HFfC: CH 3: The First Pack

"Wake up, boy."

The words cut through his dreamless sleep like a blade across glass.

Zero's eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw was an elven man towering over him with sharp features and sharper contempt. The elf's voice dripped with disdain as he spoke again. "Wake up, Taintedkind. You've reached your stop." 

The compartment swayed around him—wood-paneled walls, brass rails, the rhythmic clunk of steel wheels rolling along tracks. It was a train. An old locomotive, reeking faintly of smoke and oil. And every set of eyes in the car was on him.

Humans. Elves. Dwarves. Their expressions ranged from irritated to outright disgusted. Several looked at him as though he were some rancid odor trapped in cloth.

A dwarf near the back scowled and spat on the floor. "Why's a bloody demon even sitting here anyway?" 

Another human snorted. "Disgusting. Filthy kind shouldn't be permitted to board alongside us."

"I don't even know what the king's thinking," someone muttered. "Allowing their kind into public transit…"

Zero slowly sat upright, brushing back strands of long black hair that fell across his eyes. His fingers brushed something… unfamiliar. He reached up. Two small, dark horns curled subtly from his forehead—elegant but unmistakably demonic. He exhaled slowly, silently. So that's how it was.

The elf from before curled his lip. "Still sitting there like a stunned ox. Get out already." He shoved a worn leather bag into Zero's chest hard enough to make him stumble. "Off. Now." Zero took the bag without a word. He stepped off the train.

The station platform buzzed with motion. Announcements were called through brass-horn megaphones. Golemic porters carried crates of luggage. Docks of steam-powered carriages hissed as runes cooled beneath them.

And beyond it all—The city.

It sprawled upward and outward in a magnificent blend of stone towers, glimmering spires, and old-world rooftops. Magical streetlamps glowed with floating orbs of soft blue light. Rail tracks crisscrossed over bridges that arced above bustling markets. People of all races moved with purpose, voices overlapping like music over cobblestones.

Aetherion. Just like Cecil had promised. It looked like something out of an old novel from his past life—a 19th-century metropolis with none of the smog. Magic lit the signs and powered the rails. Towering constructs of glass and enchanted brass shimmered under a clear sky.

Zero stood still for a moment. He wasn't Kaelan Wynn anymore. He was Zero—a stranger in a beautiful world that already hated him.

He adjusted the bag over his shoulder and took a breath. The fabric of his long coat moved as he did—a finely tailored suit, dark, clean, with a sharp silhouette. He looked elegant. Civilized. Completely at odds with how people saw him.

His fingers found a folded parchment tucked in the breast pocket. He opened it.

===

Hey Zero,

I decided your last name would be "Bitches." So your full name would be Zero Bitches. Ehehe.

Just kidding.

It's Zero Ashworth. I thought it sounded classy.

Good luck on your new life. Below's the address to your café. Try not to burn it down on your first day. Or do. It's your story now.

—Cecil

===

Below the scrawled message was an address written in ornate script. Zero flipped the parchment around and saw a map. He stared at it. Then blinked. It was unmistakable. It was a map of America.

Same continent shape. Same east coast curve. But names were different—sections divided by crests and royal borders. The address was stamped in bold across a labeled region. Brenford Territory.

Zero stared at it for a moment, expression blank. "So… America's a coalition of nobility in this world," he muttered. "I guess this is fantasy-colonial Manhattan." He looked back up at the city. "Alright, Cecil," he said quietly. "Let's see this café."

Zero walked. At first, it was cautious. Every step measured, every glance sideways. The insults still rang in his ears—Taintedkind, Filthblood, demon—but they dulled now, like background static. His eyes scanned the street, half-expecting the world to trip him, slap him, curse him.

It didn't. In fact—A man walking across the street stepped in a steaming pile of horse dung and slipped sideways into a parked fruit cart, sending apples tumbling across the stone. Someone else knocked over a lamppost while turning too sharply with a rune-cart. A flying messenger bird slammed face-first into a window.

Zero blinked. "Oh my god," he whispered. "...It's not me." He let out a cautious laugh. A real laugh. "For once... it's not me." 

The city unfolded around him like a book he'd never read but had always wanted to. Old brownstone buildings towered on either side, trimmed in black iron and vine-covered gutters. Hanging lanterns flickered with soft runelight. Shop signs swung gently over cobbled walkways: The Alchemic Attic, Grimwald's Tonics, Friedrich's Ether-Coils & Curios.

