Chapter 40
Chapter 40
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 40
Chapter Title: Side Story. Dream
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“Huff—! Huff—!”
His short legs pumped relentlessly, and his breath rose all the way to his chin.
But he couldn't stop.
“Stay—right there! You damn rat!”
A voice bubbling with rage from deep in the gut.
There was no other way to describe it—the baker chasing him with a rolling pin in hand was radiating pure intent to kill if he caught him.
'He looks out of shape, but damn, he's persistent!'
Even with a body type rare in this world where getting fat wasn't easy—a premium physique, really—the baker doggedly pursued him.
Maybe running a bakery in this godforsaken world naturally built up your stamina whether you liked it or not.
Why was the baker chasing him?
Right now, clutched tight in his arms was a loaf about half the size of his small torso. Not as big as the one Jean Valjean stole, but still.
A loaf whose ownership had just transferred from the bakery to him.
“I won't let you get away with this if I catch you!”
Except the previous owner wasn't accepting the results and was in the middle of an appeal.
'Just... a bit more!'
The baker was chasing hard, but he was running for his life too.
The distance between them was opening up, little by little.
'Just... a bit farther!'
Once he rounded the corner and entered the alleys, forks in the road would keep appearing.
Then the tangled maze of backstreets would protect him.
“You little shit!!”
The baker knew it too, from long experience.
Impatience mixed into his angry shout.
'Just give up already.'
He hugged the bread in his arms tighter as he thought it.
'It's not like I want to steal.'
In his past life, he couldn't claim to be the most moral person, but he wasn't so broken that he'd commit crimes.
His reason for stealing now—even with faint memories of that life—wasn't anything grand.
He was hungry.
Just fucking starving.
If you don't eat, humans—no, any living thing—dies.
Starve to death clinging to past-life morals, or steal food to scrape by in this wretched life.
He'd chosen the latter.
In his abundant past life, where starvation was just a dictionary word, he'd never imagined how agonizing it could be.
'Almost there!'
His lungs stung with every breath now, but the corners of his mouth lifted.
If he escaped clean with bread this size, rationing it carefully without others snatching it, he could stretch it to ten days easy.
He eased his speed to round the corner into the alley.
“Ack!”
Did his mind relax at the sight of the goal right ahead?
Or in this world where gods existed, was this divine punishment for a cheeky thief kid stealing bread?
The foot he'd slowed on for braking just gave out and slipped.
“Ugh!”
Since he was already decelerating, he was flung to the ground, skidding across it.
His left hip throbbed where it smacked the dirt.
But more than the pain, he urgently eyed the rolling bread and glanced back at the baker.
There was still a good distance between him and the baker.
If he got up and bolted now, he could make it clean.
If only his eyes hadn't locked onto the tumbling loaf.
Normally, he'd have ditched the bread clean and fled into the alley.
Another chance would come.
But he was too starved right now.
Hunger—that damn hunger—turned into massive suction, yanking his arm toward the bread.
The moment he snatched it back up and lunged for the alley again.
“Got you!”
A powerful grip seized his arm.
He had to accelerate from a standstill; the baker had sped up the instant the bread hit the dirt.
Of course he'd get caught.
As his body was yanked and briefly lifted into the air, he instinctively opened his mouth in panic.
“Sorry—”
“You rat bastard!”
Smack—!
The baker's backhand connected in one swift motion, and stars exploded in his vision.
Smack—! Smack—!
“Stop—! I was wrong—!”
“You sewer rat! You dare touch our shop's goods!?”
The stinging pain on his cheeks made it impossible to think straight.
But the baker's rage didn't end there.
Thud—!
Flung to the ground, a kick slammed into his gut, vomit surging up instantly.
Then the merciless beating began.
He curled into a ball instinctively to take it with less pain, but it was a burly adult man versus a stunted kid not even ten.
The kicks hurt like his body was shattering.
If it were just painful enough to cry, he'd wail, but he had to stay conscious or he'd really die—so he endured.
Even then, terrified a stray kick would smash the bread in his arms, he clutched it desperately with his whole body.
“Heh... look at that.”
Despite the brutal beating on the roadside, passersby just clicked their tongues or shot pitying glances—no one stepped in.
The sight of an enraged baker thrashing a ragged street urchin was too commonplace.
Even sparing the rolling pin was mercy on the baker's part.
Hoping the baker's anger would burn out fast, he poured his remaining strength into curling up tighter.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 'Totally mangled. He'll be dead soon.'
'Haa... figures?'
'Yeah, chill out a bit, man.'
'You try running a shop here. Dealing with rats eyeing your goods every day, your temper's gonna sour.'
