Chapter 17: Um, What Am I Doing?

Roy woke up to pain.

Not the gut-wrenching, soul-crushing pain of death or despair.

Just a good old-fashioned headache. A throb right between his eyes, like someone had stuffed a live hornet in his skull.

"Ugh…" he groaned, lifting a hand to rub at his temple.

The pounding subsided almost instantly. That was new. He blinked a few times, groggy, then slowly sat up from the old sofa he'd collapsed onto the night before. The base was quiet—too quiet.

He glanced around.

Empty.

No kids arguing over who stole whose socks. No Mella clinging to Ilya's skirt. No Kieran drooling on the kitchen floor. Not even the distant clatter of Ilya doing chores with military efficiency.

He ran a hand through his tangled hair.

"Huh," he muttered. "Guess I got abandoned."

He didn't blame them. Being cooped up underground in Nova's base was like being trapped in a concrete shoebox. Even the most disciplined soldier—or stubborn child—would crack eventually.

"Probably out on errands," he muttered to himself. "Or just… anywhere else that isn't here."

With a small puff of breath, Roy closed his eyes and blinked out of the base with a soft shimmer.

Home.

He appeared in his modest dorm-apartment in the residential block provided to outstationed college students. Sparse, but it had what mattered—a couch, a bed, a kitchenette, and plumbing that only threatened to kill him occasionally.

The moment he arrived, the reality of being awake hit him all at once.

"…Toilet," he mumbled, dragging his feet in.

It wasn't glamorous. Just necessary. When he stepped back out, the next stop was the cabinet where a towel hung like a limp flag of civilisation. Then, with the grace of a tired cat, he turned around and wandered right back into the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

Steam filled the small room, fogging the mirror as warm water cascaded down his back. Roy let it wash over him, not thinking, not planning. Just existing for a while. A rare moment of peace.

Afterward, towel around his shoulders, he stepped into the bedroom and checked the clock.

1:03 PM.

A groan escaped him as he flopped onto the bed.

The soft thump of his body against the mattress felt oddly final, like he might just sink into it and not come back out.

Nothing to do. No immediate threats. No looming deadlines.

Just… time.

That should've been nice.

But it wasn't.

Roy stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Blank. White. Empty.

And then it hit him—like a punch from the inside out.

The Tournament of Richt starts in a week.

He blinked slowly.

"Oh. Right."

He'd almost forgotten.

The biggest combat tournament in the region—hell, the continent—was kicking off soon. Hosted by the Celestial Watch and broadcast across the globe, with scouts from all factions itching to spot talent.

And he was in it.

Because, of course, he was.

Thanks, Brock.

Roy sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "I should really stop letting other people sign me up for traumatic life events."

In truth, he hadn't put much stock into it. The idea of winning wasn't appealing. He had no wish to become some military poster boy or land a cushy recruitment deal. He was already neck-deep in Nova, already swimming against enough tides.

Still, he'd do alright.

Put on a decent show.

Get knocked out in the late rounds, maybe quarterfinals.

Just enough to not raise eyebrows.

Just enough to keep expectations low.

And then?

Fade back into the shadows, just how he liked it.

With a groan, Roy peeled himself off the bed, shoved on a plain black hoodie, and pulled his hood up like a monk preparing for battle with society.

His allowance had come in that morning—just enough for supplies, if he was careful. Not that it mattered too much. Nova covers most major expenses these days, but after the whole incident at the Mansion, most of the group's funds had been locked away or hoarded by the strategists.

"Not that I blame them," he muttered, locking the door behind him. "If I had to trust me with money, I wouldn't either."

The train rocked gently beneath him, metal wheels clicking rhythmically over the tracks like a lullaby made of steel and inertia. Roy sat by the window, arms folded, hood pulled halfway over his face, as the scenery blurred past in streaks of brown and green and soft, washed-out light.

He wasn't in a rush.

He just… needed to get out for a while, so he used the excuse of getting groceries even though he isn't trying to convince anyone.

The Nova base had been too quiet lately. Home felt too still. His thoughts had started echoing off the walls like ghosts.

The train's motion, though—that constant, forward hum—was something he could rest inside.

The vibration of the floor beneath his boots, the dull creak of the old seats, and the gentle swaying of the car… all of it lulled him. His mind began to drift, thoughts dissolving like mist, and the dull ache behind his eyes slowly faded.