It was magic. Not just because of the enchantments, but because of how real it felt. The aesthetic was clear—Victorian structure with steampunk flourishes—but it lived, not staged like a film set.

People still sneered at him. Elves turned their heads away dramatically. A young human couple whispered behind their gloves. "Taintedkind," someone muttered as he passed.

Zero smiled at them. "Good morning."

Their expressions twisted in confusion and irritation. Further along the avenue, he passed a butcher with two demon assistants chopping meat. One of them glanced up and gave him a subtle nod. 

Zero returned it. "Hey." The other demon smiled slightly. It was the first real smile he saw on the street. That was enough. He kept going, weaving through the marketplace, up narrow steps, through the back alleys of a block that felt... familiar.

Even though he had never been here. Even though this wasn't Earth. He tilted his head up, eyes tracking the skyline. "Thanks, Cecil," he murmured. "You gave me the memories of a city I've never been to."

The air was crisp here—free of smog, tinged with roasted chestnuts and chimney ash. Somewhere, a street violinist played in an upper window. Zero rounded one last corner—And stopped. There it was.

Tucked into a slightly crooked building between an old locksmith and a closed bookshop, a sign hung quietly over a dark wooden door. The lettering was clean, hand-painted in gold serif.

Café LeBlanc

He stepped forward, heart thudding. The front window was fogged slightly, and beyond the glass, he saw warm amber light. The doorknob was old brass. Familiar. He reached into his coat pocket—and yes. The key. It slid in perfectly. The lock clicked. Zero opened the door. A tiny chime rang as he entered.

The air inside was warm, laced with the scent of dark roast coffee and aged wood. The walls were painted in rich earth tones—mahogany and burgundy, with shelves of mismatched books and neatly arranged cups lining the back.

There was a narrow staircase on the side, leading upward to what must've been a loft apartment.

Behind the counter, the polished wood gleamed. Copper piping wrapped along the base of the espresso machine, and a kettle rested on a hotplate. Tiny potted plants sat on windowsills, soaking in the filtered sunlight.

But what caught his eye was the painting by the door. Framed in gold, hung just above eye level—a woman in a red dress, poised beneath a canopy of blossoms. Her gaze was downcast, gentle. The paint shimmered slightly, like she was guarding the threshold. 

Sayuri. Zero stepped closer and whispered, "What a beautiful painting."

His footsteps brought him behind the counter, where a folded note rested beneath a brass spoon. He opened it.

===

BTW… every material in this café?

Unlimited.

Coffee, food, raw ingredients, cutlery, glassware, all of it regenerates automatically. You'll never run out of stock.

So don't worry about business. Just make it yours.

Have fun. :)

—Cecil

===

Zero exhaled slowly. He let the silence stretch for a moment. Then looked up at the old wooden ceiling, cracked a grin, and said, "...Alright, LeBlanc. Let's make some memories."

…

The sun poured in through the towering stained-glass windows of Brenford Manor, casting colored light across polished marble and velvet drapes. In the heart of the estate's grand chamber, a room fit for coronations, the cries of a newborn pierced the silence.

"Congratulations, Your Grace," said a cheerful voice, light with reverence. "The child is healthy. A true gift. May he be the sun that lights the blessings upon this kingdom."

Duke Alastair Brenford nodded once, expression calm yet proud. He stood tall—broad-shouldered, adorned in a military-style overcoat, the house crest stitched across his collar in silver thread. "Thank you," he said, voice even. "You may all witness this moment. My heir's first day among us."

Servants and attendants lined the edges of the luxurious chamber, heads bowed, hands folded. The room itself was opulent—high arched ceilings with gold-leaf trim, oil paintings of ancestral warriors, and a chandelier made of enchanted glass that shimmered like stardust.

In the center of the room, lying beneath soft white sheets on a velvet-lined bed, was the Duchess—Lady Isolde Brenford—smiling weakly, sweat on her brow but joy in her gaze. The baby continued crying, arms flailing, a patch of golden fuzz barely crowning his round head.

Until—Alastair stepped forward, gently taking the child in his gloved hands. He cradled the boy carefully, then leaned down to place him in Isolde's arms. As the baby met his mother's eyes, his cries subsided.

Silence fell. Not just silence—focus. The child's eyes, blue as glacier-stone, shimmered with an odd clarity. His gaze darted between faces not with babyish aimlessness, but purpose. Calm. Still. Isolde brushed his cheek, whispering, "There's something… behind those eyes."

