Leon's indifference to his own 'shackles' evaporated the moment his gaze settled on Neon, who was now quietly drawing on a spare sheet of hospital stationery. The gulf between his cynical acceptance and her innocent scribbles was a chasm he suddenly couldn't bear. The prophecy wasn't just about his decay; it was about the world she would inherit, the life she would be forced into by his choices. 'Going with the flow' meant Neon would grow up visiting her father in increasingly nicer hospitals after increasingly violent 'work accidents,' or worse, in a prison visiting room. The 'unchanging decay' wasn't just stagnation; it was a legacy of violence and fear.
A cold clarity washed over him. The 'slave beast of money' wasn't just the thugs or the mercenaries. It was the system itself—the Tedoruka family, the Ritz family, the entire gilded, rotting ladder he'd spent his life trying to climb. It was asking for his loyalty, for his continued service. And the price was his soul, and his daughter's future.
'Break free from shackles and look towards the farther blue sky.' The 'blue sky' was no longer a vague metaphor. It was a life where Neon didn't have to lie about what her father did. It was a life where 'fortune-telling' could remain a child's game, not a terrifying conduit for supernatural warnings. It was a life away.
But how? He was a broken man in a hospital bed, his small crew was in tatters, and he was on the radar of both a monstrous alchemist and his own vengeful superiors. Breaking free seemed like a suicide note.
Then he remembered the alchemist's final words in the hotel, his cold analysis cutting through the threats: "Tell Saro Tedoruka this: The potions he remembers are obsolete. The pharmacist who brewed them is dead. In his place stands an alchemist."
An alchemist. Someone who transforms base matter into something valuable. Someone who deals in change.
Leon's mind, sharpened by years of underworld survival and now honed by prophecy, made a desperate, audacious leap. The alchemist, Kevin, was an enemy of Saro. He operated outside the system. He possessed power Leon didn't understand, but he had also shown a strange code—restraint, precision, a message delivered rather than a massacre executed. He wasn't mindless chaos; he was a calculated force.
What if… the 'choice' wasn't between serving Saro or running away to hide? What if the third option was to change allegiance? Not to serve, but to trade?
He had something Kevin might want: information. Not the generic 'Saro is mad' info, but specific, granular data. He knew the patterns of the Ritz family's operations in Yorkshin. He knew the safehouses, the drop points, the schedules of shipments that might interest someone needing rare materials. He knew the digital trails and cover businesses. He knew the weak links in the local chain of the 'slave beast.'
And he had a delivery system already in place—the cryptic forum post he'd just made about the 'lost heirloom.' It was a thread. A tenuous, fragile thread.
He looked back at the prophecy. 'The time for choice has come.' He had already made it. He wouldn't 'go with the flow.' The flow led to a sewer.
He would break free. And he would start by using the only currency he had left—the truth of the underworld's machinery—to buy a ticket out. He wouldn't spit out information to his bosses, leading to decay. He would offer it to the 'newborn beast,' the one who disliked carrion and chains, as a down payment on a new kind of contract. A contract for freedom, for a chance at that 'farther blue sky' for Neon.
The pain in his body was sharp, but the resolve in his heart was sharper. He was no longer Leon the small-time boss. He was Leon the father, the desperate man with a prophecy in his pocket and a single, dangerous card to play. He closed his eyes, not to rest, but to plan his first move as a free agent. The game was indeed far bigger than he'd imagined, and he had just decided to stop being a pawn for the beast. He would become a wild card, and he would play for the highest stakes imaginable: a future.
Leon's heart plummeted. These weren't Ritz family men. The aura they projected was colder, sharper, more focused. These were hunters, not gangsters. The 'hired people' Saro had mentioned.
The prophecy's warning about 'sharp claws' flashed in his mind. His choice had indeed arrived, and it was delivered by a fist, not an envelope.
"I am," Leon said, keeping his voice steady. He subtly shifted, his hand slipping under the thin hospital blanket, feeling for the emergency call button. "And you are?"
"Acquisitions consultants," the lead man said, a humorless smile touching his lips. He was lean, with scarred knuckles and eyes that missed nothing. A former arena fighter, Leon guessed. "We're here to discuss your recent… failure. And to acquire some supplementary information about a certain individual."
They moved into the room, spreading out with practiced ease, blocking the door and the path to the window. One of them, a hulking man with a neck thicker than Leon's thigh, casually picked up Neon's drawing from the bedside table, glanced at it, and let it flutter to the floor.
A red-hot spike of anger pierced through Leon's fear. That drawing was for him.
"The 'individual' refused a polite invitation," the leader continued, leaning against the wall. "Our client believes local factors may have contributed to the misunderstanding. We want to know everything about your interaction. His demeanor. His exact words. Any unusual… abilities you observed. And," his eyes glinted, "any leverage you might know of. Family. Friends. Weaknesses."
Leon's mind raced. This was the 'slave beast of money' in its most direct form—mercenaries bought to break what persuasion couldn't. To 'spit out information.' If he told them everything—Kevin's speed, the knotted gun, the chilling malice—he would be feeding the beast, pointing these predators directly at the alchemist. It might earn him a reprieve, a few coins tossed his way for his cooperation. It was the path of 'unchanging decay.' He would remain a snitch, a tool, forever looking over his shoulder, his life and Neon's forever tied to the whims of monsters.
He thought of the 'farther blue sky.' It wasn't a position of power. It was a life where his daughter's drawings weren't tossed on the floor by brutes. It was a life defined by something other than fear and betrayal.
The prophecy had given him a choice. It was time to make it.
He took a slow, painful breath, meeting the leader's gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about. There was an accident during a routine property inspection. I fell. My men fell. We're recovering. That's all I have to report."
The leader's smile vanished. "A pity. We were hoping for a more cooperative conversation." He nodded to the hulking man.
The brute took a step forward, his shadow falling over Leon's bed.
'If you speak with a tongue hiding poison, the striking sharp claws will be swung towards you.' He hadn't spoken poison. He'd spoken refusal. The claws were coming anyway.
But he had made his choice.
Just as the brute reached for him, Leon's other hand, hidden by his body, found what he'd secreted under the mattress after the forum post—a cheap, disposable phone purchased by Carlo. With a thumb, he hit the single pre-programmed speed dial and then the send button for the draft message waiting in its memory.
The message was only two words, sent to the encrypted temporary mailbox from his forum post: *"HEIRLOOM FOUND."*
It was his flare. His desperate signal into the void, hoping the 'fast-moving individual' was watching that anonymous inbox.
The brute's hand closed on his injured shoulder, squeezing. White-hot agony exploded through Leon's body. He couldn't suppress a cry.
"Let's try again," the leader said softly. "Start with the hotel room. What did he do?"
Leon, teeth gritted against the pain, shook his head. Tears of agony blurred his vision, but his resolve was crystal clear. He had chosen his side. He would not be the one to lead the hounds to the 'newborn beast.' The 'unforgettable pain' was here. He would endure it. For Neon. For the faint, desperate hope of a blue sky.
He looked past the brute's shoulder, out the hospital window at the sliver of visible sky. It was a pale, distant blue. It looked very, very far away. But for the first time, he felt he was looking in the right direction.
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