#1214 Putting It All In 

My name is Gray Silva. 

I’m just an ordinary coffee shop barista. 
Lately, though, memories of my old life keep bubbling up for some reason. 

My previous profession was a mercenary. 

I got paid to wage war.  
Hardly the kind of thing you look back on fondly, but every now and then a flash of memory surprises me. 

When those moments hit, it’s not the whole awful slog that replays in my mind, but a single spotlighted scene. 

One day, long ago, I picked up a runt. 
His name was Ma... Mar… what was it again? 

I can’t recall that one proper noun. Maybe my brain’s getting old.  
But the incident itself is seared in my mind. 

The kid tried to swipe my wallet right from my belt.  
A classic street rat. 
 

He probably orphaned or run off from home.  
In a city, a child like that has two choices: some kind of menial day job, or else dirty work. 

This runt went the dirty route. 
He lacked the patience for honest labor, I guess. 

So, I confronted him:  
“Keep this up and you’ll end up hanged or worse, a hardened criminal beyond redemption.” 

I’d seen plenty of both outcomes in my time.  

Once someone’s nature hardens before they’re ten, changing them is a nightmare.  

By age ten, you’ve either learned enough restraint to live as a human, or you’ve given yourself over to the beast and become a menace. 

That was my conclusion after a dozen years as a mercenary. 

This pickpocket was a bit over ten. 
Still, he looked like he was under fifteen.  

However, when he bared his gums and snarled, trying to wriggle free of his bonds, he looked more monkey than human. 

I’d long sworn: if I met a beast wearing a human skin, I’d strike without hesitation. 

Like I said earlier, once a person’s nature is set, it doesn’t change easily. 
Show them mercy, hope they’ll reform, and more often than not, you’ll just get stabbed in the back. 

That’s why when you’re dealing with someone who’s more beast than human, it’s better to write them off early and deal with them decisively. 
It’s better that than letting them loose and having some poor stranger suffer down the line. 

I looked down at the kid, wondering where he stood. 

His scowling, threatening face was all beast, but there was something in his eyes. A shadow of sorrow, flickering deep inside. 
In a world like this, even kids carry sadness buried in their hearts. 

I hesitated for a moment. But I chose not to ignore that hesitation. 
Rushing to a decision while you’re still unsure is how you end up regretting it. 

And that’s how I ended up saying what I did back then. 

I brought the brat into my own mercenary band. 
Keeping him close meant that if he ever stepped out of line, I could deal with him myself. 
A sort of decision-in-waiting. 

I’d only just gone independent and founded the group at that point, so I was desperate for people anyway. 
And sure enough, I ended up doing the same thing a few more times, taking in a handful of other street kids. 

A few years passed. 

The kids I’d taken in that day each grew in different ways. 

Some rose through the ranks and took on important roles. 
Some disappeared long ago, never seen again. 

But the one who stood out the most… was Ma... It’s no use, I really can’t remember. 

He had a sharp mind, that one. Surprisingly quick to learn, and even quicker to seize opportunity when it appeared. That’s why he got results. 

After the band grew, he became one of our unit leaders, someone I’d call on for key missions when it really mattered. 

With time, we grew close enough that he eventually opened up about his past. 
Born in a tiny, frozen village in human territory. Ran away from home and made his way to the big city. 

Up to that point, it was a story I’d heard a dozen times. But what came after was where things took a turn. 

It was why he ran away from home. 
Apparently, his childhood friend—a young girl—was taken by traffickers, and he went after them to get her back. 

Trying to play the prince before even hitting ten… kid had guts, I’ll give him that. 

But a child can only do so much. He couldn’t even find the place she’d been sold to once he got to the city. 
He was too busy trying to survive that he ended up as a petty thief just to keep breathing. 

That day, I think I finally understood the sorrow I glimpsed in those beast-like eyes of his. 

Later, once he made a name for himself in my mercenary band and gained some breathing room, I asked him, wasn’t it time to resume the search for her? 
He gave me a weary, hollow smile. 

—"If she’s still alive, she’s probably made her way as a prostitute by now. 
Me showing up now would only make things harder for her." 

It sounded like he'd already come to terms with reality. 
Can’t blame him. 
You have to compromise if you want to survive. 

Time passed. The war ended. 
The mercenary band disbanded. 

Most former mercs, stripped of purpose, turned to banditry. 
But I couldn’t let the peace we finally regained be shattered like that, so I did what I could and helped my people find honest work. 

In exchange, I ended up owing a massive favor to the Demon King’s Occupation Bureau, which roped me into working behind the scenes on... less-than-clean operations. 

I figured I’d die someday, buried in secrets. But against all odds, I now run a coffee shop tucked in a quiet corner of the Demon Capital. 

It’s so peaceful, I sometimes forget I was ever a merc. Still… that guy’s face keeps surfacing in my mind. 
I wonder what he’s doing now. 

Then again, he survived the war; he won’t die easy. 
That’s the strength of a mercenary: surviving anywhere, no matter what. 

And if he’s still alive, maybe someday we’ll meet again. 
Maybe he’ll walk through my door as just another customer. 

I polish a coffee cup and keep getting the place ready, holding on to that small, quiet hope. 

*** 

But today’s first customer is, as usual, Mr. Shax. 

“Feast your eyes! This here is a masterpiece...!” 

What’s he brought this time?  

A coffee cup? 

But I’ve got shelves full of those. 

“Ah, but this is no ordinary cup! It’s the latest creation from that farm!!!” 

The farm? 
So, an elven-made cup? 

There’s no way I can afford something like that. 

“No, no! It’s surprisingly affordable! Because it’s not made by elves, it’s human work! 
You’ve heard the rumors of Farm Kingdom, yes? This was crafted by one of their pioneer settlers!” 

... 
Huh. 

“Most of the pieces are amateurish and unsellable, but this one… this one stood out. They let me have it on special recommendation. Well? Doesn’t it just exude something... unusual?” 

When I looked at the cup, I felt a wave of nostalgia. 

It’s not something I’d ever serve to customers. 
But its misshapen form… reminds me of a beast scowling in warning, just like him. 

And deep in its warped surface, I feel something else: a lingering sadness, and yet… a quiet peace. 

“…Mr. Shax, I’ll take this one.” 
“Thank you kindly! ...Huh? Just one? Shouldn’t you get a full set for the café?” 
“Don’t joke. A cup this full of personality would just unsettle my customers.” 
“Urk…!” 

I guess that struck a nerve. Mr. Shax falls silent. 

“Th-Then… why buy just one? Oh! Is this a collector’s play? An investment?!” 
“I don’t have the head for that kind of thing. This one’s for me, personally.” 

I think if I brew coffee in this, it might feel like I’m sharing a cup with an old friend again. 

…They say the Farm Kingdom was built with help from many human adventurers. 

I don’t know what kind of life he’s led since then. But if he’s alive and well, that’s more than enough for me.