Duke Brenford turned to the gathered attendants, voice rising with crisp authority. "You will all bear witness to this declaration," he said. "By the name of Brenford, first sword of the Eastern Coalition, I name my son Alec Brenford." He raised the child slightly, presenting him. "May he guide this kingdom with strength, wisdom, and the fire of our bloodline. May he shine as the sun of this era."

A ripple of cheers and polite applause filled the air. The staff bowed. The banners of House Brenford swayed from the ceiling beams. But beneath the warmth of the moment, behind the infant's unblinking eyes—Something mature stirred.

…

The café was still. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, catching dust motes as they swirled slowly in the air like dream fragments. Zero stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, a soft grin lingering on his face. He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in again. The warm wood. The copper accents. The faint scent of roasted beans. His café. His.

Then he spotted the cash register. Or rather—what looked like one. It was a classic shape, with levers and metallic keys, but where numbers should have been printed, there was a small glowing screen inset into the top. Zero leaned closer. The screen lit up as if recognizing him.

===

CARD GACHA SYSTEM — ACTIVE
Balance: 1,000 Points

[Single Draw — 100 pts]
[11x Draw — 1,000 pts]

===

Zero blinked. Then laughed under his breath. "Well. Can't say the interface isn't intuitive." He rested one hand on his chin and muttered, "Obviously 11-pull is more cost-effective. First rule of all gacha games. Let's test our luck, shall we?" 

He tapped the 11x Draw button. A soft ding! echoed from the register. Then the drawer slid open with a mechanical hiss—And out slid a pack of cards. Not just any cards. The foil shimmered like a prism, and on the front was a cartoonishly peace-signing Cecil, winking with one eye closed, tongue sticking out slightly, with a sparkly background behind him.

Zero stared. Then snorted. "He really is way more aloof than what I expected from gods." He held the pack carefully. It was exactly like a booster pack of Pokémon cards—same glossy texture, same crinkle of foil. And with it came a familiar emotion from another life: childhood anticipation. "I swear, if I pull 11 fire energy cards again, I'm flipping this register."

He tore it open. Inside, eleven slender cards shimmered with light. Each was roughly the size and shape of a tarot card—ornate borders, detailed illustrations, and runes glowing at the edges. He pulled the first one.

+10 Magical Energy

The card blinked once—then vanished in a puff of gentle light. Zero looked down at his hands. He didn't feel any different. "Huh," he muttered. "No fanfare. Classic." Another card.

+10 Magical Energy 

Gone.

Another.

+10 Magical Energy

He raised an eyebrow. "Alright. This is starting to feel suspiciously familiar." Card after card flickered and vanished. Energy boosts. Stat augment tokens. Useless in the moment, useful eventually. By the time he reached the final card, he held it up between thumb and forefinger and muttered, "Come on. Just give me one actual character. Something to test this clone thing."

The card shimmered. Its face revealed an illustration of a boy—wild red hair, cocky smile, wearing an apron and holding a ladle like a sword.

Sōma Yukihira
Character Origin: Anime 

Zero stared blankly. "Who?" He flipped the card and read the description.

===

An energetic and daring culinary prodigy from the anime "Shokugeki no Sōma." Possesses enhanced cooking intuition, battle-kitchen instincts, and the ability to improvise under pressure. Known for overconfident grin and innovative dishes. Warning: Extremely competitive in cook-offs.

===

Zero blinked again. "...Okay. That means nothing to me." He scratched his head. "Must've been released after I died." He turned the card in his fingers. It shimmered with that same tarot glow. "Guess we're in post-2010 anime territory. Great." He looked toward the quiet café. "Well, no rush, right? I can only do one clone for now anyway." 

He tucked the Sōma card into his inner pocket. "I'll save it. Maybe pull someone better. Like Liu Mao Xing from Cooking Master Boy. Now that's a proper chef." He leaned back against the counter, arms folded, eyes scanning the quiet room. "Still," he muttered, "I really just gacha'd an anime protagonist inside a haunted register. What even is my life anymore?"

Zero ascended the creaking staircase behind the counter, hand gliding along the polished banister. The steps were narrow, but each one was solid—well built. At the top, a small wooden landing opened into a doorless threshold. He stepped through—And stopped.

