I Need to Make Money (2)
Impossible. It shouldn't be possible. No way. How long had it been since it gobbled up all those mana stones? And it was already whining about being hungry again? Not to mention, the only exertion in between was dragging that moss and dirt sack around. Zero mana consumption, basically.
—Wrrrr!
Sleep vanished in an instant. I bolted upright in bed and unwound the bandages on my left arm.
"Hey, cut the bullshit for real."
Slurp. As if mocking my warning, a red eyeball popped up on my bare forearm, rolling lazily. Dusty blinked—closed once, then opened—and scanned the room before locking onto one spot.
My backpack in the corner, precious and preserved. More precisely, the Minotaur mana stone worth 25 gold coins tucked deep inside.
"Wanna die?"
I jabbed the eye with my finger, shoving it back in. The vibrations in my left arm calmed a bit, but the hunger signal persisted.
"Hold on… I'll find something else quick…"
Was this how frantic parents felt, scrambling to mix formula when their newborn wailed in the dead of night? Yeah, except I had to go hunt for Dusty's chow at this hour.
Let's think. What to feed it? I ran through everything it'd eaten before.
First, geometric equations. Yeah, it once slurped up the ones from Zepeto's geometry textbook, even tattooing irezumi on my arm. But that was it. No matter how I shoved other books or scribbled formulas in its face afterward, it wouldn't touch them. Rejected.
Next, shadows. Plenty around at night. But our picky gourmet Dusty only goes for organic shadows grown deep in the forest under midnight evergreens. No way to find that in a city. Shadows rejected.
Next. The scratch of a quill on parchment. More like a side dish than a staple—snack level, really. And even then, it was choosy; only my sincere, pressed-hard scratches counted. Ah, fuck, this thing is such a pain in the ass.
Irritation surged. To douse the immediate fire, I pulled out parchment and scribbled furiously. With real intent. The content? How I shouldn't chop off my left arm.
But even scratching all night wouldn't make a dent. To fix the root hunger, only two options left: eyes or screams.
Neither feasible smack in the middle of this clean, safe western district. Way harder to snag wild rats or foxes here than in the rural woods.
So, the remaining path was…
Sigh…
I pondered deeply, then rose from bed.
No choice, huh.
I glanced to confirm Evel was out cold, then dressed quietly. The pitch-black robe from the clothing shop earlier, covering everything. Hood pulled low, I'd melt right into the night shadows easy.
What a hassle this is.
I crept carefully to the window so as not to wake Evel, then slowly slid it open.
Mana lamps blazing day and night, pristine marble roads. Only the occasional lazy footsteps of guards echoing in the pre-dawn western district.
Into that serene, peaceful street slipped an alien shadow.
A figure cloaked head to toe in inky black robe. Footsteps faint, almost inaudible. But the most striking feature was the face peering from under the hood: eyes curved like a crescent moon, cheekbones hiked high, a wooden mask grinning ear-to-ear in eerie delight.
In the hazy dawn air, the masked enigma strolled leisurely away from the brightly lit affluent quarter.
Thud, thud.
Soon the marble gave way to squelching mud—the district's edge. But the gaze beyond the mask aimed deeper still: the reeking depths of the slums' back alleys.
After wandering the darkness a while, a crumbling brick building came into view at a dead-end alley untouched by light.
The masked one descended the narrow basement stairs without hesitation.
Creeeak—
A blast of thick tobacco and booze stench hit upon opening the door. Eyes turned.
Jet-black robe. Grotesque mask.
"What the—ain't that the kid who came with the noisy gold-leaf mask last time?"
"Wearing that freaky thing again."
Ignoring the murmurs, the masked figure beelined for the counter. The master—half his face a burn-scarred ruin—paused wiping a glass and grunted.
"No circus ringmaster today? Solo act?"
"Got a job for me."
The voice from behind the mask was warped, grotesque. Wood's resonance? Or mana mixed in on purpose? It grated metallic and androgynous, impossible to peg as man or woman.
