John Markus set his bank card on the counter, eyes locked on the payment screen blinking with those cold, merciless numbers.
The POS machine let out a short beep and spat out a long slip, every line of text slicing into him like a tiny blade.
He pulled the paper free, folded it, shoved it into his shirt pocket. His fingers trembled like he'd just signed a death sentence.
Right below the counter, a cold-storage box was pushed over, stacked with dark green chunks of meat.
John bent down, fingertips brushing the chilled plastic. A pungent, fishy stench shot up his nose and his stomach clenched tight.
"Green goblin meat," the middle-aged vendor chuckled, eyes skimming the pile. "Cheap but effective. Just, uh… nasty to eat."
John didn't answer. He just hooked the straps and hauled forty kilos of it onto his shoulder, veins standing out on his arm.
In his mind, he saw Little Fire curled up with its tail, those burning red eyes waiting every day for food, gnawing over and over on the same tough Flame Bird jerky.
"Poor thing," John mouthed soundlessly, breath locked in his chest.
He moved on and stopped in front of another display case.
Inside wasn't sickly green, but a gleam of silvery gray, each slab of meat shimmering like wind stirred across it.
"Ghostwind, first-rank beast," the clerk at the counter said, half cautious, half admiring. "Instinct tied to wind, crazy speed. Eight hundred bucks a kilo."
John set the goblin meat down, fingertips grazing the Ghostwind cut.
Cold seeped in instantly, like a current of wind brushing over his skin, raising the hairs on his arm.
"Speed needs stamina to back it up," he murmured, then looked the clerk dead in the eye. "Weigh me twenty kilos."
The man froze for a beat, then bent quickly to punch the keys on the scale.
Beep, beep, beep. Each jump of the digits jabbed into John's bank balance like needles.
The knife scraped across the steel board, wet meat smell mixing with a frosty draft, thickening the air around them.
John stood with arms folded, eyes never leaving the silver-wrapped packages, like he was staring at a gamble he knew he couldn't walk back from.
When the last bundle was loaded into the box, the clerk asked carefully, "You sure? That's no small sum."
John didn't flinch. He just lifted the box and said flatly, "Sure."
His voice was dry, but his eyes burned like a man betting his life.
He kept going, deeper into the spiritual goods section.
Here, white lights reflected off the glass cases, turning everything hazy and unreal.
No stink of blood, just a faint resin scent mixed with new metal, cold and orderly.
A woman in a black suit stepped out, smile polished and professional. "Welcome. What can I get you?"
John cut straight to it. "Beast bag. The most basic kind."
Her brow arched slightly. She bent down, unlocked the lower case, and brought out a gray leather pouch. Silver spiral patterns gleamed under the lights.
John picked it up.
The moment he touched it, a chill slipped into his skin, light but sharp enough to make his palm twitch like it'd been pricked.
"Stable inner space," the clerk explained. "Suitable for early-stage battle beasts. Just a drop of the owner's blood to activate."
John stayed quiet, fingers tracing the silver embroidery like it was the edge of a wager.
"Ten thousand dollars," she added, smile still solid as iron.
"Run it."
The card reader beeped again. This time the number on the screen made John shut his eyes for a brief second.
In his pocket, the bank card was down to just four grand. Barely a final breath for someone living on the edge.
He folded the receipt, tucked it into his wallet, gathered everything.
Two boxes of meat, one beast bag. Forty thousand dollars total. Almost every cent he'd scraped together from odd jobs and sleepless nights grinding.
He walked out, shoes clicking dry against the polished tiles.
Daylight spilled in through the doorway, blinding and hollow, flashing silver across the cold-storage box. The sudden brightness washed over the polished floor and bounced off the metal edges, so sharp it made John's eyes ache. For a second, he just stood there in the threshold, half in shadow, half in that glaring sun. The contrast felt brutal, like the whole world outside was too bright, too loud, too fast, waiting to swallow him the moment he stepped out. The silver gleam on the box wasn't just a reflection—it shimmered like a warning, like every dollar he'd thrown down was carved into those icy surfaces, daring him to carry the weight without faltering.
John paused, head lowered, staring at his hands.
One gripped the weight of green goblin and Ghostwind meat, stink and chill tangled together.
The other clenched the beast bag, its silver spirals catching sunlight and sparking in his eyes.
He saw Little Fire again, red eyes waiting, tired of the same tough Flame Bird scraps.
John pressed his lips tight, chest heavy, and swore inside:
"This time, you'll eat well."
Outside, the streets roared with traffic, horns blaring into the wind, sweeping away the last of his hesitation.
John tightened his hold on the beast bag. The silver stitches shone like fire under the noon sun.