"Wake up, fucker."
Knock.
Lythian knocked the door, but he made sure it was not hard enough to break the damn thing. The wood was old, so he did it just loud enough for Seven to hear.
'Wake up!"
Knock.
But there was no response.
Normally, Seven would have opened the door already and bore his cold, blank stare over Lythian, but he didn't.
He glanced at his key.
Same.
All the rooms had the same key.
'Fuck. Isn't this illegal?'
It wasn't normal. The key. The inn. But then again, Seven's silence when Lythian was knocking and yelling 'Fucker!' outside the door repeatedly was also not normal.
Clink.
Lythian slid the key into the doorknob and turned it over.
Creak.
The old and shabby door creaked open, and the sound was the same as someone groaning in pain.
Lythian pushed it, slowly. He was careful not to send the whole door flopping over.
But when it finally opened, he couldn't help but let out a curse.
"What the… fuck?!"
Seven was already up.
Fully dressed.
He sat by the rickety table, combing his blackish-brown hair. His gray clothes—bought yesterday under the excuse of 'necessary' and 'basic necessities' were neat and not a single wrinkle in sight.
Lythian blinked as Seven adjusted the cuffs of his long-sleeved polo.
"Why the fuck didn't you answer?"
Seven didn't look up. He just buttoned his clothes.
"Why'd you barge in? Thief."
"Fucker. If you were awake, you could've just said something."
Silence.
Seven kept on buttoning his polo.
"Hey!"
"Shut up, thief."
Seven looked at him, briefly, before undoing the top button of the polo to look a little formal.
"Was I required to say something?"
"You fuc— Sigh."
Lythian gave up, as he himself knew he couldn't win the argument. Instead, he just sat on the bed.
Creak.
But as he did, the bed let out a slow and long creak that made him stand up immediately.
"The fuck is wrong with your bed?"
"..."
Step.
Lythian just leaned against the wall instead.
For a moment, he said nothing but just watch Seven comb his hair and scratch it with his hand again, struggling to find the right hairstyle.
After a while, Seven finally decided on a hairstyle.
'Fudge this.'
He thought, staring at his messy hair. Literally. He just messed it up with his fingers randomly.
'It's not like I have someone to impress.'
Putting the comb and a small, broken mirror above the rickety-table, he stood up and looked towards Lythian.
"What's with the hurry?"
Lythian was no different. He, too, was already well-dressed in a black attire. No. Calling it well-dressed was overkill as it was just a fancy black cloak with a hoodie.
"You sure really are popular."
It was the same words Lythian said yesterday back in the merchant street.
"Popular?"
"How many fans do—"
"Don't fudge with me. What is it?"
"Tch. Buzzkill."
Clicking his tongue, Lythian walked towards the door.
"Follow me."
"..."
Seven hesitated. He didn't like being ordered around—especially by the one he binded through the Oath as his subordinate.
But there wasn't a choice.
Slinging his worn leather bag over his shoulder, he stepped out of the room.
Step.
The wooden floor groaned with each step he took. As he made his way down the creaky staircase, his foot nearly slipped.
Luckily, he caught himself just in time.
Below, Lythian was already sprawled lazily on a chair, tossing a coin in the air while nodding toward the gruff-looking innkeeper.
Unlike yesterday, when the innkeeper barely acknowledged their presence, today, he actually looked up.
"Name?"
"Why?"
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow as he twirled a pen between his fingers.
"Transaction history."
"..."
Seven's gaze flicked past him and looked towards a wooden shelf behind the counter. A box sat there with no label, except a single note.
He understood it then.
"Seven."
"Last name?"
"...Don't have one."
For a second, the innkeeper hesitated. But Seven's expression held no lie, so he just scribbled his first name down. His pen dragged across the paper, landing on, coincidentally, the seventy-seventh row.
<77. Seven - Two packages>
As Seven looked at the words written in the paper, he also knew why the innkeeper's attitude changed.
'One Sevtic is enough to make a man happy, huh?'
Again, the rent Seven and Lythian paid was ten Sevtals, and that was for five days. But with a package meant for him, the innkeeper earned a Sevtic in an instant.
Paying fees wasn't actually required, as all inns are interconnected with some network and it was their responsibility to deliver the packages for the tenants.
But there are instances where they will hide the packages and act foolish as they find it a hassle, so fees exist for them to complete the tasks.
It's more like a tip asfees depends on how much the sender is willing to give as long as it is reasonable.
'System. Date.'
[Date: 53rd Day of the Seventh Season, Year 775.]
Seven smiled.
It was the reason why he woke up earlier than usual, dressed properly, made an effort to smooth his hair—though it stubbornly refused to match his style so he just messed it up.
'Seventeen.'
A birthday.
Back on Earth, it had never meant much. No one celebrated it.
Not the man who fathered him, the seventh mayor of his district, or any of the seven stepfathers that came after.
Not even friends.
…Because he didn't have any.
So he thought that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to acknowledge it, at least in this life.
"Hah!"
With a tired exhale, the innkeeper finished scribbling on the record sheet, then turned to the wooden shelf behind him.
He pulled out a small package, dusting it off before setting it on the counter.
"Happy Birthday, Seven."
Seven blinked as the words felt strange, especially coming from a total stranger.
But as his gaze flicked to the simple note attached— Happy Birthday, Seven —he didn't reject the sentiment.
"…Thanks."
Taking the package, he turned and made his way to the table where Lythian sat.
Lythian didn't say anything. Didn't even give him a glance. He just stared at the package in Seven's hands.
"You really have a lot of fans."
Seven ignored him and carefully unwrapped the package.
Inside was a neatly folded black outfit—a fitted high-collared tunic, tailored pants, and a black cape with a silver clasp.
But before he could inspect it further, the innkeeper walked over, balancing a tray in one hand.
"Breakfast."
Meals didn't come with the cost of lodging, so Lythian had ordered earlier—there was only one menu.
On the tray sat a plate of warm rye bread, a small dish of honeyed figs, and a bowl of hearty stew—thick with root vegetables.
"..."
"..."
Munch.
Neither spoke as they ate.
The meal was quiet. Not awkward, just… quiet.
Even after they finished, they sat there with no words exchanged. Just the occasional creak of wood as one of them shifted.
Then, finally, Lythian stood, stretching his arms before nodding toward the door.
"The Academy's registration is only until today, right?"
Seven, however, got to his feet and turned toward the stairs.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
"To change."
"..."
Seven stepped onto the first creaky stair, but just as he did—
"…Happy birthday."
For a moment, Seven paused. But he didn't turn back nor acknowledge it. He simply walked past the stairs.
But he smiled.
This was his first time actually acknowledging his own birthday, so it meant something. Even if it came from the innkeeper, Lythian, and the unknown person who sent him the gift.
"…Thanks."
No one heard his thanks.
Except himself.