Vonjo chewed slowly, letting the last spoonful of Wendy's pork stew linger on his tongue.

It was thick and rich, the fat melting into a velvety broth, and he closed his eyes for a moment as if he were imprinting the flavor into his soul. He lifted a finger and pointed at the steaming pot.

"This," he said, voice low but almost reverent, "is the taste I dreamed of for six damn years. The pork just… falls apart. The carrots are soft, the potatoes soaked in broth. And the dumplings?" He picked one up with his chopsticks, waving it slightly for emphasis. "The moment I bite into it, the juice bursts in my mouth—ginger, scallion, pepper… It's like my tongue just remembered happiness."

Clark chuckled, his weathered face full of warmth. "You always were dramatic about food, boy."

Vonjo didn't care; he reached for another dumpling and moaned softly as he chewed. "Mmm. Dramatic or not, this is real. You two don't know how much I needed this. After all the filth I ate on the road—burned rations, tough jerky, the kind of bread that could double as a weapon… then this? This is heaven."

The three-headed frog, perched on the bench beside him, ribbited impatiently. The leftmost head nudged his arm like a dog begging for scraps.

"Oh, you want some too?" Vonjo laughed, his tone suddenly softer, like a man talking to a trusted companion. "Alright, alright. Old Clark, give my buddy a plate, will you?"

Clark blinked at the frog, his old sorcerer's instincts twitching, then shuffled off to the counter and returned with a small dish of braised pork and vegetables.

"Go easy on it, little guy," Clark said cautiously.

The frog needed no second invitation.

All three heads bent down at once, devouring the meal with surprising coordination.

One head snapped up chunks of pork, another slurped the sauce noisily, and the third licked the plate clean before the others were finished. The sight drew laughter from both Clark and Wendy.

"Look at that belly," Wendy said fondly, watching the frog wiggle as it ate. "Cute little glutton. And all three heads so polite!"

"Polite?" Vonjo snorted as the frog burped. "That's just it pretending to be cute because it wants more food."

The frog let out a protesting triple ribbit, its middle head tilting back indignantly. Vonjo smirked, patting its chubby back. "Alright, alright. You're still my partner, aren't you?"

For a while, the kitchen was filled with nothing but the comforting sounds of eating, the clinking of bowls, and the low croaks of a happy frog.

Eventually, Clark leaned back in his chair, watching Vonjo polish off a fourth bowl. "So," he said, voice softer now, "what happened to you all these years, boy? Six years vanish, and suddenly you're back at my table like nothing happened. You look different… stronger. And that frog isn't normal. Tell us your story."

Vonjo set down his spoon and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well… since I left, I never stopped moving. First year, I worked as a guard for a traveling agency. Slept under trucks, fought off low-tier curse beasts. Learned how to hold a flashlight without alerting hell beasts carefully."

He grinned at the memory, and the old couple leaned in, listening with the fascination of grandparents hearing from a long-lost grandson.

"Second year, I got bolder. Took jobs clearing abandoned villages in the outer zones. Saw my first real cursed fog up close. Nearly died twice. But hey—experience makes the man, right?"

They gasped at the danger, and Vonjo continued, his voice warming with pride as he recounted each year.

The third year, he traveled to the northern mining towns, fighting smugglers and sleeping in freezing barns.

The fourth year, he trained with a wandering mercenary band, learning how to use cursed tools and surviving ambushes that left scars across his back.

The fifth year, he lived like a drifter, locating rogue users for bounty money with a group of police sorcerers, scraping by until his pockets were heavy with coin and his hands knew the weight of blood.

"And now," he said finally, leaning back with a grin, "I awakened my bloodline ability."

The words hit the air like a thunderclap.

Clark and Wendy froze. "Your… bloodline?" Clark whispered, voice cracking with disbelief. "You're over twenty. That… that almost never happens!"

Vonjo only shrugged, smirking. "Rare, not impossible. And I'm living proof."

"What is it?" Wendy asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Vonjo wagged a finger with a teasing smile. "Not telling. Trade secret."

They both groaned, and then laughed with him, shaking their heads in disbelief and joy. "You really are the same rascal," Clark said. "But you did it… you really didn't give up. You came back just like you promised."

Wendy sniffed, her eyes glimmering. "We used to say we should have never given up on our own dreams, back when we were young. Maybe if we had kept fighting… maybe we could have awakened something too."

Vonjo's smile softened, a rare flicker of warmth in his usually cocky expression. "You gave me food when I had nothing. That was enough. Not everyone needs to fight to be strong."

They all laughed together, the room filled with the warmth of nostalgia and contentment.

Then, as Vonjo reached for another dumpling, a shadow fell across the doorway behind him.

