บท 8: Chapter 8
The village of Eryndale stirred to life as the sun rose higher into the morning sky. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, the scent of baked bread mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly tilled soil. Sander adjusted the satchel slung over his shoulder and made his way toward the village square, his steps purposeful but unhurried.
Though he had spent his days training and helping his family, Sander knew that survival required more than just strength. He needed connections, information, and coin. The adult mind within him recognized that even in a small village like Eryndale, knowledge and relationships were just as valuable as physical ability.
The market square was modest, little more than a cluster of wooden stalls and tables surrounding the central well. Villagers bustled about, exchanging goods and pleasantries, their voices a lively hum in the crisp air.
Sander approached the well, his eyes scanning the faces around him. He spotted Jacob, the gruff fruit seller, arranging apples in neat rows. The man's sharp eyes flicked toward Sander as he approached.
"Visione," Jacob said, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity. " You've been wandering around here more often lately," Jacob said, his tone good-natured. "Looking for something?"
Sander offered a faint smile. "Looking to help where I can," he said. "And maybe hear what's new in the kingdom."
Jacob chuckled, wiping his hands on a worn cloth. "You've got ambition, I'll give you that. But news travels slow to places like Eryndale. Unless you're interested in the state of the crops, you'll be disappointed."
Sander shook his head, leaning casually against the edge of Jacob's stall. "Crops are important," he said, his tone light. "But what about the Tournament of Enlightenment? I hear it's coming to Carna this year."
Jacob's eyes narrowed slightly. "So, you're interested in the tournament."
"Everyone should be," Sander replied smoothly. "It's a chance for anyone to rise. Even here in Eryndale, it's worth talking about."
A few nearby villagers, overhearing the exchange, drifted closer. Jacob glanced at them, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "You're not wrong," he admitted. "The academies are already sending their professor to towns near Carna to scout early potential participants, Even some of the guilds are watching the local talent."
Sander's pulse quickened, though he kept his expression calm. "when will be the tournament takes place?"
Jacob shrugged. "I don't have any information when will it, but one thing for sure."
"They'll look anywhere for promising players. The Tournament's everything, boy. Even kings pay attention when a new talent rises."
"Do you need an extra pair of hands today?"
Sander asked.
Jacob arched a brow, his grin widening. "Extra hands? And here I thought nobles didn't like getting theirs dirty."
Sander didn't flinch at the remark. Instead, he shrugged with an easy smile. "We're not nobles anymore, are we? Might as well earn my keep."
The casual response seemed to catch Jacob off guard, but he nodded approvingly. "Fair enough. You can help unload these crates. Careful with the apples—bruised ones won't sell."
Sander rolled up his sleeves and got to work, the weight of the crates testing the endurance he'd been building. As he worked, he kept his ears open, listening to the conversations around him.
The market was alive with chatter, villagers exchanging news as they haggled over prices. Sander quickly realized that listening was just as important as speaking.
"Did you hear? The Tournament of Enlightenment is coming to Carna this year," a woman murmured to her companion as she picked through a basket of potatoes. "The whole town's been buzzing about it."
"Do you think any of our boys will make it in?" the other woman replied, her voice skeptical. "Eryndale's never had much luck."
Sander filed the information away, keeping his expression neutral as he carried another crate to Jacob's stall.
When the work was done, Jacob handed him a few copper coins and a small apple as thanks. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, Visione," he said, clapping Sander on the back. "Come by if you need more work."
"I will," Sander said, pocketing the coins. "
From Jacob's stall, Sander made his way to the blacksmith's forge. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal rang out as old Ferin, the village blacksmith, worked on shaping a horseshoe.
Ferin glanced up as Sander approached, his thick brows furrowing. "You need something, boy?"
"Work, if you've got it," Sander said.
The blacksmith grunted, jerking his head toward a pile of iron scraps near the forge. "Sort those out, then. I need the good pieces separated from the useless ones."
Sander set to work, the heat from the forge warming his skin as he sifted through the pile. Ferin didn't speak much, but his occasional grumbles carried more weight than most people's full conversations.
When the pile was sorted, Ferin handed Sander another few copper coins. "You're not bad at this," the blacksmith admitted, his gruff voice softening slightly. "Why're you doing it?"
"Trying to get by," Sander replied honestly.
Ferin nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "You're a smart lad. If you're looking for coin, there's a merchant coming in from Carna tomorrow. Needs help unloading his wagon. Might be worth your time."
"Thanks," Sander said, pocketing the coins.
As the conversation tapered off, Sander noticed an elderly woman struggling to carry a sack of grain toward one of the stalls. He moved quickly, stepping in to take the burden from her hands.
"Let me help," he said, lifting the sack with some effort and following her to her destination.
The woman, surprised but grateful, smiled at him. "You're a kind boy, Sander," she said. "It's good to see the Visiones still care about the village."
Sander nodded politely, setting the sack down beside her table. "It's no trouble," he said.
The woman dug into her coin pouch, pulling out a single copper piece and pressing it into his hand. "Take this," she insisted. "You've earned it."
