Saturday began before the sun.
The scrap yard didn't believe in late mornings.
Kerean arrived while the sky still looked like cold ash. The air smelled of rust and rainwater trapped in broken machines. Mountains of discarded metal loomed around the yard like collapsed giants. There were bent bicycle frames, shattered appliance shells, and twisted sheets of iron that once held up someone's roof.
Nothing here was new.
Everything here had once been useful.
He liked that about the place.
Old Man Darto ran the yard. His back was straighter than Kerean's father's, although he was older. Darto claimed metal kept him aligned.
"You're early," Darto grunted without looking up.
"Morning."
"Morning doesn't pay. Hands do."
Kerean grabbed gloves that had more holes than fabric and began sorting.
Copper wires went into one bin, aluminum into another, and steel was sorted by weight. He learned the difference by touch alone. Copper had a soft stubbornness, aluminum felt light—almost deceptive, and steel carried quiet gravity.
The pay was by volume.
He worked fast.
Sometimes, he imagined he was sorting destiny instead of scrap. High-value pieces hidden among useless junk. The difference between what glittered and what endured.
By mid-morning, sweat soaked through his shirt, and his palms burned.
Across the yard, two older boys argued about awakening ceremonies.
"My uncle got me a B-grade storm egg," one bragged. "Imported shell. Tested vitality over seventy."
"Seventy?" the other scoffed. "My cousin's was eighty-two."
Numbers again.
Vitality value.
Growth ceiling.
Bloodline purity.
The world loved counting potential before it even breathed.
Kerean lifted a bent washing machine casing and stacked it without speaking.
One of the boys glanced at him.
"You even got an egg yet?"
Kerean didn't look up.
"Working on it."
The boy laughed.
"Better hurry. Eighteen comes fast."
Time had weight. He felt it.
At noon, Darto tossed him a bottle of water.
"You save too much," the old man said suddenly.
Kerean blinked. "Sir?"
"You don't spend. You don't eat enough. You walk instead of riding."
Kerean shrugged.
Darto studied him for a moment. His eyes weren't unkind—just practical.
"For a girl?"
"For an egg."
Darto huffed. "Ah."
Silence settled.
"You know," Darto added, "most people who chase power end up bent by it."
"I don't want power," Kerean said quietly.
Darto raised a brow.
"I just don't want to stay where I am."
That earned him a long look.
By late afternoon, his earnings were counted and handed over in folded bills.
It wasn't much.
But it moved the number.
On the walk home, he passed through a commercial district he rarely lingered in.
There, bright storefronts showcased incubation chambers. Transparent cases regulated at precise temperatures. Shell scanners rotated slowly under soft lights. Promotional banners showed majestic beasts rising from radiant eggs.
Inside one shop, a family stood around a pedestal.
The egg on display shimmered with silver veins like lightning frozen mid-strike.
The child's eyes widened.
The father smiled.
The mother spoke to the clerk about bloodline certifications.
Kerean stopped at the window.
Not long.
Just long enough.
The price tag beneath the egg had more digits than he had ever held at once.
He imagined what it would feel like to enter a store and ask for something without checking the price first.
He imagined his parents resting.
He imagined not calculating rice by the kilogram.
The glass reflected his own thin frame back at him.
The reflection didn't look heroic.
It looked tired.
He stepped away.
That evening, the power went out completely.
No flicker.
No return.
His mother lit a small candle and continued sewing by hand.
His father hadn't come home yet.
Rain began to fall.
Hard.
The leak over the cabinet resumed its steady drip. The basin caught the second one. The third fell directly onto the floor.
Kerean placed a bowl beneath it.
His mother's hands trembled slightly as she threaded the needle.
"Let me," he said.
"I can manage."
He gently took the blazer from her anyway.
She didn't argue.
Up close, he saw the fine stitching required. An academy crest. Reinforced cuffs. Wealthy students wore these without noticing the labor in each thread.
He worked slowly.
Carefully.
His mother watched him.
"You don't have to carry everything," she said after a while.
He smiled faintly.
"I'm not carrying. I'm investing."
She laughed softly at that.
A knock came at the door.
Sharp.
Unexpected.
