Chapter 6: Cost of 5000

Later…

His eyes slowly blinked open, and it caught the intense sunlight on the open window. With shock, he jolted awake.

'Was this… a dream?'

His eyes flicked to his wrist. The Quill-brand on his palm faded into a scar.

Suddenly–

Whoosh!

A soft breeze slipped through the small gap of the window, yet the voices of the wind were louder than usual, like a strong gust that pierced directly into both of his very ears.

Then came the sounds. The metallic scrape of plates in the sink, the rush of water gushing too loudly and too close. Arwyn pressed his palms to his temples, trying to block it out, but the noise burrowed deeper, relentless.

"What the hell…" His voice was hoarse, but his face crunched in a struggling expression.

And slowly, the disharmony faded, and there was an ominous silence. It was his room he rested at, taking in the same figurines and models that displayed at his mounted shelves. Without a word, he stood up and checked on himself in the mirror.

He was wearing the same pair of clothes he had. Arwyn sniffed it, and quickly turned his face back. It reeked of stale sweat and damp fabric.

"Goodness. I have to change." He told himself, immediately feeling the oiliness of the sweat as he took his shirt off. He grabbed a clean shirt, only to notice dust particles swirling in the light.

His gaze darted across the room, catching the shine of dust motes suspended mid-air. It was a detail he'd never noticed before.

'My room has never been this dusty.' He thought, thinking that perhaps it hadn't been cleaned for days now. In reality, Nathaniel had just cleaned it hours ago, and it was evident from how the light glinted from one of Arwyn's sword models.

He ignored it anyway, changing to his shirt, and he then opened the door.

At the other side of his view was Nathaniel, who just finished washing the plates as Arwyn went outside his room. He quickly noticed, and with a side-eying glare, he smirked.

"You look like shit," Nathaniel said, tossing Arwyn a protein bar with such speed.

It travelled through the room like a dart, but–

Pak!

Arwyn caught it, the sound of plastic banging against his hand. His lips parted slightly. "WHAT THE–"

"5,000 poules rewired your nervous system. Congrats." Nathaniel smirked of success, hanging the knife onto the dish rack. The sounds of metal clanging the glass vibrated.

Arwyn's gaze rapidly turned back to Nathaniel. "Damn. Quick reflexes now?" With a disbelieving chuckle, he sat at the dining table as Nathaniel tidied up.

"Among other things." Nathaniel wiped his hands on a dishcloth, his grin widening. "Also, you've been snoring loud enough to scare off pigeons."

"Oh really?" Arwyn took a bite of the bar. "Means I got good sleep. Finally…"

He nodded exaggeratingly. "You've got good sleep indeed."

Arwyn smiled, taking another bite. "You counted?"

He leaned back against the wall with a mischievous look. "Yeah. I did count."

"How many hours?"

"68."

Arwyn laughed. "Very funny Nate. How many hours?"

"68 hours." Nathaniel pointed to the calendar, 3 days more were marked in red. "I'm not lying."

Arwyn's laugh faded to a dark expression. He abruptly stood up and checked his phone.

12:40 pm

Friday, March 1.

'Three days… That's why my clothes smelled like dried sweat…' Arwyn was a guy with frequent delayed reactions.

…

His eyes widened.

…

His hands shook, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Three days..?"

Nathaniel just wiped his hands with the hanging wipe cloth with such casualty. "What's wrong with 3 days worth of–"

"Can't you shut up just a bit?" His voice sharply cut the air. "My project's past due!" Arwyn's voice cracked, his hands trembling as he scrolled through his school app. "It's 50% of my fucking grade!"

Nathaniel leaned against the counter, unfazed. "Priorities, kid. You've got bigger problems than homework."

"Bigger problems?!" Arwyn's laugh was brittle. "Like what?!"

Nathaniel's gaze flicked to the Quill-scar on Arwyn's palm. "Like staying alive."

Now that he realized it, that his Passion Energy had increased significantly, it'd only make sense if more Erasures would be attracted by his presence. 