Though it wasn't much, Sander accepted the coin with a small bow. Every bit helped, and more importantly, every act of kindness strengthened his place in the community.
Over the next few hours, Sander moved from stall to stall, offering his help where it was needed.
His efforts didn't go unnoticed. The villagers, once wary of the fallen noble family, began to greet him with smiles and nods.
"He's a hard worker," one of them murmured as Sander passed.
"And sharp, too," another added.
But Sander wasn't just working for coin or goodwill. As he moved through the market, he kept his ears open, catching snippets of conversation about the wider world.
The soft glow of the setting sun bathed Eryndale in shades of orange and gold as Sander trudged back to the cottage, his satchel slung over one shoulder. The rhythmic jingling of the few copper coins he had earned that day seemed to match the steady beat of his thoughts.
The morning broke with the faint rattle of wagon wheels on the dirt road leading into Eryndale. Sander stood near the market square, adjusting the strap of his satchel, true to Ferin's words as the merchant's wagon came into view. The vehicle was modest but sturdy, piled high with crates and bundles covered in thick burlap.
The merchant himself was a rotund man with a well-trimmed beard and sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything around him. As he pulled his wagon to a stop near the square, he hopped down with surprising agility, brushing the dust from his travel-worn coat.
"Alright, you lot!" he called out to no one in particular. "If you've got coin, I've got wares. And if you've got muscle, I've got crates that need unloading."
Sander stepped forward, his calm demeanor catching the merchant's eye.
"You're the Visione boy, aren't you?" the merchant said as he glanced to his silver hair and piercing blue eyes, his tone laced with curiosity. "Didn't expect to see a noble working his hands."
"I'm not a noble," Sander replied evenly. "Not anymore. Do you still need help with those crates?"
The merchant studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I do. And if you're good at listening, I've got more than just coin for you—information's that worth's plenty for kids at your age if you know how to use it."
The crates were heavier than they looked, each one filled with goods ranging from dried spices to bolts of cloth and bundles of tools. Sander's muscles protested with every lift, but he gritted his teeth and focused on the task, his growing strength from days of training carrying him through.
As he worked, the merchant leaned against the wagon, his sharp eyes watching Sander with interest.
"You're a quiet one," the merchant remarked. "Most boys your age would be pestering me about my travels or trying to pry secrets out of me."
Sander set down the crate he was carrying, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'd rather hear what you have to say without pestering."
The merchant chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Smart. Alright, Visione. You've earned yourself a bit of news."
The merchant gestured for Sander to sit on a nearby crate. Once he was seated, the man leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret.
"I know you're interested in the Tournament of Enlightenment," he began, "the event will take place to Carna in four months."
The merchant smirked. "You probably don't know is that this year's tournament is shaping up to be something special. Kids from all over Aurionvale will be there—not just the locals. Nobles from fiefs far and wide are sending their children to compete, along with talented commoners from every corner of the kingdom."
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "You'll see all kinds of kids at that tournament. The wealthy nobles, of course, will come decked out in the finest accessories and enchanted shoes you can imagine. Those things give them an edge—boosting their speed, their jump height, their reflexes. Expensive stuff, only the best for their precious heirs."
Sander's jaw tightened slightly. "And the commoners?"
The merchant shrugged. "Some will scrape together enough for basic gear, maybe secondhand accessories if they're lucky. But most will have nothing but their raw skill and determination."
The words struck a chord in Sander. He glanced down at his hands, still raw from lifting crates, and thought of the deflated basketball waiting for him at home.
"Four months," he said quietly, his mind racing. "That's not much time."
The merchant tilted his head, his expression curious. "Planning to compete, are you?"
Sander met his gaze, his blue eyes steady. "What if I am?"
The merchant chuckled again, shaking his head. "You've got guts, Visione. I'll give you that. But you'll need more than guts to stand a chance. Those noble kids… they've been training their whole lives for this. They've got coaches, academies, money. You've got…"
"Nothing," Sander finished, his tone sharp.
"Didn't say that," the merchant said with a smirk. "You've got something they don't—hunger. And sometimes, that's enough."
When the last of the crates had been unloaded, the merchant handed Sander a small pouch of coins.
"Good work, boy," he said, clapping Sander on the shoulder. "You've earned it."
Sander accepted the payment with a nod, tucking the pouch into his satchel. "Thanks for the information."
The merchant grinned. "Don't mention it. And Visione…"
Sander paused, glancing back at him.
"If you do make it to the tournament," the merchant said, his tone more serious, "watch yourself, no matter what they tell you. People play dirty when pride and power are on the line."
"I'll keep that in mind," Sander replied, his voice calm but firm.
As the merchant turned back to his wagon, Sander's mind was already churning with plans. Four months. It wasn't much time, but it was enough to prepare—to train, to build his strength, and to figure out how to compete against kids who had every advantage money could buy.
As he walked back to the cottage, Sander's thoughts were sharper than ever. The tournament wasn't just an opportunity to prove himself—it was a chance to understand the world he had been thrust into. To test his aptitude, if he even had it. To see if he could still be the player he had once been.
Four months, he thought.
