Rye's eyes shot out and he apologized in an instant. He swung his hands defensively in front of the kid. "I-It's my fault. I'm sorry." The ink still flooded down. Rye leaned, and cupped the ink so it wouldn't scatter.
The kid did the same. They took what they could, and placed it in a new empty jar. What returned was barely half the original amount. The floor was still black and slippery.
"Dad's gonna kill me…" the kid said,
"I'm sorry, I promise to pay it off."
"No need." The kid retorted, then glared down at the kneeling Rye. "It's all already gone, what can we do?"
Looking down at the wet floor, Rye had an idea. He slammed his hand on it and poured mana. Immediately, he thought about what to create. A sword that Mari materialized came into mind.
BOOM!
The ink transformed into a wet black blade, but fell down right after and exploded on his face. The kid's eyes widened and they flushed in amazement. "Woah! So cool!"
Then, right after, his face paled. "But that's not cutting it. Hah, I'm so dead if Dad notices…"
"I'll come with you. He can scold me instead." Rye offered. He wouldn't be able to sleep if someone gets caught up with his bullshit. Maybe, hopefully, they would even give him the half-bottle of wasted ink.
That would be good.
"Okay." The green-haired kid replied, then started to pull the wagon. Clinks of jars sounded while they walked.
A sense of anxiety washed over Rye. Hopefully he doesn't get scolded.
What a childish way to think.
—
They walked in silence. The kid pulled the wagon while Rye followed behind, hands stuffed in his pockets, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.
The square was busier now. More people setting up stalls, shouting prices, arranging goods. Every voice made Rye flinch slightly.
'Too many people. Why are there so many people?' He thought, eyes constantly darting at the surroundings.
The kid stopped at a cart with faded blue cloth draped over the sides. A man was unloading crates—tall, broad-shouldered, with the same green hair as the kid but cut shorter. He wore a leather vest over a plain shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He looked up when they approached. "Eirin. You're back. Did you—" His eyes landed on the half-empty jar. "What happened there?"
Eirin's grip tightened on the wagon handle. He scratched his nape apologetically, trying to sound innocent. "I tripped. The jar broke. I salvaged what I could."
The man's expression darkened. He set down the crate he was holding with a heavy thud. He sighed. Like a disheartened, disappointed sigh. He replied sarcastically to Eirin's tone. "Oh, so you tripped?"
"Yeah."
"That jar cost a hundred crowns, Eirin. Don't give me that shit."
"I know." Eirin nodded. He looked down, and gripped his vest. The glare of his father made him hiccup.
"That's two days of profit gone."
"I'm sorry!!"
Rye's stomach twisted. 'Say something. You have to say something. This is awkward as hell!'
But his throat closed up. The man was intimidating. Loud. And definitely not in a good mood. Who knows what he'll do to Rye, once he realized it isn't his son's fault but a stranger's?
The man sighed and rubbed his face. "This is the third time this month you've—"
Rye's ears perked. Oh, so this wasn't the first time the kid did it. He didn't need to confess, the man could just assume it's Eirin's fault and let him get away. But Rye wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully that way. It's unfair to get scolded for something you didn't do.
"It was my fault."
Both of them turned to look at Rye.
"I wasn't paying attention. I bumped into him and the jar fell. It's my fault." He pressed his hands together, trying to look cute so the father would have mercy.
The man studied him. "You are?"
"Rye Scarrow." He replied.
The man huffed, then rolled his shoulder to ease up. "At least you're honest. Most kids would've run off." He crossed his arms. "For that, you only owe me fifty crowns. Pay it off. Consider it a blessing."
Rye's heart sank. "I don't even have that much."
"I know." The man glanced at the wagon, then back at Rye. "Are you any good with your hands?"
Rye blinked. "Uh... I guess?"
"Can you carry things without breaking them?"
"...Yes?"
"Good. You work it off. Two hours a day for ten days. Organizing, carrying, cleaning, whatever I need. Miss a day, you owe the full price. Understood?"
Rye nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
"Don't call me 'sir.' My name's Tomas." He turned back to Eirin. "And you—be more careful next time. I can't afford to keep replacing our stock."
