The sun hung high over Camp Tile when Gray and Tamemoto reached the merchant stall near the eastern edge of the market square.

  The merchant was clearly from Orihara — sharp features, dark hair tied back with a simple cord, robes dyed in deep indigo with subtle gold threading that caught the light. He was older, with calm eyes that assessed them the moment they approached.

  Gray set the bundle of monster parts on the counter — tough gray hide, sharp claws, and a few intact tendons from the creatures they had killed on the road.

  The merchant inspected each piece carefully, fingers tracing the texture.

  “Good quality,” he murmured. “Not the biggest specimens, but the hide is thick. I can use this.”

  They haggled quietly. Gray kept his voice flat and steady, the way Gauis had taught him.

  Tamemoto stood beside him, silent but watching every movement.

  In the end, they walked away with a decent pouch of silver coins — more than they had expected.

  The merchant smiled faintly as he wrapped the last piece.

  “If you bring me more hide like this in the future, I’ll have something for the younger one.”

  He nodded toward Tamemoto. “Traditional Orihara clothes. Light, durable, good for travel. A fair trade.”

  Tamemoto’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed quiet.

  Gray gave a single nod. “We’ll remember.”

  They turned and started walking back toward the riverbank huts.

  The market square was thick with foot traffic.

  People moved in constant streams — locals carrying baskets of river fish, travelers hauling heavy packs, merchants shouting prices over the noise of wheels and hooves.

  Dust rose in clouds under boots and wagon wheels.

  The air buzzed with overlapping voices, the clink of coins, and the sizzle of food on grills.

  Camp Tile felt alive today, the narrow paths between stalls almost crowded as more caravans than usual passed through.

  Gray kept his eyes forward, but he felt the energy of the place pressing in from all sides. Tamemoto stayed close, occasionally glancing at the passing crowds with quiet curiosity.

  As they walked, Gray spoke low.

  “We need to do more,” he said. “Not just wait for jobs to come to us. We should go out to the outskirts more often. Hunt monster parts ourselves. Sell them. Build up supplies.”

  Tamemoto nodded, small hand gripping the edge of his tunic. “I want to help. I’m not scared anymore. Not as much.”

  Gray glanced at him. “Good. We get stronger together.”

  They continued through the busy market.

  The foot traffic grew thicker near the food stalls, the smell of grilled meat and spices cutting through the dust.

  Gray’s steps slowed when they passed a small cart where fresh meat sizzled over hot coals — rich, savory, completely different from the dried strips and river fish they usually ate.

  Tamemoto’s eyes widened. “It smells… different.”

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  Gray looked at the coins in his hand. Then at his brother.

  He made the decision quickly.

  “We’ll buy some,” he said. “Bring it back for Gauis and Rebecca. A gift from the journey.”

  Tamemoto’s face lit up with a rare, bright smile.

  They bought two skewers — still warm, dripping with juices. The merchant wrapped them carefully in clean cloth.

  Gray now wore the curved blade from Vesh at his belt — lighter than his own knife, with a wicked curve that caught the light. Tamemoto had slung Dren’s short bow across his back, quiver of arrows at his hip. Both felt strange, but they carried them anyway.

  As they continued walking, Gray felt the weight of the coins, the food, and the new weapons.

  The market noise swirled around them — haggling voices, laughter, the constant shuffle of feet on packed dirt. More people than usual were moving through today, the paths crowded and alive.

  They were still talking quietly — curious, almost playful about how the meat would taste — when Tamemoto accidentally bumped into someone.

  The man was tall, dressed in fine traveling clothes that spoke of wealth and status — dark velvet tunic embroidered with silver thread, a heavy cloak pinned with a polished clasp, boots too clean for the badlands dust. A noble, or at least someone who moved in those circles.

  He stopped abruptly, turning slowly to look down at the two boys.

  Gray’s hand instinctively moved toward the curved blade at his belt.

  The noble’s eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded them, a flicker of disdain crossing his face as he brushed at the small smudge on his sleeve.

  “Watch where you’re going, street rats,” he said, voice clipped and cold. “Do you know who you just touched?”

  Gray stepped forward slightly, placing himself between the noble and Tamemoto. His voice stayed flat, but there was steel in it.

  “It was an accident. Move on.”

  The noble’s lip curled. “You dare speak to me like that?”

  He raised a hand. Four guards in livery stepped forward instantly, hands on their swords.

  “Catch them,” the noble ordered. “I want them on their knees. Make an example.”

  One guard moved fast — a big man with a heavy boot. He kicked straight at Gray’s chest.

  Gray crossed his arms to block.

  CRACK!

  The impact lifted him off his feet and threw him backward. Pain exploded in both arms — sharp, grinding, like bones grinding together.

  “Agh—!” Gray shouted, the sound ripping out as he hit the ground hard, rolling once before slamming into a market stall post. His injured arm flared white-hot.

  “Gray!” Tamemoto cried.

  The younger boy didn’t freeze.

  He remembered the road — how Dren had nocked and loosed arrows in one smooth motion. Tamemoto’s hands moved on instinct. He slung the short bow off his back, nocked an arrow from the quiver, and drew.

  The bowstring felt unfamiliar, but his body remembered watching Dren — the stance, the breath, the release.

  The arrow flew.

  It punched into the nearest guard’s shoulder.

  “Aaaah—!” the guard howled, staggering back, clutching the wound, blood soaking his tunic.

  Tamemoto drew another arrow, keeping distance.

  “Stay back!” he shouted, voice high but steady.

  The noble’s face twisted in annoyance.

  “Useless,” he muttered, turning to the elegant woman standing beside him.

  She was dressed in fine traveling clothes, a beautifully crafted sword at her waist. Her posture was calm, almost graceful.

  “Catch them,” the noble snapped. “I want both of them punished.”

  The woman nodded once. She drew her blade with a smooth, ringing sound.

  Gray pushed himself up, arms burning. His mind raced.

  Four guards. One noble. One swordswoman. Terrain: market stalls, loose stones, wooden posts, dust. Use everything.

  He separated from the two guards chasing him by ducking behind a stall, then slashed low with the curved blade from Vesh — Ashfall Cut — catching one guard across the thigh.

  “Gahhh!” the guard screamed, clutching the bleeding wound and dropping to one knee.

  Tamemoto loosed another arrow at the guard chasing him. The shaft sank into the man’s leg.

  “Argh!” the guard cried, stumbling, blood pouring down his thigh.

  Tamemoto ran toward Gray.

  The woman moved.

  Her sword came down in a clean, fast arc aimed straight at Gray’s neck.

  Gray raised the curved blade to block, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  At that exact moment, Tamemoto reached him.

  The younger boy threw himself forward, dagger raised. He blocked the woman’s slash with his own blade.

  CLANG!

  Metal rang.

  Sparks flew.

  The impact jolted through Tamemoto’s arms.

  “Hngh!” Tamemoto gasped, but he held.

  Then he kicked her hard in the stomach.

  “Uff!” the woman grunted, staggering back a step, eyes widening in surprise.

  She stared at Tamemoto, then at Gray.

  “You seem to also possess it,” she said, voice calm but sharp.

  “What are you doing here… and who is your family from Orihara?”