Just a few minutes, he thought, head resting lightly against the cool glass. Just a little—

Sleep came quickly, unannounced.

Not the kind filled with nightmares or even dreams.

Just stillness.

The sharp blast of a horn shattered that stillness.

Roy jolted upright, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat as the announcer's voice blared overhead.

"This is the final stop. Central District Terminal. All passengers, please disembark."

The train hissed as it slowed to a stop.

Roy rubbed at his face, blinking blearily.

"How long was I out…?" he muttered, glancing around.

The car was nearly empty. Just a few stragglers grabbing their bags. Outside, the main town buzzed with noise—energy rising like steam from a boiling pot.

He slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped out onto the platform, greeted immediately by the chaotic murmur of crowds and vendors.

The sun was warm today. Not scorching. Just enough to remind him he was alive.

The streets outside were busy as always, full of students, citizens, and vendors shouting their daily chants. The town centre was alive with noise—people bargaining, musicians playing half-decent tunes, and the occasional squad of Watch officers patrolling the perimeter like hawks.

Roy pulled his hood lower and slipped into the crowd.

He wasn't a fan of shopping, but he wasn't completely hopeless at it. A few basics—instant rice, tea, some protein bars, and a toothbrush to replace the one Kieran had "accidentally" used for cleaning his boots.

With a few bags in hand, he stopped by a small vendor selling grilled chicken skewers. They were overpriced, half-charred, and probably not entirely legal.

He bought two.

One for now.

One for later.

He sat on a low wall nearby and ate in silence, watching the flow of people pass him by. It was strange, this feeling. Like the world was moving, fast and free, and he was just… standing still.

He had the tournament coming up. Nova's plans were in motion. Ilya had a whole file on emerging threats. And Kieran was probably still passed out on the base couch, dreaming about sword fights or girls or both.

And yet…

Roy chewed slowly.

What am I doing?

Not with his afternoon.

With all of it.

And sometimes it felt like he was just coasting.

Maybe that's why he didn't want to win the tournament. Maybe that's why he didn't want anything.

Because the moment you want something?

You have something to lose.

Roy finished the skewer and flicked the stick into a nearby trash bin. His phone buzzed. A message from Brock:

"Training later. Bring snacks."

He snorted and realised, why did Brock send them message of training when he isn't even taking part

Typical.

Roy stood, stretched, and slung the bags over his shoulder.

 No life-changing answers.

Just shopping, a cheap skewer, and the slow, creeping dread of participating in a tournament where people would try to kill him for sport.

Business as usual.

Still, as he walked back toward the residential quarter, he looked up at the sky.

The clouds were shifting, sunlight breaking through in places. Not beautiful. But honest.

And somehow, that was enough to keep moving.

He hadn't exactly forgotten that the Tournament of Richt was starting in the neighbouring district. But seeing the streets more packed made it real. Tourists. Competitors. Merchants dragging in crates of overpriced snacks and fake memorabilia. Even a few shady dealers hocking "enchanted gear" that was probably just polished junk.

Roy yawned, stretching his arms overhead as he strolled into the town's open-air market.

He made his way through the stalls, eyes scanning for the usual essentials: vegetables, spices, and whatever else could keep him from surviving off instant noodles and sarcasm.

Here, in the heart of the market, prices weren't fixed. This area still worked on an old system of bartering—equal parts tradition and performance art.

Roy wasn't a master of it, but he'd been around long enough to know the game.

At one vegetable stall, he picked up a bunch of carrots.

"Three for ten," the vendor said.

Roy raised a brow. "Three for seven, and I don't tell the woman two stalls down that your turnips are last week's stock."

The vendor's mouth opened, then closed.

A pause.

Then a sigh. "Seven it is."

And so the dance began.

He moved from stall to stall—bartering for onions, greens, and even a jar of preserved garlic from an old man who insisted on telling a five-minute story with every item.

It was exhausting. But there was something… grounding about it.

Every word, every exchange, reminded Roy of the human parts of life. The mundane, messy, honest parts that can't be changed.

With his satchel full and his wallet only mildly offended, he finally exhaled.

"Done," he muttered. "Now I can go back and—"

And that's when he saw it.