Chapter 85: Fishy-fishy
The crowd parted as a new figure stumbled forward, draped in layers of tattered fabric that fluttered in the wind like shredded flags.
His beard was a wiry thicket of grey, and his hands shook—not from fear, but from exhaustion, the kind born of too many nights sleeping under alley eaves and temple stairs. His eyes, however, gleamed with a peculiar sharpness that cut through the dust caking his face.
"I... I want to try," the beggar rasped, stepping toward the table of vibrant boxes.
A few people gasped. One woman clutched her companion’s arm, whispering, "Is he mad?"
Another man chuckled cruelly. "Old fool doesn’t even have shoes. He thinks he’s lucky now?"
The beggar bowed his head, then slowly lifted a small cloth pouch from beneath his robes. He opened it, revealing ten chipped and dulled mana crystals. Not the purest grade, but unmistakably real.
"This... is all I have left," the beggar murmured. "Everything. Every crystal I’ve saved from alms and odd jobs. It’s enough, right?"
The crowd stirred with discomfort. Some looked away, unsure whether to laugh or pity him. A few scoffed. A few turned solemn. The atmosphere shifted with unease, the kind that pressed against the skin like a humid fog.
Nolan stood still near the edge of the gathering, one brow raised so high it could nearly fly off his forehead. His arms remained folded, but his foot began tapping.
"You’re already broke and starving," Nolan muttered under his breath, "and you chose this to spend your last crystals on? A box with a 99.9% chance of being complete trash? Are you hoping the artifact will feed you? What are you going to do—chew on it?"
He shook his head in disbelief.