Of course, she'd disguised herself thoroughly, but the subtle curves peeking from the robe's hem betrayed her femininity.
The master didn't call it out.
"…This ain't a cozy matchmaking service. We just offer light insurance against bad deals. Want a partner? Find one yourself."
He jerked his chin at the rough crowd filling the tavern.
The mask nodded silently and turned.
Indifferent eyes beyond swept the room, and the voice intoned:
"Any jobs?"
Not a soul replied, like a lie. Even in the underbelly, a baseline credit existed. No one nods eagerly to some masked weirdo barging in demanding gigs off the bat. Especially one seeming clueless about street ways.
The mask stood stock-still in the hush. Some glanced then back to their cards; others coughed and sipped ale.
Yet eyes lingered. Interest flickered in their gazes.
Sloppily bundled robe. Hints of a slender, unripe figure beneath. And that voice, scraped raw like a veteran night assassin.
To these seasoned thugs, the mysterious masked girl was fresh entertainment.
"Hey, if you're taking jobs, at least say if it's warehouse heists, smuggling, or whoring it out. Gotta specify the type so folks know whether to bite."
Finally, a merc couldn't hold his curiosity, chuckling as he spoke up. Nearby grins agreed.
Not mockery or bait—just crude underbelly banter, advice for newbies.
The mask met their stares steadily, then rasped back:
"Need to pluck some eyes."
The air shifted.
She pressed her right hand firm on her left arm, continuing:
"From someone worthless, who deserves to die. No one would care."
Silence fell.
Even the chuckling merc coughed awkwardly, averting eyes. Not squeamish about murder—killings were routine in the eastern outskirts. But folks chasing twisted goals over cash or goods? Never turned out sane.
Street vets dodged faces that screamed "trouble" on instinct.
"Who dragged this one in?"
"That loud screamer from before?"
"Ugh, told ya switch to referrals. Letting anyone in attracts weirdos."
Murmurs rose. Tension stretched as no one stepped up.
"Kid."
Thick tobacco scent. A languid, sticky whisper in her ear.
The mask turned slowly toward the voice.
"You're a fun one, aren't you?"
In the tavern's darkest corner, untouched by light: a woman in a wide-brimmed hat, long pipe in hand, eyeing the grinning mask with delight.
"Glad we meet again. Come, sit."
The mask stared a beat, then approached the corner table with deliberate steps.
The room watched their pairing with subtle expressions. That pipe-smoking woman? One of their "trouble" types too.
Trouble meets trouble. Intriguing, but no one crashed the convo. Just sly glances.
"Nice voice. Missed it last time—you were all quiet. Grotesque, monstrous. Perfect fit."
"Skip the chit-chat. Job or no?"
Her brusque retort only amused the woman more; she tapped her pipe.
"Could, but your ask's tricky."
"How so?"
"'Deserving' targets? Too many in this game—hard to pick. Point out some rando, and if it's the guy behind you nursing ale? Awkward for everyone."
She smiled lazily, glancing at the crowd. A few flinched away.
"Then something like the gold-mask gig last time."
"Raid a crime gang's stash? Plenty. Whatcha want?"
She slid a bundle of folded parchments from her bosom across the table.
The mask skimmed them irritably: scrawled underworld slang, gang names, unfamiliar outskirts spots.
Clueless, she scratched her masked nape.
"…Whatever."
That lax reply drew a stifled snort from the woman.
"Alright, I'll pick. Any special requests? You click with me—I'll tailor to your tastes."
The mask pondered silently, then rasped:
"Big, varied screams."
Someone nearly spat their ale; eavesdroppers choked it back.
Eyes after plucking? Now loud, diverse screams. Everyone inwardly vowed: Steer clear of that freak.
All but one.
"…Hmm."
She slowly removed the pipe from her lips. Smoke drifted low and slow over the table.
Her eyes narrowed under the hat brim, brimming with dark fascination on the mask.
Even under that sticky scrutiny, the sunken eyes beyond the manic grin remained impassive.
"…Heh heh heh."
The woman's lips cracked into a sly tear.
This kid… I like her.