Kerean rose and opened it.
His father stood outside, soaked through, one hand braced against the frame.
His lip was split.
"Dad?"
"It's nothing," his father said quickly. "Just a crate slipped."
But the crates didn't cause bruises shaped like fists.
Kerean's jaw tightened.
His father stepped inside and waved it off.
"Overtime bonus," he added, forcing brightness into his tone.
He pulled folded bills from his pocket and placed them on the table.
Rainwater dripped from his sleeves.
Kerean stared at the money.
Then at his father's swollen knuckles.
Something shifted inside him.
Not rage.
Not yet.
Something colder.
Precision.
This world rewarded those born ahead.
It tested those born behind.
His father shouldn't have to bleed for tuition.
His mother shouldn't have to stitch until midnight.
He looked at the tin box in the corner.
Thirty-nine thousand, nine hundred.
Plus today's scrap yard pay.
Plus this.
The number crept closer.
But closer wasn't enough.
He helped his father sit.
Cleaned the split lip.
His father winced but said nothing.
"You'll get a good egg," his father murmured. "Better than all of them."
Kerean met his gaze.
"I don't need better."
He didn't say the rest aloud.
I just need a chance.
Weeks passed in repetition.
Work.
School.
Calculation.
Sleep.
Drip.
Until one afternoon, something small changed.
It happened under the academy stairwell.
Kerean was eating quietly when his best friend, Aike, dropped down beside him.
Aike came from a middle-tier family. Not poor. Not elite. He carried himself with casual ease that only came from never worrying about rent.
"You still saving?" Aike asked.
"Yes."
"How much now?"
"Not enough."
Aike leaned back against the wall and lowered his voice.
"There's another way."
Kerean's spoon paused.
"What way?"
Aike glanced around.
"Black market."
Kerean didn't respond immediately.
Illegal taming eggs circulated there. Unregistered imports. Failed batches. Smuggled stock.
Cheaper.
Riskier.
Sometimes scams.
Sometimes miracles.
"They sell low-grade eggs half price," Aike continued. "Some even run gacha piles. Five thousand per draw."
Five thousand.
His heart beat once, hard.
"Ten percent chance," Aike added.
"Ninety percent failure," Kerean said calmly.
Aike grinned.
"Yeah. But you only need one success."
Rain began again outside.
Not heavy.
Just steady.
Like counting.
Kerean thought of his father's split lip.
His mother's trembling fingers.
The storefront with silver-veined lightning.
He thought of the awakening window closing in less than a year.
He looked at his hands.
Scratched.
Calloused.
Steady.
"When?" he asked.
Aike's grin widened.
"Tonight."
That night, Kerean lay awake.
The ceiling dripped.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The tin box sat open beside him.
Forty-three thousand, six hundred.
If he tried once.
Five thousand gone.
If he tried twice.
Ten thousand.
The number would shrink.
But standing still was also a cost.
He closed the lid.
Across the room, his parents slept for once.
Both home.
Both exhausted beyond dreaming.
He studied them in the faint light.
They had already wagered everything on him.
Was it foolish to gamble a portion of that?
Or foolish not to?
He rose quietly and slipped the tin box into his bag.
When he stepped outside, the night air felt different.
Not hopeful.
Sharp.
Aike waited at the corner.
"You ready?" Aike asked.
Kerean nodded.
The road toward the market district stretched ahead like a vein through the city.
Neon signs flickered in the distance.
Somewhere beyond the legal storefronts and polished displays, another economy pulsed.
One that didn't ask for a pedigree.
One that thrived on risk.
Kerean adjusted the strap of his worn bag over his shoulder.
Each step felt deliberate.
Measured.
He wasn't chasing glory.
He was chasing a possibility.
The alley leading to the black market entrance yawned ahead, dark and narrow.
Aike slipped inside first.
Kerean paused at the entrance.
Behind him lay familiarity.
Dripping ceilings.
Split lips.
Needle-pricked fingers.
Ahead lay uncertainty.
Cheap odds.
Unknown consequences.
He inhaled slowly.
Then stepped forward.
The night swallowed him.
And somewhere deep within his chest, something restless stirred again.
Not yet awakened.
But listening.