoed as the guard engraved the name.
Finally, he returned and handed it over.
The iron plate had “Issho” carved onto it.
Beside the name was a star, marking him as a foreigner who had entered the county.
From where he came, what his purpose was—those were not things the guards needed to know.
Their work was simple: record the name and allow entry.
Even if someone lied about their origin, it could not be verified, and no official would bother checking such details.
With that, Issho entered the county.
Holding the iron plate, Issho followed Alex through the streets.
The soft tap of his wooden stick echoed gently as they walked.
Soon, they reached Martha’s restaurant—Alex’s restaurant and home.
A wooden board hung above the entrance, clearly marked, and warm light spilled out from inside, along with the rich aroma of food.
(A/N: Image in the comment.)
Of course, Issho could not see any of it.
But he could hear the clinking of utensils, the murmur of voices, and smell the food filling the air.
Alex turned slightly.
“There is an empty seat here.
You sit here and wait.
I will go and weigh the wild boar.”
Issho nodded and carefully took a seat, settling calmly.
Inside, Martha—Alex’s wife—looked up.
She usually handled the restaurant when Alex was not around.
She asked about Issho, and Alex briefly explained how he met him and how he traded for the wild boar.
Martha nodded slowly, her gaze shifting toward Issho.
The scars over his closed eyes stood out clearly, telling a silent story—something terrible must have happened to the boy.
Yet Issho remained calm.
Waiting.
It was not blind faith that brought him here.
Through his Observation Haki, he could sense the intent of people—the presence of malice, greed, or danger.
When he met Alex, there had been none of that.
No hostility.
No harmful intent.
Only calmness.
Respect.
Even toward a blind man.
That alone spoke enough about his character.
So Issho chose to trust him.
And now, he sat quietly, surrounded by the soft sounds of the restaurant, waiting for what would come next.