The loft above the café was nothing short of surreal. It was massive. Far more spacious than the compact cafe below could possibly allow. A wide living room stretched before him, lit by softly floating light-orbs in frosted sconces. The floor was dark pine, polished smooth. Plush rugs in deep reds and greys sprawled beneath a low table surrounded by overstuffed cushions.

To the left, a dining area held a full oak table with enough chairs for a small gathering. Beyond it was a kitchen—complete, modern, and polished. Brass fixtures, stone counters, cabinets already stocked. Everything glowed with magical runes that hummed in passive silence.

Zero glanced up. The ceiling arched with old beams, like the bones of a cathedral. "This… is way too big," he muttered.

He walked further in, eyes still flicking over the details—paintings of serene landscapes, shelves lined with old books, a teapot already set on the counter as if waiting for him. "But I'm not complaining."

He moved to the back and opened a door into the bedroom—a calm, elegant space with a wide bed, a desk by the window, and an entire closet already filled with folded clothing. Most of it looked practical—shirts, vests, jackets, boots. But there were a few formal outfits too, robes and coats with intricate embroidery.

Zero grinned. "Cecil. You really thought of everything."

He pulled on a soft grey tunic and dark cotton trousers—simple, casual, comfortable. After brushing his hair quickly with a comb he found on the nightstand, he patted his stomach. "Alright. Coffee time."

He headed back downstairs, descending the steps with quiet anticipation for his first self-made cup in this strange new world. 

Then the bell above the café door chimed. Two elves stepped inside. They were tall, lean, and sharply dressed. One had silver hair slicked back, the other wore a monocle like it gave him moral authority. Both looked around the café like they'd just stepped into a cellar.

Zero reached the bottom step and offered a bright, practiced smile. "Welcome!"

The elves froze mid-step. One narrowed his eyes. "Where's the owner, boy?"

The second sniffed. "Why is the help greeting customers? Shouldn't the proprietor be present?"

Zero stepped forward behind the counter, still smiling, still warm. "I am the owner, sir."

A beat passed. Then—Disgust. Visible. Like someone had dropped sour milk into their wine. "I see," the first elf said curtly, already turning. "I think we're good," the other muttered. "Come on." The bell chimed again as they exited.

Zero raised his hand and waved casually. "See you again. We've got great coffee."

No answer. He sighed lightly and shook his head. "Yeah. That tracks."

But there was no bitterness in his voice. Only tired acceptance. "Racism's a slow fix," he muttered. "One cup at a time." With that, he turned, rolled up his sleeves, and moved into the kitchen.

He ground the beans by hand—dark roast, nutty aroma—and poured hot water into the press. The steam rose gently as he prepared eggs, toast, and grilled tomatoes on a small pan over enchanted flame.

The smell filled the café. Zero poured his coffee into a ceramic mug and leaned against the counter, sipping quietly. His eyes closed. His shoulders dropped. It was the best cup he'd ever had.

…

Zero leaned back in his chair, hands cradling a nearly empty coffee mug. The morning sun filtered through the café windows, landing in soft squares on the wooden floor. His breakfast was gone—crumbs on the plate, warmth still lingering in his chest.

New day. New self. New world waiting outside the door. He stood, stretched, and gave a small sigh. "Alright. Time to make some friends." He brought his dishes to the sink and rinsed them clean with a practiced rhythm. The café's enchanted plumbing helped—water always warm, always clean, always flowing with a whisper rather than a roar.

Once done, he rolled up his sleeves with a grin. "Let's bake." His feet padded across the wooden floor as he made his way toward the backroom, the door tucked just behind the kitchen's main prep area. He opened it. And stared. It was massive.

Cold storage cabinets hummed quietly along the far wall, while long wooden racks displayed row upon row of ingredients: cured meats, cuts of beef, chicken, fish so fresh they looked ready to blink. Baskets of fruit gleamed under gentle preservation glyphs. Sacks of flour. Jars of exotic spices. Herbs in small bundles. Cheeses in wax paper. Even fresh butter, sitting on stone shelves kept magically chilled.

Zero blinked. Then laughed. "This is… Sanji's dream." He stepped inside, hands on his hips, turning slowly. "Cecil, you really went all out," he muttered. "If I ever pull Sanji's card, I think he might cry just walking in here." His fingers grazed the tops of spice jars as he selected ingredients. "For now, let's just keep it simple. Butter cookies. Friendly and classic." He returned to the kitchen and began working.

