The night after the Hidden Trial, Sirius lay awake long after the lamp by his bed dimmed to a soft glow. His body was battered—scratches on his arms, bruises on his ribs, muscles pulled taut from overuse—but his mind refused to rest.
His uncle's words echoed still. You adapted.
Yes. He had survived in the wilds of Leide, built crude shelter, chewed bitter roots, drank water that tasted of rust. He had faced beasts that should have torn him apart and lived to return home. He had proven himself.
But when he thought of his mother's tired smile, her trembling hand brushing his hair from his eyes, the fire in him twisted. Strength was not enough. Endurance was not enough.
She needed medicine.
He remembered the whispers he wasn't meant to hear—Lyla's soft voice carrying through thin walls, Dominic's low answers heavy with strain. Imported herbs, costly tonics, rare remedies beyond the reach of a Crownsguard's pay. Each word had seared into Sirius like a brand.
If I am truly going to protect her, I cannot only fight with a sword. I need Gil.
---
A week later, under the guise of "extra training," Sirius slipped from the city gates into the plains of Leide. The setting sun painted the land in crimson light, long shadows stretching across the desert's rocks. His small hand gripped the wooden sword Cor had given him. His red eyes scanned the terrain.
Sabertusks prowled here. Scorpions lurked beneath stones. Goblins crept from caves after dusk. He had faced them before, always with Cor's watchful presence just beyond sight. But tonight, he was alone by choice.
His pulse raced. He forced himself to breathe. "I can do this."
The first fight came quickly. A scorpion emerged from behind a boulder, stinger raised. Sirius crouched, recalling Zangan's lessons—patience, timing. The tail snapped forward. He rolled aside, sand stinging his arms, and slammed his wooden blade into the joint of its leg. The creature screeched. He pressed the attack, swings clumsy but fueled by will.
At last the beast collapsed, twitching, before going still. Sirius staggered back, panting, sweat dripping into his eyes. Then he felt it—the faint hum of the system in his blood.
Scorpion Stinger (Material) – stored.
The stinger glowed faintly with residual aether before dissolving into light, vanishing into the quiet "shelves" of his mind.
He exhaled, shaky but steady. One step closer.
---
So began his new rhythm. By day he trained under Cor or Zangan, their drills grinding his body into steel. By evening, he slipped into Leide's wastes, where monsters tested him in ways no sparring ever could.
Each fight left him cut, bruised, and gasping, but each time he returned alive, clutching new spoils. The hum of the system greeted him after every victory:
Goblin Fang – stored.
Sabertusk Fang – stored.
Scorpion Stinger – stored.
At night, when he finally collapsed into bed, the system whispered the tally back: experience gained, materials stored. Never Gil, not directly. But he knew the truth—materials meant coin, if he dared to sell.
---
The first time he tried to sell, his stomach knotted.
Insomnia's marketplace bustled with noise—merchants calling prices, the clatter of coins, the hiss of food frying in pans. Sirius moved carefully between stalls, a small bag clutched under his cloak.
He stopped at a stall stacked with monster parts: claws, tusks, carapaces polished for trade. The merchant, a broad man with sharp eyes, looked down at him.
"What do you want, boy?"
Sirius opened the bag just enough to reveal two sabertusk fangs.
The man's brow rose. A faint rune etched into his counter glowed blue as the fangs touched wood, verifying their authenticity. "And where'd you get those?"
"Training," Sirius said quickly. "My uncle… let me keep them."
It was a thin lie, but the merchant didn't press. He examined the fangs, nodded, and dropped coins into Sirius' hand. The weight of the Gil startled him—solid, warm, real.
Sirius whispered thanks and fled, darting through the crowd until he was safe. Only then did he look at the coins, his breath shaking. Treasure. Not for toys. Not for sweets. For her.
That night, he slipped the coins into a wooden box hidden beneath his bed. A secret hoard. A medicine fund.
---
Weeks passed. His body grew tougher. The box grew heavier, each coin earned through sweat and bruises, each one a promise to his mother.
One evening he overheard two merchants bartering over rarer materials—flan cores, coeurl whiskers, daemon ichor. Such parts fetched high prices, far beyond the common fangs and stingers he carried. Enough to buy superior curatives, tonics, maybe even the rare restorative medicines his father had whispered about in despair.
Sirius clenched his fists. One day, he told himself. One day, I'll reach those too.
---
One night he returned from another hunt, his tunic torn, dirt caked on his hands. He sat by Lyla's bedside as she rested. Her breathing was shallow, her skin pale against the sheets. Sirius took her hand, small fingers clutching tight.
"I'll get stronger," he whispered. "I'll get the medicine. I promise."
Her eyes fluttered open, the faintest smile on her lips. A soft cough shook her shoulders before she brushed it away with grace. "You're already strong, my light."
Sirius bit down hard, choking back tears. Not strong enough. Not yet.
---
Later, alone in his room, he opened his notebook once more.
Notes – Medicine Fund
Gil box hidden. Almost enough? Need more.
Mother weaker some days. Time running out.
Fight harder. Hunt more. Endure.
He pressed his pencil until the lead snapped, scrawling the words jagged and uneven:
I'll protect her. Even if no one knows. Even if I bleed alone.
Closing the notebook, he slid it under his pillow. His arms trembled, his body screamed from battle, but the weight of the box beneath his bed steadied him.
For the first time, he had more than training. More than a vow to change fate. He had purpose.
Not just to grow strong for himself. Not just to guard Noctis' future. But to keep his mother alive—
to fight fate, one coin at a time.