Sander clenched his fists, his stride quickening as the cottage came into view. He didn't have the luxury of waiting for fate to hand him opportunities. If the tournament was a door, then he'd break it down if he had to.
The evening air was cool as Sander stepped into the cottage, his satchel slung over his shoulder and his thoughts swirling. The merchant's words echoed in his mind—the tournament, the nobles, the enchanted gear. Four months wasn't long, but it was enough if he could make every moment count.
Inside, the hearth's flames cast flickering light across the small room. His mother was seated at the table, mending one of Theo's shirts, while his younger brother sat nearby, carving shapes into a piece of wood with a blunt knife.
Elias was standing by the hearth, his tall frame hunched slightly as he warmed his hands. He turned when he heard the door close, his silver hair catching the firelight.
"You're back," Elias said, his voice calm but weary. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten yourself lost."
"Just helping out in the square," Sander replied, his tone even.
Elias nodded, his sharp eyes studying his son. "You've been working hard lately," he said. "Carrying yourself differently. What's on your mind, Sander?"
The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Sander hesitated. He glanced at his mother and Theo, both of whom had paused their tasks to look at him.
"I need to talk to you," Sander said, meeting his father's gaze. "About the Tournament of Enlightenment."
Elias gestured toward the table, his expression unreadable. "Alright. Let's talk."
Sander sat down, placing his satchel on the floor beside him. His fingers brushed against the edge of the table as he took a deep breath, steadying himself.
"I've been hearing things," he began. "From the villagers, from a merchant in the square. They say the tournament is coming to Carna this year. That kids from all over the kingdom will be there."
Elias nodded slowly, his brows furrowing. "That's true. The tournament is held every year, but it's rare for a town like Carna to host it. This year's event will draw nobles, commoners, and academies from across Aurionvale. It's a big deal."
"I want to compete," Sander said, his voice steady.
The room fell silent. Isolde's sewing needle paused mid-stitch, and Theo's knife clattered softly against the wooden table. Elias leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable as he studied his son.
"You want to compete," Elias repeated, his tone carefully measured.
"Yes," Sander said firmly. "I've been training. I know I'm not strong enough yet, but I will be. I want to prove myself."
Elias's gaze didn't waver, but his jaw tightened slightly. "Do you understand what you're asking for?"
Sander nodded. "I know it won't be easy. The other kids will have more experience, more resources. But I'm not asking for it to be easy. I just need the chance to try."
Elias let out a slow breath, his hands resting on the table. "Sander, the Tournament of Enlightenment isn't just about skill. It's about standing out—being exceptional enough to catch the attention of the academies. The competition is fierce. Some of these kids have been training their whole lives for this.
"I know," Sander said, his voice unwavering.
"You'll be going up against nobles," Elias continued, his tone growing sharper. "Kids with everything handed to them, who've never had to fight for a thing in their lives. But they'll still be better prepared than you."
"Then I'll fight harder," Sander shot back.
Elias's brows furrowed, and he glanced at Isolde, who had remained quiet but was now watching the exchange with careful eyes.
"Sander," Elias said quietly, "You've been through a lot already. I don't want you to get hurt chasing something that might not be meant for you."
Before Sander could respond, Isolde spoke up, her voice calm but firm. "Elias," she said, her needle returning to its steady rhythm. "Let the boy explain why this matters to him."
Elias frowned, his gaze shifting back to Sander. "Alright," he said after a moment. "Why do you want this so badly?"
Sander straightened in his chair, his blue eyes steady. "It's my chance to prove that I'm more than what we've been reduced to. I don't care if I'm up against nobles or if they have better equipment. I'll make up for it with effort."
He glanced at his hands, pale and bruised from days of training. "I don't want to miss this to change our lives, If I have a chance to compete, to stand on that court, I have to take it."
The room fell silent. Isolde glanced at Elias, her expression unreadable, while Theo's eyes widened in awe.
Elias's expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "You're determined," he said quietly. "I can see that. But determination alone won't be enough."
"I know," Sander said. "That's why I've been training. I've been building my strength, working harder every day. And I'll keep working until the tournament."
"I can do it," Sander said firmly.
Elias was silent for a long moment, his sharp gaze fixed on his son. Finally, he nodded slowly. "If this is what you want, then I won't stop you. But if you're serious about this, you'll need more than training. You'll need to learn how to think like a player, how to strategize, how to adapt."
Sander's chest tightened with relief, but he kept his expression steady. "I will," he said.
Elias sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
That night, Sander sat by the hearth, the flickering flames casting shadows across his face. The deflated basketball rested in his lap, its worn leather a constant reminder of what he was working toward.
As the fire crackled softly, Sander clenched the ball tightly in his hands. He wasn't the same person he had been in his past life. His body was weak, his skills rusty, and his place in this world uncertain.
But he had something he hadn't fully appreciated before: time.
He stood slowly, his muscles still aching from the day's efforts, and placed the ball carefully beside the hearth.
The clearing behind the cottage waited for him in the morning, and the court in the woods called to him in the distance. Sander's journey was only beginning, but the path ahead burned bright with possibility.
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