Ashen Requiem-Chapter 71: How to cook happiness

In the quiet of the northern slums, where the alleys are too narrow for drones and the rooftops make night fall earlier than it should, Meera was running, clutching her loaf of bread like it was treasure.

She pushed aside a rusted sheet of metal and slipped into a shack built from damp wood and hand-painted tin walls.

Inside, in a rickety old armchair, an old man was waiting for her.

His one eye widened as he saw her dirt-streaked face and tattered clothes.

— "By my mother’s ashes, Meera...!"

He staggered to his feet and pulled her into a trembling embrace.

He smelled of fear, love, and exhaustion.

— "Meera... I already told you not to go into the upper town without permission, especially if it’s to steal. Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me?!"

— "But I was hungry..."

— "And you think I’m not hungry too?! I would’ve shared my rations, kid. You have no idea what they do to kids like you out there..." His voice cracked.

He pressed a hand to the branded cross on her shoulder, barely holding back a sob.

— "...And if I lost you? What would I have left, huh? You think I have anything besides you?"

Meera looked down, ashamed.

In the doorway, Dante, silent until now, was watching the scene.

The old man finally turned to him, wiping his face.

— "You’re the one who brought her back?"

Dante nodded.

— "She was getting beaten over a loaf of bread. It was nothing."

The old man walked up to him, slowly. Then, without hesitation, he held out his hand.

— "Well, that nothing, sir, saved what was left of my soul."

He smiled—a toothless but genuine smile.

— "You’re welcome here. For as long as you need. It ain’t much, but it’s clean. Well... when Meera remembers to sweep."

Dante hesitated, his eyes wandering over the walls covered in children’s drawings and worn-out photos.

— "...Can I stay the night? If it’s not a bother." He asked, a bit shy.

The old man raised an eyebrow.

— "Boy, you just brought back the only thing I care about in this world. You can have my bed if you want."

— "...No, the couch is fine."

A silence settled. Meera started toward the kitchen without a word.

Dante — seeing her from the doorframe — approached her and stopped her.

— "Wait."

She turned, still holding the loaf in her arms.

He stepped closer and gently took it from her hands.

— "Tonight, I’m cooking."

She blinked at him, confused.

The old man burst out laughing.

— "You? You look like a stray, but you talk like a prince. You even know how to light a fire?"

— "Of course sir."

— "When you’ve spent your life roasting hellspawn under blood moons... making bread stew’s almost poetic." He thought to himself.

Meera frowned, skeptical.

— "Do you even know how to cook?"

Dante smiled.

— "Just watch."

He rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the cramped little kitchen. The water took its sweet time to heat up.

His sleeves slipped past his elbows, revealing arms—scarred, muscular, shaped by a life far too heavy for someone his age.

— "You got a pot?" He asked, peeking into the cabinets.

— "Bottom’s got a hole," the old man replied, "but if you don’t go wild with liquids, it’ll do."

He laid out the ingredients : two limp potatoes, some shriveled cabbage, a half-eaten carrot, an old spice tin that looked like it time-traveled from the last century. And of course—the bread.

— "You’re really gonna cook with that?" Meera asked, raising an eyebrow from her wobbly chair, arms crossed.

— "Watch and learn."

He diced the bread, toasted it with the carrot pieces.

Then chopped the cabbage and simmered it in what little oil there was.

He added water, mashed the potatoes with the back of a ladle, and stirred them in to thicken the stew.

Soon, a surprising scent filled the air—a warm, spiced fragrance, like something from a long-forgotten memory.

— "Damn..." the old man whispered. "Smells like my mother’s cooking. Before the war took everything."

Dante didn’t respond. His gaze drifted—maybe centuries away, maybe to another world.

He poured the stew into three chipped bowls, topped each with the toasted bread, and finally sat down.

They all looked at one another. Meera hesitated.

— "What’re you waiting for?" Dante said, taking a bite.

The girl dipped her spoon into the stew, skeptical—then her eyes lit up.

— "It’s... good."

— "Not good," the old man added. "Divine."

Dante raised a hand.

— "Told you. You doubted me?"

They laughed.

And for a moment—a precious, fleeting moment—the world was simple again.

Just a strange boy with a paper bag on his head, a hungry girl, and a one-eyed grandfather. Sharing a meal.

