The Night Raid hideout is a strategically concealed base of operations, meticulously designed to support the group's covert resistance against the Empire. Situated approximately ten kilometers north of the Capital, the hideout is a large, reinforced structure seamlessly embedded into the face of a remote mountainside. This location offers natural camouflage and tactical protection, surrounded by dense forest and situated near a river that supplies fresh water, food, and a discreet escape route when needed.
Inside, the living quarters served as the modest yet comforting heart of the hideout. The rooms were carefully hewn into the mountain's inner stone, insulated with timber panels and layered in thick woven fabrics that muffled sound and preserved warmth during the cold months.
At the living quarters of Night Raid, Leone's thoughts were distant, staring endlessly at the surroundings. Her elbow rested on the windowsill, fingers absently playing with a frayed thread on her sleeve. The air was still, punctuated only by the soft chirp of birds outside and the occasional clatter of a sword from the nearby training yard.
"Leone, something bothering you?" Bulat asked, stepping into the room, his shirt clinging to his torso after a rigorous training regimen. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his eyes were calm, concerned.
Leone turned her head slowly, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh Bulat, it's you. It's just… Have you ever made a stupid decision that ruined the life of a stranger?"
Bulat raised an eyebrow, grabbing a towel from the bench to dry his face. "Well, not in the sense that you mean? Why?"
"There was this kid… looked promising enough to be an Imperial soldier… I took away his money just for the heck of it," Leone admitted, her voice tinged with guilt and something deeper—regret.
"For the heck of it? Leone, just… you and your swindling habits," Bulat replied, exasperated but not unkind. He sat down beside her, draping the towel around his neck.
"I know…" she muttered. "Then just this morning, I saw him. He was buying food. I tried apologizing to that boy…"
There was a long pause. The silence between them felt weighty, filled with words neither of them could easily say.
"And?" Bulat finally asked, nudging her gently.
"I looked into his eyes," Leone whispered. "It was heavy, like he was bearing the weight of grief. Not just anger or resentment—real, deep grief. The kind that changes a person."
Bulat was quiet, his brows furrowed. "Sounds like he's been through something awful."
Leone nodded. "I wonder if I played a part in pushing him there. If I—if my selfishness helped turn the wheel."
"You know what you did, Leone. The best you could do is take that responsibility... and pray that he'll forgive you," Bulat gave her simple advice before leaving.
Leone simply chuckled, the sound caught between assurance and regret, her eyes lingering on the horizon as though hoping the wind might carry her remorse to the boy she had wronged.
In the slums, morning came gently with the soft warmth of the sun brushing against the cracked rooftops. The city was still groggy, the streets half-empty and the usual haze of dust not yet stirred by the bustle of feet. Inside the inn, Vito stirred from his light sleep, the scent of roasted beans from the hearth wafting toward his nose. He got up slowly, stretching his back and shoulders with a groan, then made his way to the modest kitchen for a cup of morning coffee.
Upstairs, Tatsumi and Gauri remained buried under their blankets, too exhausted to rise after the events of the night before. Clearing a bandit nest wasn't a small feat—especially not when they'd cleaned the place, salvaged goods, and made it fit for children to stay in. The grime on their hands and ache in their muscles were badges of effort well spent.
Genco, ever the early bird, had left before dawn. He was headed to the black market with the recovered valuables from the bandits, looking for buyers discreet enough to avoid suspicion.
As Vito stepped out the front door of the inn, coffee in hand, the same group of children were already gathered near the steps. They stood quietly, bright-eyed and smiling, their presence startled Vito out of his sleepy haze.
"Oh? What brings you here today?" he asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
"Mister, we just wanted to say thank you for taking care of us last night and giving us a place to stay," one of the boys said, his voice quiet but firm. "So, we want to pay back your kindness."
Vito blinked at them, the warmth of their gratitude striking him deeper than expected. His grip on the mug tightened slightly. "Is that so? Well, seeing you alive and smiling this morning is already enough," he said with a gentle smile, the kind that came from genuine affection.
But instead of nodding and walking away, the kids exchanged solemn glances, their expressions turning serious in unison.
"In our way," one girl began, her voice delicate but firm, "we don't simply give something intangible as a gift. We usually offer souvenirs or do odd jobs in return. That's how we show we really mean it."