Flour, sugar, eggs, butter. He mixed the dough by hand, relishing the texture. It was easy. Familiar. Even joyful. The kind of quiet labor he always loved, even back in his old life. Kaelan never had much, but he'd always loved to cook. To bake. It made people smile. 

Maybe this time around, it would lead to something more. A connection. A friend. A lover, even. Though fate… hadn't exactly been generous before. "Still," he muttered, rolling dough into neat balls on the tray, "you never know."

He moved like a man in harmony with his space. Cookies went into the oven. Timer set. Buttered parchment laid out for cooling. By the time he was finished, the café smelled like a childhood memory. He wore a black apron now—flour smudged along the side, a tiny streak on his cheek—but he was smiling. Softly. Without even realizing it.

The sun had climbed higher. He blinked at the clock. "Almost noon, huh?" He began packing the cookies into small bundles—three per bag, tied off with twine. Neat. Humble. Sincere. He gathered the first batch, slipped out from behind the counter, and opened the café's front door.

The street was alive with the noonday crowd. Vendors barked, enchanted carriages hissed to stops, and the smell of grilled meat mingled with city wind.

He stepped outside. First stop: the locksmith, tucked just to the left of his café. A shop older than the rest, with a faded sign and dusty window. Then to the right: the closed bookstore, its window shaded but its door creaked slightly ajar. Two neighbors. Two small gestures. Zero smiled. "Let's see who first."

The bell above the old locksmith's door jingled with a creaky lilt as Zero pushed it open.

The shop was dim and full of brass—wall after wall of keys, cogs, and half-disassembled lockboxes. The scent of oil and steel hung in the air like memory. Behind the counter sat an elderly dwarf couple: the wife standing behind a tall stool, the husband hunched over some stubborn piece of mechanism, peering through a magnifier strapped to his eye.

"Welcome," the dwarf woman called, her voice raspy but warm.

Zero smiled. "Hi. I'm the new owner of the café next door."

The man didn't look up. The woman leaned forward slightly, squinting. "Oh yeah, the one with the fancy window—Le-something?"

"LeBlanc," Zero said, holding up two little tied bundles of cookies. "I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. Hopefully the café doesn't bother you—just figured I'd bring a little something."

The woman's eyes lit up as she reached for the cookies. "Why, thank you kindly, young man. You didn't have to."

"Ha!" the old dwarf man snorted without lifting his eyes. "Not like it's gonna be busy enough to bother anyone."

His wife turned, hand moving faster than expected for her age—SMACK. "Henry, stop being so harsh to the young man!"

"Ow! Dammit, Linda—"

Zero chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "It's fine."

Linda turned back with a tight but sincere smile. "Pardon my husband. He's been grumpy since the War of Creaking Knees."

Zero gave a short bow. "Nice to meet you both. I'm Zero. Zero Ashworth. The place is called Café LeBlanc. I'd love to have you drop by sometime—great coffee, cozy chairs. No lock-picking required."

Linda laughed. "We just might take you up on that. Blackstone Locksmith's been here since before that bookstore even opened. You're the first new neighbor we've had in years."

"Well," Zero said, taking a step back toward the door, "hope I didn't intrude. Thanks for the time."

"Of course. Bye now."

"Bye," he echoed.

As he stepped out into the street, sunlight warming the front of the café again, Zero allowed himself a small grin. 'Well, that wasn't bad at all.'

Then he turned toward the neighboring door—the bookstore. Its windows were shuttered and shaded, the old paint chipping slightly on the sign above. He approached slowly, holding the last cookie packet in one hand, and knocked. Once. Twice. A long silence.

Then, a faint sound: rustling inside. The creak of wood. Someone was there. The door cracked open slightly, just an inch. A shadowed face—impossible to make out clearly—peered at him through the narrow gap.

Zero smiled gently. "Hello. I'm your new neighbor. I just opened Café LeBlanc next door. I brought—"

SLAM.

The door shook on its hinges. From behind it, a voice barked. "Get out of this block, Taintedkind."

Zero stood still for a moment. Then sighed. "...Right." He looked down at the unopened cookie bag in his hands. After a beat, he smiled again. Not bitterly. Not with anger. Just with quiet resolve. "I guess it's not going to be a breeze, huh?"

He turned from the door and walked back onto the street. The city moved around him—loud, alive, indifferent. But Zero didn't waver. There was still a whole block left. He faced the street with shoulders squared and chin lifted, cookie bags in hand, and said to himself. "Let's see who's next."