— "So," the old man said with a chuckle, "almost forgot—what’s your name, son?"

— "Dante. Godwin Dante."

— "Nice to meet you, my name is Erwan Lepeece and this little princess is Meera Lepeece."

— "How old are you homeboy?"

— "Eighteen, sir."

— "So young but so strong. How’d you meet Meera?"

Dante leaned back in the creaky chair.

— "She was running. Cops were chasing her. I broke a drone, took out two badges, and jumped over a few rooftops. That’s it."

Meera giggled, remembering the flight.

— "It really felt like flying. You jumped so high, I thought I was dreaming."

— "You think you’re dreaming," the old man grumbled. "This guy fell out of the sky or something..."

Dante smiled silently.

— "The living... sometimes have to carry the dead with them." He thought.

Dinner ended. Meera, still smiling, gathered the empty dishes.

She tried to act tough when Dante moved to help—but let him, with a conspiratorial grin.

— "I’ve got this," she said, stifling a yawn. "Gramps gets cranky if I stay up too late."

— "Lies," the old man muttered. "I’m the one watching over her every night."

Meera rolled her eyes, laughing, then vanished behind the cloth curtain that served as her bedroom door.

The old man shuffled into what passed for the living room, lamplight dim.

He settled into his worn chair and gestured for Dante to sit.

— "Go on, take a seat." He said, straightening up with effort.

Dante nodded and sat down in the lone other chair. The wood creaked under his weight.

The old man poured himself a bit of what looked like homemade liquor and placed another cup in front of Dante—no pressure.

— "You know... I always thought I’d die alone. Just me, my demons, and the memories."

He stared at the amber liquid.

— "Meera’s all I’ve got left. Her mother—my daughter—was killed just for saying no. ’No, I won’t give my daughter to the Church.’ That one sentence cost her everything."

— "And I lived. Maybe because I was a coward. Or maybe... because I still had something left to do."

His one good eye shimmered, but he held his voice steady.

— "Meera grew up in the shadows. And now even the shadows are afraid. Ever since Eraser came back, the streets have been shaking. Some say it’s the vengeance of the forgotten. Others say it’s just another tyranny. But his graffiti... his fanatics... they don’t make distinctions."

He rolled up his sleeve. A clean, brutal scar marked his forearm.

— "They wanted Meera as a recruit. I fought back. Lost an eye for it. But I kept her. Her, I kept."

He paused.

— "But tonight—for the first time in a long time—I saw her laugh at the dinner table. Because you fell out of the sky."

Dante said nothing. His fingers gently tapped the wooden armrest. Nothing to say, just listening.

The old man stood slowly and disappeared into a dark corner of the house.

He returned with something wrapped in black cloth.

— "I was going to give this to my son. But he died too. So I kept it. Maybe for another time. Or another man."

He unwrapped it.

A black mask. Smooth, solemn. Majestic in its simplicity.

But there was something about it—a presence.

As if a piece of Dante’s past had taken shape before him.

A chill ran down his spine.

He knew it instantly.

The Mask of Chaos.

The ancient symbol of a name the world no longer dared to speak : Kang Soo Jin.

— "My great-grandfather was a noble. A madman, maybe—but he believed a savior would return. He burned his titles, left the highborn districts, and buried himself in the mud. Swore that one day, this mask would be needed again... by his blood. Or by the one they called The Bearer of Burdens."

He held it out to Dante, who took it carefully.

The lacquered wood sent a jolt through him.

As if all his rage, his pain, his purpose had been waiting—right here.

He studied the faint spirals etched along the edges.

— "Why give it to me if it has a strong emotional and monetary value? Aren’t you afraid I’ll sell it for next to nothing?" He asked, voice low.

The old man smiled, tired but sure.

— "Because I saw that fire in your eyes. And that fire... it’s not from this world. Is it?"

— "Believing in you is my reason, but showing me I wasn’t wrong is your responsibility.

Dante didn’t answer.

But he bowed, slowly.

A deep, silent gratitude.

And in his mind, a single thought rose—clear as mountain water :

— "In a world where the gods have gone silent... and the demons rule...

I must become the nightmare that hunts monsters.

I must become... Kang Soo Jin."