5000 poules was around three times his initial, meaning…

Three times the Erasures.

Arwyn dropped the phone from stress, rattling to the floor, and he then closed his eyes for a moment.

"Did I at least… get stronger?"

Nathaniel smirked with excitement. "Check it for yourself."

The sound of keys jangling at the front door made them both freeze. Nathaniel immediately resumed his housekeeping act, while Arwyn grabbed his sketchbook and slid it under a pile of mail on the counter.

"Act normal." Nathaniel whispered.

Marco Delacroix trudged in, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, dark circles framing bloodshot eyes. Along with him was a girl with blonde hair, and looked around the same age as Marco.

"Dad," Arwyn straightened, surprised. "You're back early. And with Aunt Ria?"

Marco grunted, dropping his coat on a chair. "Auction preparations. Need to finalize my piece." He glanced at Nathaniel. "House looks decent. Thanks."

Nathaniel bowed slightly. "Just doing my job, sir."

Ria slid onto a stool at the counter, kicking her boots up like she owned the place. She eyed Arwyn, then snorted. "You smell like a zoo. What'd you do, hibernate?"

Arwyn scowled, but a grin tugged at his lips. He ignored her question. "Nice to see you too, Ria. What's with the clipboard? Auction turning you into a secretary now?"

"Assistant curator, thank you very much," she shot back, tapping the clipboard with a pen. "Your father's just… hopeless without me. If I weren't here, he'd sell a masterpiece for a bag of chips." 

She smirked, sipping her thermos. "Besides, someone's got to keep those spoiled brats from pecking at his soul tomorrow night."

Marco's gaze drifted to Arwyn, narrowing slightly. "You look... different."

Arwyn swallowed, acutely aware of his father's scrutiny. Could Marco sense the change in him? Did he somehow know about the Dream Sketching?

"Just... got more sleep," he lied.

Marco seemed unconvinced but too tired to press further. "The auction's tomorrow night."

The auction. They needed to come, it was their chance to get the ring back from Cedric.

"Can I come?" Arwyn asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Marco's eyebrows shot up. "You? At an art auction? Since when do you care about 'pretentious price-gouging of mediocre paintings'?" He quoted Arwyn's past complaints perfectly.

Arwyn scrambled for an excuse. "Well… I've been thinking about my future. Maybe I should know more about the art world if I want to do something with my sketches."

He studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Fine. Wear something decent. And try not to insult any of the buyers."

Ria laughed, twirling her pen. "Oh please, let him insult them. I'd pay a good amount of money to see those rich bastards choke on their champagne when you call their avant-garde a piece of shit."

"Oh, and can Nate come as well?" Arwyn jerked a thumb at Nathaniel.

Marco blinked at Arwyn, then at Nathaniel, who was still scrubbing that spoon like it owed him money. "The housekeeper? Why?"

Arwyn shrugged, playing it cool despite the sweat prickling his neck. "He's… uh, got an eye for art. Might spot a deal." Total bullshit, but he'd sell it.

Ria snorted, pen hovering over her clipboard. "Oh, splendid. The dust man's now a connoisseur. Shall we fetch him a monocle and a pipe too?" She smirked, dry as hell, then jotted something down. "Fine, bring him. Just don't let him bid on a mop and call it avant-garde."

Nathaniel's lips twitched, but he kept his head down, all "yes, sir" vibes. Marco just grunted, too tired to argue. "Whatever. Ria, let's sort the catalog. I can't find the damn frame list."

"Probably because you left it under your sad excuse for a sandwich yesterday," Ria quipped, hopping off the stool. She waved her thermos like a scepter. "To the studio, then. Chop chop, Marco, those paintings won't price themselves."

They shuffled off. Marco muttered about "overpriced smudges" while Ria's clipboard clacked against her hip. The door to Marco's studio clicked shut, muffled voices leaking through. The auction prep was in full swing.

