{Chapter: 117: The Bamboo Mystery and The Weight of Mortality}
The only thing that continued to baffle them—despite years of contemplation—was their inexplicable love for eating bamboo. It had become their staple food, and they gnawed on it as if it were the most delicious delicacy in the world. They weren't just fond of it—they craved it. Meals didn't feel complete without at least a bundle of freshly cut bamboo stalks by their side.
Both of them had once jokingly speculated that it might be a lingering side effect of the martial technique they practiced in their youth—an obscure method known as the Indescribable Fist. More specifically, the version they had learned bore the unique title of Black and White Iron-Eating Beast Fist.
If one were to interpret the name literally, it should have driven them to consume metal, not fibrous vegetation. The "Iron-Eating" part was meant to symbolize unstoppable strength and resilience—not a dietary preference. With that logic, bamboo should've had nothing to do with it.
Eventually, they dismissed the idea, crossing it off their list of suspicions. Still, every time they found themselves happily munching on a stalk of bamboo like a pair of pandas, they couldn't help but feel that something about their cultivation had veered hilariously off-course.
Charles chuckled at the thought, but as his laughter faded, Saya fell silent.
The earlier light-heartedness in his gaze dimmed, replaced by a contemplative heaviness. He sat there, eyes lowered, lips parted slightly as if words were forming but failing to emerge.
Though wizards were often severed from their mortal ties in the long march of life, Saya had not yet reached the emotional detachment common among the elder Wizards. He was still young—barely entering the prime of his second century. The threads of his family still tugged at his heart.
"Even though I know it's inevitable... I still feel guilty," he finally said, voice low and honest. "My parents—I've left them behind. Not because I wanted to. I just didn't have a choice. I can't even remember the last time I saw them face-to-face without some magical medium between us."
He exhaled deeply, his shoulders slightly slouched. "They're growing old, Charles. Slower than most, yes, but still aging. I feel powerless. Ashamed. I wanted to be there for them. But instead, I'm here—on a war front that may never end."
Charles didn't speak immediately. He simply raised his glass, filled with a faintly glowing blue elixir, and waited.
Saya raised his as well.
"I remember," he said, "your parents are in their sixties. Mine are in their early seventies. If this war could end soon... maybe—just maybe—we could share a few more years with them. Even just some peaceful dinners, you know? Just... sitting down and being their children again. Wouldn't that be nice?"
Charles gave a slow nod. He understood what Saya meant. He understood it all too well.
Technically, what Saya said wasn't wrong. The average life expectancy of an ordinary human in the wizarding world was around 150 years thanks to basic magical treatments and moderate exposure to magical environments. With the steady supply of higher-tier elixirs and potions Charles and Saya sent back home, their families could theoretically live well into their 300s.
But theory and practice were two very different things.
War had a way of distorting everything. The conflict had already dragged on for decades, and judging by how the tides were turning, it could last for centuries more. Three, four, even five hundred years wasn't outside the realm of possibility.
And even with all the alchemical longevity aids and healing spells in the world, most mortal hearts weren't meant to endure such long stretches of chaos.
Charles didn't point this out. What good would it do to crush his friend's fleeting hope?
Instead, he clinked his glass gently against Saya's and smiled. "To the time we still have."
---
Above them, the sky was a riot of color and death.
The Alsop Stars responded slowly, like ancient gods rousing from slumber. Their shields rippled and absorbed most of the incoming damage. The weapons had not yet fired. It was waiting. They always waited.
The wizards were not ones to retaliate in haste. Their doctrine was simple: endure the storm, learn the pattern, then annihilate.
---
Meanwhile, at the Silent Heart Academy
Far away from the frontlines, within the flower-covered hills surrounding the famed Silent Heart Academy, a different kind of mind was hard at work.
Dex—the famously handsome and infamously shameless outsider—lay sprawled on his back, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the sky.
The flowers around him shimmered with bioluminescent light, glowing in soft pulses that responded to the flow of magical energy in the air. The breeze was warm, fragrant with a hint of lilac and ancient mana, and utterly peaceful.
But Dex felt anything but peaceful.
He was bored.
Ever since the academy tightened security due to the escalating war, his old tricks no longer worked. No more slipping past detection wards. No more sneaking into storerooms to snatch rare spell reagents. No more sweet-talking lonely sorceresses out of their potions in exchange for meaningless compliments.
His days as a "garbage man"—a self-proclaimed collector of forgotten goods, souls and unclaimed magical artifacts—were over.
"Can't even dig around the trash anymore," he muttered, rolling onto his side to watch a pair of hummingbirds zip past.
He sighed. Deeply.
"I suppose... I'll have to go legit."
But Dex had no plans to take up a job like teaching or joining the supply division like the other so-called responsible people.
No, that wasn't in his blood. He was a demon, after all. Not just in appearance, but also in soul and lineage. He came from a long line of demons.
He needed to make a living in a way that felt right.
Looting, pillaging, burning down towns—sure, those were the classics. But they were also a quick way to get your head vaporized by a bored Wizards.
He couldn't afford that right now. Not with his current strength.
So... he had to think smarter. More stylish.
With a sly grin stretching across his face, Dex sat up, dusted off his black robe, and clapped his hands together.
"If I can't rob them... I'll sell to them. Or better yet, make them beg me to take their souls in exchange for shiny useless junk!"
By sundown, the sign had been nailed to a wooden stake, planted right at the edge of the path leading to the academy's north gate:
"Devil's Wish Shop — Open Now!"
Underneath that, in smaller, slightly glowing letters:
Business Services:
Spellcasting materials (legal or otherwise)
Rare alchemy ingredients
High-efficiency meditation methods
Beauty enchantments
Healing contracts
Dream interpretation
Cherishing Meditation Methods
Revenge schemes
Emotional curses (20% discount if heartbroken)
Payment Accepted:
Souls
Secrets
Memories
Rare objects
Sexual favors (negotiable)
And, occasionally... gold
It looked wildly unprofessional.
It looked suspicious in every imaginable way.
It looked perfect.
It seems that this store is very deceptive and irregular!
However, Dex had no intention of changing his mind, this was one of the academy's most trafficked roads, after all. Hundreds of apprentices, instructors, and mercenaries passed by each day. There was bound to be someone curious—or desperate—enough to give him a chance.
There will always be some people who are not afraid of death and try it. After all, it's like fishing, and those who are willing will take the bait.
And once they entered the shop...
"Fish on the hook," Dex whispered with a devilish smile, leaning back against a post and crossing his arms as the sunset bathed the hill in golden light. "Now all I have to do is wait for the fattest sheep to walk themselves into my jaws."
*****
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