Vito was taken aback. He wasn't expecting that kind of response—so thoughtful, so rooted in pride and culture. It was a tradition forged in hardship, he realized. In their world, gratitude wasn't words. It was action.
Odd jobs, huh.
He pondered for a long moment, staring into the distance with his cup in hand. These kids wanted to help, to contribute, to feel like they earned their place. It was a noble sentiment, and Vito didn't want to deny them their dignity or the fulfillment of that ritual.
His gaze shifted to the press house, where olive oil production had only just begun. It was a slow operation. Labor-heavy. They were understaffed, and even the adults were starting to feel the strain in their backs and arms. It was work that needed doing.
An idea sparked—a hesitant one, but a real one.
"Say, you take on odd jobs as a gift, right?" he asked, tilting his head as he studied their eager faces.
"Yes!" the children responded in unison, standing straighter.
Tatsumi had awakened to the noise downstairs; his body still sore from dragging away bodies and cleaning a whole house filled with the stench of blood and filth. His muscles ached with every movement, but the unusual commotion roused his attention.
He heard the familiar sound of the granite mill grinding, the rhythmic rumble echoing through the wooden floors.
Vito? And Genco? At this early?
Curious and still groggy, Tatsumi threw on his shirt and quickly stepped downstairs, expecting to find his usual companions starting the day early. But what he saw instead rooted him in place, his thoughts silenced by sheer surprise.
In the common room, the same kids they had fed cannoli to were now making productive ruckus. The space was alive with motion. Young boys clustered around the granite mill, their small hands guided by Vito's larger, calloused ones as he patiently showed them how to operate the machinery.
"Easy now, don't press too hard. Let it turn smoothly," Vito instructed gently, his voice carrying the tone of a patient teacher.
The girls, meanwhile, took to other chores without complaint. They swept the floor, rinsed equipment, and busied themselves cleaning up the inn. Some handled the filled jars, placing them carefully into the storage room one by one, their faces bright with a quiet sense of pride.
Tatsumi stood there, his mouth agape.
"Vito-san… this is…" he started to say.
"Oh, Tatsumi my boy, you're awake," Vito said, turning with a warm smile, his apron stained with olive paste. "We've got ourselves a small workforce now. Early birds, too."
"Good morning, Signore Tatsumi!" the children chorused, their voices cheerful and light, each of them mimicking Vito's mannerisms with exaggerated bows and proud smiles.
Signore… what?
Tatsumi blinked, his tired brain struggling to catch up.
It was almost too much to process. Just last night, these children were starving, barely surviving on the streets. Now, they moved with purpose, working like they belonged—not out of obligation, but out of earnestness. There was joy in their labor, dignity in their gestures.
Tatsumi was left flustered and dumbfounded by the new development.
Genco arrived from the black market, having successfully sold the valuables for half a thousand silver coins, which he used to purchase much-needed supplies. He walked through the doors of the inn, his boots clacking against the wooden floor, only to stop in his tracks at the sight before him.
There, in the heart of the inn, the olive oil press was alive with motion. The same children they had given cannoli to the previous night were now busily working the machinery. Vito stood over the granite mill, guiding a few boys through the careful process of grinding the olives into a coarse paste. Others worked the press, extracting the golden liquid with surprising diligence. The girls had taken to cleaning duties with equal commitment, sweeping the floors, washing cloths, and organizing the stored jars of oil in the cellar.
Genco's eye twitched slightly at the sight, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ohoho, what do we have here? A few kids are giving us a helping hand in our business," he said, his voice laced with feigned amusement. There was a slight edge in his tone—an undercurrent of disapproval that didn't go unnoticed.
Tatsumi, who was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, scrambled to explain. "Genco-san… that's not how it looks like—I just woke up to this—"
But Vito raised a hand, silencing the flustered young man with a weary sigh.
"Genco, mi amico, perhaps we should talk it out in the kitchen," Vito said, trying to keep his tone neutral but clearly bracing for a conversation he knew wouldn't be easy.
"Perhaps," Genco replied, brushing past Tatsumi as he walked toward the kitchen. "After all, this is not what I meant by 'needing more manpower' when we talked about our venture, right?"
Tatsumi exchanged a worried glance with the kids, who had paused in their work to watch the exchange. With a soft groan, he followed the two men into the kitchen, unsure of how the discussion was going to unfold.