Arwyn exhaled, hard. The air buzzed his skin, his scar, everything. He glanced at Nathaniel, who'd ditched the spoon and was now leaning against the counter, arms crossed, smirking like he knew stuff was about to pop off.

"What?" Arwyn snapped, snatching his sketchbook from under the mail pile.

Nathaniel's grin widened. "You're itching, kid. 5,000 poules humming in your veins. Gonna test it, or just sit there twitching?"

Arwyn's eyes narrowed, but Nathaniel was right, he was itching. That bar catch, the wind screaming in his ears. Something was different. 

Stronger. 

He flipped the sketchbook open, pencil already in hand. "Watch me."

He didn't wait for a nod. The pencil hit the page, sharp, steady. A katana. Long blade, curved just right, hilt wrapped in crisscross leather. He'd drawn a million of these, but this time? This time it felt… alive before it even was. 

No sloppy lines, no "good enough." Every stroke snapped into place, like the paper was begging for it.

Nathaniel slid closer, silent for once, green eyes tracking every move. No quips, no roast. Just watching, arms still crossed, like a sensei.

Arwyn's chest tightened, not from strain, just… focus. He shaded the blade, glinting steel in his head, then slammed his palm down. 

Hard.

A flash. Yellow, hot.

It burst from the page. The sketchbook jolted, and there it was: The katana, ripping out of the paper like it'd been waiting. Steel gleamed, solid as hell, thunking onto the table with a weight that rattled the mail stack.

"Holy shit," Arwyn breathed, staring. His hand hovered over it, then grabbed the hilt. Cold, heavy, real. 

He swung it. Light, smooth, cutting the air with a whoosh that made his pulse kick.

Nathaniel clapped, slow and loud, breaking the quiet. "Well, damn, kid. That's a blade. Clean, sharp. No ash, no flop. 5,000 poules well spent."

Arwyn grinned, spinning the katana once, feeling the balance. "Yeah? Not bad for a Tuesday, huh?" He braced for the crash—vertigo, that skull-crushing ache from the Glock days.

But… nothing. No spin, no blackout. His legs held. His head stayed clear. He blinked, lowering the blade. 

"Wait. I'm… fine?"

Nathaniel chuckled, leaning back. "Told you. You're not some rookie puking Passion Energy anymore. 5,000 poules stretched your tank. Katana's small potatoes now. Bet you could sketch a cannon and still walk straight."

Arwyn's jaw dropped, then snapped shut. "Seriously? No headache, no… nothing?" He swung the katana again, testing. 

Air sliced clean, no wobble in his grip. "This is… weird. Like, the good weird."

"Get used to it," Nathaniel said, nodding at the blade. "You're not just drawing toys now. You're forging. That crane hell rewired you, kid. Less waste, more kick." He tapped his temple. "Focus is sharper too. No panic, just power."

Arwyn stared at the katana, then at his hand—the Quill-scar pulsed faint, warm, not searing. "So… I'm stronger and I don't feel like ass after? That's the deal?"

"Pretty much." Nathaniel smirked, snatching a rag to wipe a nonexistent spot on the counter. "But don't get cocky. Big shit? Tanks, greatswords, those still might drop you. Small wins like this? It's yours all day.

From the studio, Ria's voice cut through. Sharp, annoyed.

"Marco, if you misplace that bid sheet one more time, I'm framing you and selling it as 'Tortured Artist, Slightly Used'!"

Arwyn snorted, setting the katana down. "They're gonna be at it for a while."

Nathaniel nodded, tossing the rag. "Good. Gives you time to flex. What's next, kid? Dagger? Shuriken? Don't bore me."

Arwyn's grin turned sly. "Throw me an apple."

"An apple?" Nathaniel's brow raised, then he realized, clocking the fruit basket beside him. "Oh. An apple."

In a split second, Nathaniel chucked it, zipping through the table, fastball-style.

Arwyn snatched the katana, reflexes screaming–

Shing!

The apple hit the floor, halved perfectly down the middle. They both smirked, eyeing the blade's edge.

"I see. I see it now."