Chapter 72 — Not too late

  The next morning, Ivaline returned to work at Edwyn’s bakery.

  The shop smelled warm and familiar — yeast, flour, and the faint sweetness of yesterday’s loaves still clinging to the air. Her hands moved by habit now, measuring, kneading, shaping. Yet her thoughts wandered elsewhere.

  Thirty children.

  Two caretakers.

  One old stone building.

  The numbers refused to leave her head.

  When a batch came out slightly misshapen — crust uneven, crumb a little dense — Ivaline hesitated, then gathered the courage she had been rehearsing since dawn.

  “Sir,” she said softly, approaching Edwyn. “If… if I could…”

  Edwyn looked up. “Hm?”

  “If I could, can I give my failed creations to the kids at the orphanage?”

  “Huh?”

  She froze.

  “Ah…” Her words tangled together. “I—I wouldn’t tell them it’s from here. I baked it myself. The shop wouldn’t lose honor, I swear.”

  She bowed quickly, too deeply, fingers gripping her apron.

  Edwyn stared at her for a moment.

  Then he laughed — quietly — and dusted the flour from his hands.

  “No, no… not that.”

  Ivaline lifted her head, confused.

  “The bread you baked is yours,” Edwyn said with an easy smile. “You earned it. You can give it to whoever you want.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Heck,” he added, waving a hand, “you can even tell them my shop helped as charity too.”

  “That’s… allowed?”

  “Of course.” He paused, then added casually, “By the way — where’s this orphanage?”

  “Oh. It’s…” She described the location carefully, the old stone structure tucked behind the quieter streets.

  Edwyn nodded along, asking a few questions as if hearing it for the first time.

  In truth, he already knew.

  After all, the bread delivered the night before — labeled anonymously under Ivaline’s name — had come straight from his ovens.

  This way, he thought, I can donate openly… without putting a spotlight on the girl.

  Later that day, Ivaline passed through the market district. A dye shop.

  “Girl.”

  She stopped.

  Corvix stood near the entrance his shop, arms crossed. Beside him were neatly folded stacks of clothing — small sizes, mended carefully, clean and warm, still carried out more by his employee.

  “I want to donate clothes,” he said bluntly. “Got a good place in your head?”

  “Ah…”

  Her gaze lingered on the stacks. Her eyes glittered.

  “There’s… an orphanage,” she said immediately. “Two caretakers. Thirty kids. They don’t have enough of anything.”

  Corvix listened, nodding once.

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  “Hm.” He opened his ledger, pretending to check numbers.

  The faintest smile hid beneath his fa?ade stern face

  On her way to the Adventurer Guild, Ivaline slowed her steps.

  How should I ask…

  What words won’t be rude…

  She rehearsed quietly in her mind.

  “Oh, Ivaline.”

  She looked up.

  “Hello, Tomas,” she greeted, bowing politely.

  She straightened, ready to speak — but Tomas spoke first.

  “Say,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “there’re plenty of girls like you on the street, right?”

  She stiffened slightly.

  “I want to do some charity,” Tomas continued. “So, there’ll be fewer kids like that going hungry. Got any ideas?”

  “If that’s the case…” Ivaline said gently.

  She told him about the orphanage. About the quest. About how she had become an adventurer and accepted the work herself.

  “If you’re interested,” she added, “you could speak with the Sister and Father there.”

  “Got it,” Tomas said after a moment. “Thank you, Ivaline.”

  “Umu.”

  She bowed once more and continued toward the guild.

  Behind her, Tomas remained standing.

  “You’re a blessing for this town…” he muttered softly.

  “My decision back then was right after all.”

  For a brief moment, an old image flashed in his mind — a hungry child standing behind his bakery door, eyes lowered.

  He glanced at the empty space behind the shop.

  Then turned back inside.

  When Ivaline entered the Adventurer Guild, she stopped.

  There were… many people.

  Young adventurers. Old veterans. Even some she recognized only by reputation.

  They clustered around the quest board.

