The pawn shop's door creaked as Arin entered. The musty scent of rusted relics, worn armor, and stale magic powder hit him like a wave. Behind the counter sat Old Man Belgar, a man with a twisted back, sharper tongue, and eyes that had seen more broken dreams than sold wares.
Belgar glanced up from his ledger. "Still breathing, brat?"
Arin tossed the RedHorn fragment onto the counter. "This fetch anything?"
Belgar raised an eyebrow, picked up the fragment, and turned it under the light. A faint glimmer of mana shimmered along its edge.
"Hmph. It's cracked, but still potent. Someone might want it for ornamental crap. Thirty silvers."
Arin's jaw tightened. "Make it fifty. I almost died getting that."
"You look like you did die."
They stared at each other. Belgar finally sighed, threw a coin pouch across the counter. "Forty, and that's me being generous. Don't come crawling back if your lungs give out in a week."
Arin took the pouch without another word. Forty silvers. Enough to buy two days' worth of medicine… or get his artifact blade's core recharged for another three or four missions.
He stepped outside, the morning sun now hot against his skin. His steps were heavy. Even with the money, nothing truly changed. His parents were still weak, the house crumbling, and his future nonexistent.
That night, he sat outside on the roof, the city lights flickering like a field of dying fireflies. He opened the palm of his hand, staring at the faint scar where the lightning had struck him.
Nothing had happened since.
No awakening. No new power. No divine voice in his head. Just silence.
Was it just… lightning? he wondered.
But something in his body stirred as the wind blew across his burnt skin—a thrum, almost like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him.
A distant memory of the snake. The eagle's sudden disappearance. The burnt ground.
He looked up at the stars.
"If something did change… I'll make it mine. Even if I have to bleed for it."