A deal that wasn't one

Dion held the contract in his hand, the ink of Selene's signature still fresh. He stared at it for a long moment, the weight of it sinking in.

I got what I wanted.

The words should have felt satisfying, but they didn't. This wasn't victory. It was just another step.

With a sharp breath, he folded the contract and tucked it away, pushing himself into motion. He still had a lot to prepare, after all.

After a little bit of walking, he reached the entrance of his house.

Stepping inside, he was greeted with silence.

Dion sighed, his eyes sweeping the small, cluttered space. His sword—if it could still be called that—rested in the corner where he had left it. He picked it up, feeling the familiar grip in his hand, but when he drew it from its worn sheath, the sight made his stomach sink.

The blade was a mess. The edge was chipped beyond simple sharpening, the balance ruined by months of overuse. This thing had seen too many fights, too many desperate hunts. He ran a thumb against the dull metal and sighed.

I can't use this.

He needed something else.

His fingers twitched, and with a mental command, his Oracle interface flickered to life. The status screen glowed in his vision, revealing exactly what he had to work with.

His points were barely enough to eat, let alone buy a weapon.

Dion exhaled sharply and shut the interface.

He looked around a little before finding a leftover hard piece of bread he had left behind before his last hunt. Thank the heavens this thing hardly spoils. Not like he loved eating the stone-like thing, but it would suffice for now.

After filling his stomach with the little bread and a lot of water, he stepped out of his house again for the second time that day.

The streets of RidgeFort were restless, as always. Vendors called out their prices, mercenaries bartered, and the distant scent of decently cooked meat gnawed at his suffering stomach.

Dion ignored it—until his own body refused to. His steps slowed as he passed by a familiar food stall, the aroma hitting him like a physical force. What was the assurance he'd last on just that little bread? Who knew how many days it might take to destroy the nest?

His points flickered in his mind. He could either eat or gamble everything on a weapon.

His stomach clenched.

A few minutes later, he sat at the edge of the street, finishing a plate of roasted meat and bread. His funds were reduced to a joke now, but at least he wouldn't collapse mid-fight.

Standing up from the food stall, he headed straight to the weapons shop.

The shop was exactly as he remembered—cramped, dimly lit, and filled with weapons that ranged from decent to blatantly overpriced. The owner, a thick-set man with greying hair, barely glanced up as Dion entered.

"Took you long enough."

Dion didn't respond. He went straight to the weapon racks, scanning for anything within his range—though deep down, he already knew the answer.

Even the worst blades here were beyond what he could afford.

"Tch."

His jaw tightened. He had expected this, but seeing it with his own eyes made it worse.

He was about to leave when the shopkeeper finally spoke.

"Wait."

Dion stilled.

The man leaned forward, arms resting on the counter, a smirk curling his lips. "I'll make you an offer. Take a weapon now, pay me double when you return."

Dion narrowed his eyes. He had bought weapons from this man before—when he still had enough to afford them. This wasn't kindness.

"…Why?"

The man shrugged. "You buy swords. You break swords. You always come back. Either you die, or I make a profit."

There it was.

Dion didn't like it. But he didn't have a choice.

"Fine."

The man grinned. "Good. Then follow me."

Dion knew that type of smile. He had survived enough ordeals to know when he was about to be swindled.

He expected to be led to the usual weapon racks. Instead, the shopkeeper guided him through a narrow doorway at the back, into a smaller, less organized room.

Blades were stacked against the walls, some wrapped in cloth, others rusting in their scabbards.

"These aren't for sale," the shopkeeper said.

Dion's lips thinned.

"Pick one."

Dion's gaze swept across the room. Some weapons were too damaged to be usable. Others looked fine, but he knew better than to trust appearances.

He reached for a slender, curved blade—only for the shopkeeper to casually nudge another weapon closer to him. A subtle movement, almost unnoticeable.

Dion's fingers hesitated.

Something about the act gnawed at him.

Was it intentional? Did it matter?

His mind knew better, but his instincts—it was a small push, an unconscious suggestion that made him second-guess his first choice.

He chose the nudged blade.

The moment his hand closed around the hilt, the shopkeeper chuckled.

"That's yours now."

Dion frowned, gripping the sword tighter. Had he just been played?

But he knew he might as well keep quiet. It would be to his disadvantage if the shopkeeper decided to withdraw his offer.

The shopkeeper might not know it, but after he completed the task, he'd surely have more than enough to pay—and maybe even buy a better sword.

This one just had to last until then.

He strapped the sword to his side, refusing to show hesitation, and turned back toward the exit.