  Curious, she moved closer and tugged gently at Mireya’s sleeve.

  “Um… what’s happening?”

  Mireya blinked, then smiled.

  “Ah. Word spread,” she said. “Guards talked. Housewives talked. Someone mentioned a butcher shop. It snowballed.”

  “And,” she added, lowering her voice, “the Guild posted the quest with merit rewards over coin.”

  “Merits…?”

  “For rank advancement,” Mireya explained. “Easy work. Good reputation. Profitable merits.”

  Ivaline blinked.

  Stunned, she tilted her head.

  “How could… an orphanage situation change so much…”

  “…within just one day?”

  She couldn’t understand it.

  Behind her eyes, Chronicle silently connected the dots.

  Edwyn.

  Corvix.

  Tomas.

  The guards.

  The guild master.

  And a girl who never once asked for praise.

  Chronicle smiled.

  The Sister was the first to notice something was wrong.

  It started with the bread.

  Too much of it.

  She stood in the storage room, hands frozen mid-reach, staring at shelves that had been empty just yesterday. Loaves wrapped carefully in cloth. Baskets stacked neatly. Even dried goods, labeled and dated.

  “…Father,” she called quietly.

  The Father entered a moment later — and stopped.

  Silence stretched.

  There was enough food to feed the children for today.

  And tomorrow.

  And the day after that.

  “…This,” the Father said slowly, voice tight, “is not normal.”

  By noon, more arrived.

  Vegetables. Salted meat. Flour. Even sweets — wrapped, modest, nothing extravagant, but unmistakably real.

  By evening, they counted again.

  They had enough.

  Not just enough to survive the week.

  Enough to prepare.

  The Sister clasped her rosary so tightly her knuckles whitened.

  “Father,” she whispered, fear creeping in. “What if… this is fraud?”

  Or worse.

  What if this kindness came with strings?

  Dark dealings. Hidden expectations. Debts they could never repay.

  The Father exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.

  “We must be careful,” he agreed. “Ask questions. Verify every source.”

  And so they did.

  They spoke with the guards who delivered part of it.

  With the merchants who signed their names plainly.

  With the guild clerk who recorded the quest.

  No secrets.

  No hidden clauses.

  Just… donations.

  And one name, repeated softly, almost reverently.

  “Ivaline.”

  The Sister froze when she heard it.

  “…Ivaline?”

  A memory surfaced again — a small girl, standing stiffly at the gate, clothes worn thin but clean, eyes steady despite hunger.

  Please take me in.

  They had refused.

  No space. No resources. No choice.

  They had bitten their lips and turned her away.

  Just like so many others.

  The Sister sat down heavily.

  “…She came back,” she whispered. “Not to ask.”

  The Father closed his eyes.

  “But to give.”

  Meanwhile, in the market district—

  “Oi.”

  Corvix leaned over the counter, arms crossed, glaring at a fellow merchant.

  “You still owe me for last winter’s dye shipment.”

  The man stiffened. “I—I know, but business—”

  “Made a donation to the orphanage,” Corvix interrupted. “Proper ones. No scheme.”

  “…What?”

  “I’ll strike half the debt.”

  The merchant stared.

  “And,” Corvix added gruffly, “if you keep donating, we’ll talk about the rest.”

  “Y-you serious?”

  Corvix looked away. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

  He flipped a page in his ledger.

  “Just bad for business if kids freeze in my district.”

  Word spread fast.

  Debts softened.

  Obligations shifted.

  Charity became… convenient.

  And Corvix absolutely, definitely, was not smiling when someone muttered:

  “Guess you’ve got a soft spot, huh?”

  “Shut up.”

  Back at the orphanage, dinner that night was different.

  The kids noticed first.

  Seconds.

  Then thirds.

  Laughter echoed off stone walls that had only known hunger for far too long.

  The Sister watched them eat, hands trembling.

  The Father stood beside her.

  “…We were wrong,” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” she replied. “But perhaps… not too late.”

  They bowed their heads together.

  Not in thanks for abundance.

  But in repentance.