'Yeah, fair.'
'...So. No issues?'
'Probably? Looks like an orphan. Disappearing won't raise eyebrows.'
'Yeah?'
'Still, to avoid hassle later, better handle it proper.'
'How?'
'Just dump 'em there.'
'There?'
'That misty spot at the mountain base, fog all year. Most problems get solved dumping there.'
'...Gotta go that far? Ugh. Gotta mind the shop.'
'Told you to chill. If it were a village kid, not an orphan, it wouldn't end like this.'
'Tch...'
'I'll help anyway. Buy me a drink later.'
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ “—Ah... ah—”
“What? Still alive? Tough little bastard.”
One of the village watchmen, right?
The scruffy-bearded man dropped him like an annoying load and tsked softly.
“Don't hate me too much. Bad luck, sure, but if you hadn't swiped his bread, this wouldn't have happened, yeah?”
His gaze shifted briefly to the bread in his arms, now filthy from dirt and kicks.
“Whew. What a shitty world.”
The man grimaced, shook his head, and nudged his body with a foot.
His body slid backward with the push.
But there was no ground where it slid to.
The slope carried his body tumbling down.
Every roll on his battered frame felt like it would break him.
In a blink, the man receded, and fog filled his vision.
Thump—!
“Koff—...!”
How far had he rolled?
Reaching the bottom, he skidded across the ground.
Over half his vision was red from burst vessels.
The body-searing pain from moments ago was fading bit by bit.
“Heh... h... heh... h...”
'...Dying, huh.'
Fog so thick he couldn't see an inch ahead.
He'd overheard villagers mention it once.
A place shrouded in mist year-round.
Perfect for dumping bodies, thinking about it.
Treatment might not even be possible, and even if it were, no one would find him like this.
They'd done this before—not just once or twice. Probably heaps of skeletons piled in that fog.
'...Survived ten years somehow... what a joke.'
Started abandoned in a basket at the orphanage entrance shortly after birth.
Ten years of clawing through no-transmigrator-cheat hell.
Not dying in some grand plot or storyline—just beaten to death stealing bread from hunger?
Not even funny.
More infuriating: he lacked the strength to lift a finger, let alone eat the bread he'd traded his life for.
Ghosts who ate before dying had it good; he couldn't even touch the stomped, squished loaf before dying.
'Fuck it. Whatever.'
No clue why he'd struggled so hard if this was the end.
Thought enduring would lead to a protagonist's flower road like in webnovels?
'...Life.'
Past life, this life—nothing went right.
Resignation settled in his mind, and chilly drowsiness poured over him.
-It's been a long time since a living child entered my domain.
An arrogant yet refined voice.
'...Who?'
-But your life hangs by a thread. You won't last much longer.
Unable to move, he barely rolled his eyes around, but saw only fog.
Yet somehow, he sensed something indescribable beyond it.
As he flicked his eyes in confusion, the voice from the fog spoke again.
-Do you want to live?
Want to live?
Born abandoned at the orphanage, eating bugs for protein from age four when he could move, human-testing edible mushrooms and plants until finally, nearing ten, beaten to death for one stolen bread—want to keep clinging to this pathetic life?
Was that even a question?
“Li... ve... wan...”
-Yes.
His words barely formed, but the voice beyond the fog answered.
-I'd grown weary of preserving mere names here without meaning.
Sleep pressed in; his vision narrowed.
-This end might not be so bad.
In his fading consciousness, the last thing he saw was a beautiful woman with a sorrowful face emerging from light, stroking his cheek.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ He opened his eyes.
-Awakened?
“...Good morning, Goddess.”
-You slept later than usual today. A good dream, perhaps?
“Dunno. Can't remember.”
Dreams were like that—gone once you woke.
“But I slept deeply enough to feel light, so probably not a nightmare.”
-Mm.
He planted his crudely carved wooden staff in the ground and rose from his spot.
Then he stamped out the campfire's embers and loosened his stiffened body from sleep.
“Not much farther now.”
He turned to gaze toward his destination.
A city wall stretched endlessly, too vast for his eyes to take in.
A city, yet like a small nation—the world's largest and most influential.
Where fools from everywhere gathered dreaming of overnight fortunes.
Dungeon City Tegrus.
If 19th-century California had its gold rush, this world had its dungeon rush.
Three years.
From half-dead orphan dumped after stealing one bread.
To one of the fools chasing fortunes with his Goddess in tow.
And his starting point as that fool was less than half a day away.
He donned his robe, leaned on his staff, and spoke in a voice brimming with anticipation.
“Alright, to reach the city before nightfall, looks like we've gotta hustle today too.”