Ideas

"Do you know when I can leave?" Max asked, glancing at Gerry.

"Anytime you want," Gerry replied with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. "Not like we're holdin' you hostage."

Max swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his weight. A sudden wave of dizziness hit him, forcing him to grip the bed frame for support.

"Easy there, champ," Gerry said, amused. "Might wanna make sure your legs still work before sprintin' outta here."

Max took a steadying breath. "I'm good. I'm good." He straightened up, shaking off the momentary weakness.

Gerry gave him a once-over before exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "If you say so." He took another drag from his cigarette, then added, "Your stuff's with the secretary at the front desk. Just give 'em your name, and they'll hand it over."

Max nodded. "Got it."

Gerry smirked. "Try not to faceplant on the way there, yeah?"

"I could tank it," Max shot back, rolling his shoulders.

Gerry chuckled. "Don't doubt that. Just don't make it a habit."

The two made their way to the front desk.

"Max."

"Give me a second," the clerk muttered, standing up and disappearing into a room behind the desk.

A few minutes later, he returned with a storage cube, setting it down before opening it.

Max reached inside and pulled out a check. "More hush money?"

Gerry let out a low chuckle. "Call it what you want. I call it a bonus for not dyin'."

"Sweet," Max said. 

"Guess you'll be off then?" Gerry said, exhaling a thin trail of smoke as he watched Max gather his things.

"Yeah," Max replied, slipping the check into his pocket. "Gotta make sure this never happens again."

Gerry gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he offered a half-smile. "Good. Just remember—being careful don't mean bein' scared. Means bein' smart."

Max paused, then nodded back. "Thanks, Gerry."

"Anytime, kid." Gerry flicked his cigarette into a nearby tray, the ember hissing out. 

Max waved and walked out of the infirmary, his body still weak but feeling better than it had been. He pulled out his phone, dialing Silas as he made his way down the hospital corridor.

"Silas. I have loot," Max said, his voice steady, though exhaustion still lingered in his tone.

"Did you even get remotely close to your goal?" Silas asked, sounding skeptical.

"I got a 100,000 credit check. And monsters," Max replied, his pace slowing as he reached the front door of the hospital. The sunlight felt harsh after the dim interior, but he stepped outside into the fresh air.

"Woah. What did you do to earn that?" Silas asked, genuine surprise in his voice.

"Would have my head if I said," Max replied, his mind drifting back to the chaos he'd just endured.

"Like that, huh?" Silas chuckled. "I'm not in town at the moment, so please take the cube and riches to the bartender where we met. He'll keep it safe."

Max looked up at the sky for a moment, trying to decide. "Yeah, I'll just hand over my riches to some random dude to watch over."

"You're trusting a random dude to put your money into stocks," Silas pointed out, amused.

"…Guess so," Max said, his tone dry. "Have fun out of town."

"All of the fun," Silas responded, still teasing.

Max hung up and let out a slow breath. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and, after a moment of hesitation, pulled the black market mask out of his jacket. He put it on before heading down the street, knowing the bar was just a short walk away. Time to deliver the goods.

"I need you to store some items for Silas," Max said as he approached the counter.

The bartender looked him over, then gave a simple nod. "Alright."

Max handed him the cube and the check without another word.

Max adjusted the black market mask over his face as he stepped into the dimly lit bar. The underground market always buzzed with hushed tones and sharp glances—places like this didn't welcome familiarity. They welcomed silence and discretion.

He approached the bar, the familiar figure of the bartender giving him a small nod.

"I need you to store items for Silas," Max said, his voice slightly muffled behind the mask.

"Alright," the bartender replied without hesitation, already reaching for the secure storage registry behind the counter.

Max pulled out the storage cube and the check, placing them on the bar.

The bartender examined both, gave another silent nod, and tucked them away.

Without another word, Max turned on his heel and walked out, his footsteps echoing lightly against the worn stone floor of the underground alley. As he reached the exit, he stepped into the early evening light aboveground. The oppressive air of the market behind him, Max pulled off the black market mask and slipped it into his storage cube.

He exhaled slowly, blinking against the fading sun.

He felt… good. Or, at least, good enough considering everything that had just happened. A boatload of money was coming his way soon. That was something.

But even with all the gains, one truth lingered in his mind.

He was still weak.

'Talked like I was hitting a wall with my training,' Max thought, walking down the street. 'I didn't even get close to it. I got cocky. Just because I have a 5-star sword manual doesn't mean I'm untouchable.'

His jaw tightened.

The memory of the demon was still fresh—too fresh. The difference in power had been overwhelming.

Max shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling defeated. As he walked back to the school, the sounds of students talking and laughing surrounded him, but he didn't pay them any mind. He passed by groups gathered in the courtyard, one of them including Evelynn and Skylar talking in the distance. They were laughing about something, but Max barely noticed as he walked past, his mind consumed by everything that had happened.

When he finally reached his dorm, he shut the door behind him and locked it with a soft click.

Max sat down at his desk and pulled out his notebook, flipping to the next page. He stared at the blank lines, deep in thought.

'Besides my manual, how else can I improve my combat skills? I can keep training, but it takes time to get stronger. Skills are an option, but they're incredibly rare and cost a fortune. Not to mention, it's hard to find someone willing to sell them...' Max thought, his pen tapping the notebook's surface.

His mind raced as he considered the possibilities, but nothing concrete came to mind. The reality of his limitations gnawed at him.

Max's eyes lit up as a thought struck him, and he immediately scribbled it down in his notebook.

'Gadgets... That's how... But what would I use?' Max thought, his mind racing.

A few minutes passed as he sat there, jotting down potential ideas. His pen scratched the paper as he brainstormed. Smoke bombs came to mind first—something simple but effective for escaping or disorienting an opponent. Then there was dynamite, a little more extreme, but certainly useful in the right circumstances. Throwing knives were another idea, allowing for quick strikes from a distance. Max also considered robots—small, nimble ones that could act as distractions or scouts. And finally, custom designs; he could create something unique, tailored to his fighting style.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the list. Each option seemed promising in its own way.