The markets of Insomnia bustled with midday life. Stalls of ironmongers and cloth sellers crowded the avenues, their awnings fluttering in the breeze. Merchants barked prices, the clink of coins filled the air, and magitek trams hummed in the distance. To most, it was ordinary.
To Sirius, it was opportunity.
At his belt hung a small leather pouch. It jingled faintly with coin whenever he walked, nothing unusual to passersby. But the truth was different. The pouch was a cover — a prop. Before leaving home, he discreetly drew small amounts of Gil from his system's Inventory, slipping the coins into the pouch so it looked like he carried money like anyone else.
It was safer this way. If he walked into the markets and pulled Gil from nowhere, questions would come. The pouch gave him an alibi, a mask over his secret.
Inside, though, he knew the truth. The real weight of his Gil — the countless drops converted from hunts — lay hidden in the glowing depths of the system.
---
He fingered the pouch now as he threaded through the market crowd. The coins inside clinked softly, but it wasn't much. Barely enough for medicine if he bartered carefully. He had earned some Gil from Cor's supervised hunts, but that disappeared quickly at the pharmacist's counter.
It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
That night, lying in bed with bruises aching from training, Sirius stared at the ceiling and whispered: If I want to save her, I can't wait for scraps from Cor's missions. I need my own way.
---
The next morning, he set out.
He slipped through the city gates, pouch at his belt, offering the usual excuse of "extra training in the fields." The guards, used to the sight of the white-haired boy in Cor's company, paid him little attention.
Once outside the barrier, the landscape changed—open grasslands stretched beneath the sky, dotted with ruins and rocky outcroppings. The faint shimmer of daemon-wards gleamed in the distance.
Here, monsters prowled.
Sirius drew his katana from the system. It appeared in his grip with a shimmer of light, weight solid and familiar. He checked once more to ensure he was alone, then steadied his breath.
The hunt began.
---
At first, it was clumsy. His strikes were wide, his stances stiff. A sabertusk nearly gutted him when he stumbled, and he escaped with only a shallow scratch thanks to a frantic roll.
But failure only sharpened him. Resonance awakened.
By midday, his movements had adapted. He lured a pack of beasts into open ground, letting them circle before darting in. A slash to the leg dropped one, a parry turned aside another. His cuts were quick, his dodges instinctive.
When the last beast fell, Sirius stooped to collect the drops. Sabertusk fangs. Sharp claws. Hides. The system pulsed as it swallowed them into Inventory. Each one was coin in disguise, Gil waiting to be pulled into the pouch at his side.
He exhaled, gripping the pouch tighter. These will sell.
---
Days turned into weeks. Sirius built a rhythm.
Morning: school.
Afternoon: drills with Cor, sparring with Kael and Rhea.
Evening: hunts in Leide, katana flashing beneath the fading light.
Each night he returned with drops — fangs, horns, shells, and the rare shard that gleamed faintly in the dark. He converted some into Gil, storing most in his Inventory, and transferred only enough to refill the pouch. To Dominic and Lyla, it looked like he was spending allowance money or odd Gil from errands. The truth stayed hidden.
The old wooden chest in his room remained untouched. That was his fallback, a savings he refused to dip into unless Lyla's illness worsened beyond anything medicine could ease.
---
In the markets, Sirius learned who would buy.
A broad man with oil-stained hands paid fair coin for claws, claiming hunters bought them for training blades. A sharp-eyed woman traded Gil for sabertusk hides, muttering about coats. Another stall, lined with glowing vials, bought venom sacs and scorpion stingers with eagerness.
At first Sirius struggled, fumbling over words, flushing when merchants mocked his stiff haggling. But he adapted there too. He learned how they tested items, when they undervalued him, when to push harder. His frown became sharper, his silence heavier, and the laughter dwindled.
"Boy, you've got steady supply," one merchant said after his third visit. "Training to be a hunter?"
Sirius only offered a faint smile and said nothing.
---
One evening, he stopped at the pharmacist after selling his haul. Lyla's medicine lay neatly wrapped, faint herbal scent drifting from the paper.
The apothecary, an old man with lined eyes, raised a brow. "You come here often for one so young. Buying for your mother, are you?"
Sirius hesitated, then nodded.
The man sighed, voice soft. "A good son. But don't push yourself too far. Money won't mean anything if you break before she gets better."
Sirius bowed, clutching the package. The words bit deep, but he said nothing.
---
At home, Lyla greeted him with her warm smile, though her cheeks were pale. He handed her the medicine, hiding the soreness in his arms.
She brushed his white hair back with thin fingers. "You're working so hard, Sirius. I can see it in your eyes."
He forced a smile. "I want to help."
She pulled him into her arms, fragile but steady. "You already do."
The words nearly broke him. He held her tighter, guilt clawing at his chest. If she knew the truth, would she still smile like this?
---
The routine hardened him. His swings grew sharper, his stamina stretched further. Even Kael and Rhea began to notice.
"You've been practicing," Rhea teased after he countered one of her feints with speed.
Kael's gaze lingered, suspicious. "Practicing more than Cor gives you time for, I think."
Sirius only shrugged. Inside, he guarded the truth. His pouch, his Gil, his secret hunts — these were his burden alone.
---
One night, standing outside the barrier with the pouch at his side, Sirius looked down at the coins within. Just ordinary metal, nothing like the endless numbers glowing inside the system. Yet they were enough to keep suspicion away, enough to buy medicine without raising questions.
He whispered into the dark: "This is for you, Mom. All of it."
His red eyes glinted with determination.
He would keep farming. Keep bleeding. Keep refilling the pouch so the world never knew.
The markets might never see the truth. The Guard might never notice his shadow work.
But Lyla would breathe easier.
And that was enough.