The room grew quiet.

A heavy, gravelly voice broke the silence. "Evening. I see you've got yourselves a feast."

Vonjo paused mid-bite, his senses sharpening instantly. He didn't turn yet, but his eyes shifted, catching the stiff posture of Clark and the way Wendy's hands trembled on the table.

The voice continued, colder now. "You know the rules. Pay your tax if you want to keep this stall standing. Or…" The figure stepped closer, boots thudding against the wooden floor, "…we'll collect in other ways."

Vonjo slowly placed his chopsticks down, a smile curling at the corner of his lips. The frog on the bench gave a low, triple croak, its throats swelling slightly, as if it too sensed the tension rising in the cozy kitchen.

And in Vonjo's chest, a familiar thrill began to simmer.

The man at the doorway stepped fully into the little shop, his presence casting a cold shadow over the warmth that had filled the room just moments ago.

His coat was heavy, lined with dull metal plates, and his boots left muddy prints on the wooden floor.

His gaze swept over the humble shelves of dried noodles, jars of spices, and the simmering pot of stew on the counter, and then settled on Clark and Wendy with a predator's indifference.

"Evening," he repeated, his voice as dry as gravel. "You know why I'm here. Tax collection. And by the look of this cozy little dinner…" His eyes flicked to the steaming bowls, the plate of dumplings, and finally to Vonjo, who sat calmly in his chair. "…you've been doing well enough to pay up. Hand it over."

Clark stiffened, his weathered hands curling at his sides. "Sir… we paid last month," he said carefully. "Business has been slow. We don't—"

"Not enough," the man interrupted sharply, taking another step forward. His fingers drummed against the haft of a short metal club strapped to his hip. "New rate. Everyone's paying double this month. My boss wants more. No exceptions. Unless you'd rather your little stall have an accident tomorrow."

Wendy's face paled, and her voice trembled. "We… we don't have that much. Please, can you give us time? We can—"

"No time," the man snapped, his lip curling. "I want it now. And don't play games with me. I know you've got a few savings tucked away. Pay up, or I start taking payment in… other ways." His eyes flicked toward the shelves of ingredients, then to the small jewelry on Wendy's hand, lingering in a way that made Vonjo's jaw tighten.

Vonjo finally leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable as he watched the exchange. His fingers tapped against the table, slow and steady, while his frog companion let out a low, warning ribbit.

He could see the old couple's struggle clearly—the way Clark's shoulders trembled with restrained frustration, the way Wendy's hands shook as they clutched each other.

Vonjo's gaze drifted to the man and then to the stew, still hot and fragrant on the table. He let the silence stretch until the collector finally glanced at him, irritation flashing in his eyes.

"You," the man said, his voice rough. "Stranger. You've been eating well. Maybe you can help your friends out, huh? If they can't pay, someone ought to."

Vonjo tilted his head, his lips curling in a slight smirk. "Oh? Is that so? You need money that bad?"

"I need what's owed." The man's tone hardened. "This stall stays open because we let it stay open. Pay the tax or lose it. Simple."

Vonjo reached into his coat slowly, letting the tension hang in the air. He pulled out a thick roll of cash and set it on the table with a soft thud.

The man's eyes widened slightly, suspicion flickering there before greed smothered it.

He stepped forward and picked up the roll, thumbing through the bills one by one with slow, deliberate movements, as if savoring the act of taking it.

He muttered, counting under his breath. "One… two… three…"

Vonjo watched him with mild amusement as the counting dragged on. The man finally looked up and shook his head. "Not enough."

Vonjo raised a brow. "Huh. Really now?"

"New rate's high. This won't cover it."

Behind him, Clark shifted uneasily. "Vonjo… you don't have to—"

But Vonjo simply waved a hand to silence him. He pulled out another stack from his coat and slid it across the table with a casual flick. "How about now?"

The man's eyes gleamed, and he snatched it up, counting once more. Wendy's hand went to her mouth in silent worry, but Vonjo only leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, as though he had all the time in the world.

Still, after a long, greedy pause, the man said, "Close. But… not enough."

Vonjo chuckled under his breath and shook his head, the sound soft but carrying an edge that made the air heavier.

He reached into his coat one last time and produced another bundle, larger than the last two combined, and tossed it onto the table.

The man blinked in surprise, then lunged for it, his fingers trembling with excitement as he peeled through the cash. "Heh… now we're talking. That's more like it. Yeah. That'll do." He tucked the money into his coat with a satisfied grunt and straightened, his arrogance ballooning once more. "Pleasure doing business."

He turned toward the door, already humming to himself, the weight of the money making him walk with a swagger.