"I know, Dad. Sorry." Eirin laughed out.
Tomas waved them off and went back to unloading. Eirin let out a breath and looked at Rye.
"Thanks. For not running."
"I wasn't gonna run." A lie. He'd definitely considered it.
Eirin smiled slightly. "Most people would've. A hundred crowns is no joke."
Well, that probably contributed to Rye not running. If he'd known it was that expensive – two hours a day for ten days type of money – he would have most likely have ran as well.
They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Eirin gestured to the half-full jar still sitting in the wagon. "You can have the rest. The wasted ink, I mean. We can't sell it anyway."
Rye blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah. You manifested something with it, right? That sword thing?" Eirin's eyes lit up. "That was so cool. I've never seen anyone do that before."
"It... didn't really work though. It just fell apart."
"But you made it! Out of nothing!" Eirin leaned in, excited now. "What pathway is that? Ink? Control? Wind?
The system said to hide it. Might as well lie, for something this insignificant. "It's called 'creation'."
Eirin's eyes went huge. "Creation, huh? That's so cool. I've never heard of it!"
"It's not that cool. I can barely control it." Rye cringed at his own lies. He was never good at this.
"Are you kidding? You made a sword! I can't make anything!" Eirin gestured to himself. "I don't even have a pathway yet. I'm still waiting to awaken."
"You will eventually." Probably. Clumsy ass kid.
"Maybe." Eirin shrugged, then brightened again. "Oh! Since you're working here anyway, we can practice drawing together. I've been trying to sketch animals but I'm terrible at it."
Rye blinked. "You draw?"
"Yeah. Well, badly. But I'm trying." Eirin pulled a small, crumpled piece of parchment from their pocket. It had a rough sketch of what might've been a chicken. Or a blob with legs. It was hard to tell.
"...What is that?"
"A chicken."
"That's a chicken?"
"I said I was bad." Eirin laughed and shoved the parchment back in his pocket. "That's why I need practice. And parchment. Which Dad won't give me because it's 'too expensive.'"
An idea sparked in Rye's mind. "What if we traded? I help you get better at drawing, and you help me get materials?"
Eirin tilted their head. "Materials?"
"Parchment. Ink. Stuff like that. Your dad's a merchant, right? He must have scraps or damaged goods he can't sell."
"...Maybe?" Eirin thought about it. "I could ask. But you'd really teach me how to draw?"
"I'm not amazing or anything. But I know the basics."
"That's more than I know!" Eirin grinned. "Okay. Deal. I'll see what I can get."
They shook hands. Rye felt a tiny bit of relief.
'Okay. Progress. I have a connection to a merchant family now. And maybe a friend?'
Tomas called out from the cart. "Eirin! Stop chatting and help me unload!"
"Coming!" Eirin turned back to Rye. "Start tomorrow morning? East side of the square. Don't be late or Dad'll be mad."
"I'll be here."
Eirin ran off to help his father. Rye stood there for a moment, then remembered the jar of ink still sitting in the wagon.
He grabbed it carefully and tucked it under his arm.
Then he turned and headed back home, mind already racing with possibilities.
'Half a jar of ink. That's enough to test things. See if ink manifestations are better than charcoal.'
His hands were still slightly stained black. He'd have to wash them before Mom saw.
As he walked to their stone-gated yard, someone called his name.
"Rye!"
He turned. Mari was walking toward him, carrying a basket of herbs. She stopped when she saw the jar.
"What's that?"
"Ink. I, uh... broke someone's jar. They gave me the rest."
Mari raised an eyebrow. "You broke it?"
"By accident."
"And they just gave you the leftovers?"
"I'm working off the cost. Ten days."
Mari studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed. "At least you're taking responsibility. That's better than running away."
'I almost did.'
"Yeah."
"Come on. Let's get home. And wash your hands. You look like you stuck them in a fireplace."
Rye followed her back, the jar of ink feeling heavier than it should.
But also exciting.
Tonight, he'd test it properly.
And see just how much better real ink was compared to charcoal.