The pouch weighed heavy in his pocket.
A hundred bills.
For Blisen, it was a fortune to squander in a single night on games, women, or fights. For Ciel, it was a battlefield.
All day, he observed Sanwi with feverish attention. Vendors shouted in the streets, peasants bargained over their harvests, traffickers whispered in dark corners. And everywhere, one truth struck him: men did not sell what they owned—they sold what others believed they owned.
At dusk, he returned to the clandestine market. The gray-bearded old man was waiting, seated on a crate, ledger in hand.
"Well then, little rat? You've come back?"
"Yes. And I want to bet."
"On what?"
"On fear," Ciel answered calmly.
The old man raised his brows, intrigued.
That night, the auctions were fiercer than ever. Rumors swirled: a rice caravan had been attacked on the road. Prices soared sky-high.
Ciel stepped forward, clutching his small pouch.
"One hundred bills," he declared in a clear voice.
Heads turned toward him, mocking.
"A kid?"
"Send him back to his marbles!"
"What does he think he can buy with so little?"
But Ciel did not waver.
"One hundred bills… for a single sack of rice."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. A hundred bills for one sack? Madness. But Ciel went on, unflinching.
"I wager that tomorrow, the price of rice will fall. Those who listen to me may lose a night's sleep. Those who ignore me will lose a fortune."
The round-faced merchant, the same liar from the day before, burst into laughter.
"Listen to this! The little prophet of Sanwi! Do you think you can read the future, boy?"
"I don't read the future," Ciel retorted. "I read men. And you… you reek of fear."
A hush spread. The fat merchant wiped sweat from his brow. The truth was, he had started the rumor of the attack to drive prices up. But how could this boy have guessed it?
The gray-bearded elder clapped his hands.
"Good! Let's make this boy a player. Who will take the wager?"
A younger merchant stepped forward, accepting the challenge.
"Fine. Tomorrow, if the prices drop, the sack is yours. If they rise, you lose everything."
Ciel nodded.
"Deal."
He laid his hundred bills on the table. His heart pounded, but his face remained steady.
That night was long. In his room, he did not sleep. He wrote again and again in his notebook:
Risk is a sword. In trembling hands, it kills its wielder. In steady hands, it opens the way.
Men fear what they do not understand. Cast a shadow, and they will bow.
At dawn, he went to the marketplace. A crowd had gathered. The price of rice… had plummeted.
The rumor of the attack had proven false. The caravans had arrived at dawn, laden with grain. Merchants panicked, slashing their stocks.
The young merchant who had taken the wager clenched his teeth in fury.
"Damn demon!" he spat.
But before all, he handed Ciel an enormous sack of rice—worth far more than a hundred bills.
Ciel did not smile. He only bowed his head.
"A contract is a contract."
Carrying the sack on his back, he returned home. Blisen was there once again. When he saw his frail brother enter with the heavy load, he stood speechless.
"How…?"
"With a hundred bills and a few words," Ciel replied, breathless but proud.
Cagiver, their mother, had tears in her eyes as she beheld the full sack. For the first time in a long while, the Darkness family would eat their fill for several days.
That night, as the family shared a worthy meal, Ciel sat in silence. The taste of rice was not only survival. It was the taste of an invisible victory—a war won without a weapon.
And in his notebook, he wrote once more:
One does not win with strength. One wins with perception.
Money is a sword. But true victory… is within.