Chapter 25: Vanished

Fifteen servings of pasta left to chill in the winter air—what could that possibly signify? Everyone knows pasta must be eaten hot; once cold, it becomes a sticky, rubbery mess, utterly unpleasant to the palate. Soon, the pasta had cooled completely. The little beggar touched it briefly with his hand, then silently closed the lids.

"Heh, could he be an imbecile?"

"Yeah, probably here to flaunt his wealth or something."

"Maybe. I mean, beggars are always looked down on, right? Perhaps he's trying to tell us being a beggar is actually a lucrative profession!"

"Hahaha, then why don't you try it? Every time I run into you, I'll toss you an Inair!"

The voices in the store began in hushed tones, but when they realized the little beggar remained indifferent to the mockery, they grew bolder. The boy behaved as though deaf to the ridicule, focusing solely on placing box after box into a plastic bag.

But clearly, he was doing it wrong. A plastic bag that should've easily held fifteen meals now barely managed to contain five, laid flat. A flicker of confusion crossed the boy's face. He looked up, glanced around the store, and his gaze landed on a large, opaque carry bag in the corner.

It was a sizable insulated tote, specially designed to retain heat. A zipper sealed the top, ideal for orders of twenty or more meals.

The boy climbed down from his chair, eyes full of quiet bewilderment, and looked to the store owner, who was also staring at him. The owner, thinking perhaps the child was a fool, didn't bother arguing—he simply tossed the carry bag at the boy and barked at him to get lost.

The little beggar quietly picked up the bag, stuffed the remaining pasta boxes inside, cradled the baby girl in one arm, gripped the large tote with the other, and walked out of the shop.

But once outside, the bewilderment vanished from his eyes, replaced by a chilling, frosty gleam. After a quick glance around, he slipped into a narrow alley and began modifying the items he had acquired.

From the shadows, Anmieh observed it all. Then, with a cold snort, he sneered—

"Hey, human brat. Just what kind of stunt are you pulling?"

The boy said nothing, pulling out the meals one by one, examining the large carry bag.

"Hey, not going to answer me?"

"..."

He kept working, hands busy and eyes focused.

"Kid, seems like we've got a communication problem. I told you—I serve you completely now. That means we need at least a minimum level of emotional exchange, right? Otherwise, look at us—connected as we are, constantly second-guessing and guarding against each other. It's exhausting, don't you think?"

Still no reply. The boy kept trying to fit the meals back into the bag.

"You're… clever," he finally murmured. "You already know what I'm doing."

"Heh heh heh, wrong again. I don't know what you're doing—I just know what you know. We're working with the same intel. Whatever conclusions you've drawn, I can draw too. But I can't read your mind if you don't want me to. If you choose to keep something from me, I won't know a thing."

"..."

"C'mon, not even a little trust? Fine, if that's how it is, no point talking to you anymore."

"..."

"Ugh, boring."

The bait didn't work. Anmieh, clearly irritated by the boy's indifference, fell silent again, choosing instead to observe. As the boy continued using the tools he'd gathered, Anmieh slowly began to understand his plan.

"Heheheh… Now this is interesting. Fascinating, even…"

…

Half an hour later, the boy emerged from the alley once more. The carry bag swung from his left hand, a plastic bag from his right. Strangely, the baby girl who had always nestled in his arms was nowhere to be seen.

It was now noon, and the crowd at the checkpoint had thinned. Slowly, the boy walked toward the barricade, where a dozen or so people still queued, watched over by guards. From the top of the bag, he took one meal box and stepped forward.

"Sir, would you like a box of pasta? It's delicious."

The man he addressed turned his head, only to see a filthy little beggar holding out a box. Honestly, after waiting so long, the man was hungry. Despite his disgust, he nodded and took the food.

"Cold?!"

He opened the lid—cold, sticky, rubbery pasta. His appetite vanished. With a scowl, he shoved the box back into the boy's hands and turned away.

The first sale had failed. The boy quietly closed the box and moved to the next person in line. Every few people, he rotated the cold pasta back into the bag and pulled out another to hawk.

No one bought. Not a single one among the queueing dozen was willing to pay for the unappetizing food. All cast disdainful glances his way. Some, already irritated by the long wait, began shouting.

"You idiot! Cold food at full price? Get lost!"

One man swatted the box from the boy's hands, sending it tumbling into the snow. The boy looked down at it silently, then bent to retrieve another box from the tote and approached the guards.

"Officer, would you like a box of pasta?"

The guards had seen enough to know it was cold food. Without even glancing, they waved him away. But the boy persisted, pulling out yet another box with a hopeful smile.

"Sir, my pasta has a lot of sauce. Even cold, the flavor's still great."

The guards grew visibly irritated, swatting the bag away.

"Dammit, are you stupid? Selling cold food like it's summer?! Beat it—we're not buying!"

Not a single sale. The boy lowered his head, looking utterly dejected. Still, he extended one last box toward a guard. The man shoved him away and resumed his inspections.

Behind the boy lay the road out of the city. He glanced at the soldiers ahead, then slowly returned the meal box to the bag, turned, and—

"Hold it!"

A voice called from beneath the canopy.

The soldiers stopped and turned. The boy followed their gaze and saw the cloaked man who had been sitting under the canopy the entire time, observing his every move. Now, he was rising and walking toward the boy.

"Hmph. Not bad at all."

Pulling back his hood, the man revealed a shrewd, calculating face. He stared at the boy, eyes drifting from his face to the carry bag in his hand.

"Others might call you a fool, but I say you're a genius. Tell me, boy—what's really in that bag?"

The boy glanced down and whispered, "Sir… it's pasta."

"Pasta?"

The man sneered and signaled to the soldiers, who immediately surrounded the child.

"The more one wants to hide something, the more boldly they should display it. And yet none of you bothered to search the one thing he kept flaunting before your eyes. That bag—looks big enough to hold a baby, doesn't it?"

Realization dawned on the five soldiers. Their expressions turned grave. One stepped forward.

"Hand over the bag."

"Huh? But… you have to pay…"

The boy instinctively shielded it.

"Shut it, brat!"

The soldier snatched the bag and began rifling through it. The boy's eyes grew frantic, and seeing this, the cloaked man smirked. He knew he'd been right.

Pasta box… pasta box… pasta box…

Nine boxes emerged. The soldier reached deeper—and found something else.

Tattered rags, stuffed tightly inside.

"No baby."

"What?!"

The cloaked man seized the bag and searched it himself. Piece after piece of cloth came out—but no sign of a child.

The boy clutched the disturbed boxes in his arms, as if on the verge of tears. Could he really be nothing more than a fool? Selling cold pasta no one wanted?

"What's with all these rags?" the cloaked man demanded.

"They're… sob… for insulation…" the boy whimpered.

"Tch. Dammit."

The man tossed the rags back into the bag and returned to his seat, humiliated by his misjudgment. The soldiers left the boy to clean up the mess himself, more concerned with their ongoing search.

After carefully repacking the pasta, the boy cast one last glance at the soldiers, then turned and walked away—out of the city.