[Note: Of course, the next arc won’t happen right away—Mc still needs to return to his world. That means you readers have plenty of time to reach the goal. However, the intervals may vary; sometimes they’ll be short, sometimes long. Whether we reach the goal or not... that depends on you.]
-----
Two hours later, Fenric stepped off a long‑haul bus in another city.
First order of business: disguise. He bought a cheap wig and spirit gum beard from a roadside wig stall. With his disguise skill, he easily darkened his complexion and reshaped his jawline.
In the mirror of a cracked vending machine, a tired twenty‑something migrant laborer stared back—not an eighteen‑year‑old student, and definitely not Shura.
He scanned classified stickers and lamppost numbers until he found what he needed: a small back‑lot metal processing shop that "handles steel, scrap melt, custom castings" — code for no questions if you pay.
Inside, the boss didn’t blink when Fenric hauled in a nondescript tool case that clinked heavily. Money up front. Furnace stoked. The gold bars went into the crucible—serial stamps, mint marks, and purity seals liquefying into anonymous glow.
Molten metal became ugly ingots in a crap mold—pocked faces, uneven edges, slag inclusions. Perfect. Every identifying mark gone. Now they were orphan gold, provenance untraceable... and worth less.
Fenric wrapped the cooled bricks in oily canvas and turned to leave.
Workers stepped into the doorway. Pipes. Wrenches. Rebar.
The boss smiled with all his back teeth. "Brother, what you paid? Not enough for the processing fee."
Fenric’s tone stayed mild. "How much more?"
The boss lifted four fingers.
"Four thousand?" Fenric asked.
The smile widened. "Forty percent of your load."
Of course. They’d seen him melt unstamped metal. In their minds he was dirty, alone, and disposable.
Fenric sighed. "Greed’s not healthy."
"Brother," the boss said, still grinning, "that gold isn’t clean. You won’t call the cops. Take the loss and walk away."
"And if I don’t?"
The boss’s eyes hardened. "Then we break your leg and take it."
Fenric’s expression brightened. "Break a leg? I’ll remember you said that."
With a flick of his hand,
Every wrench, rod, and prybar ripped out of its owner’s grip, hung weightless, then spun into a slow orbit beside Fenric as if hooked by invisible wire.
The shop went silent.
"Ab–ability user!" one worker choked. "He’s awakened!"
In the age of the Samsara Space, power users weren’t myths. Governments recruited them. Police ran special‑ability task forces. Even notorious offenders sometimes got clemency if they pledged state service.
"Brother—we didn’t know you were... please, forgive us!" The boss bent almost double, sweat breaking through grime.
Most small fry never even cleared E‑rank. This crew? Not worth a bullet.
Fenric’s voice went flat. "One person. One leg. Do it yourselves. If I do it, it won’t stop at one."
Faces drained. Metal clattered. Somewhere, someone sobbed. A moment later the wet crack of self‑inflicted bone echoed through the shop.
Without looking back, Fenric turned and left.
It wasn’t mercy. It was logistics.
Murder—even in a gray shop—brings cops, paperwork, maybe attention from ability bureaus. Fenric had zero interest in being on official radar while his Shura identity sat under a national microscope. Broken legs? Street problem. No report if nobody talks.
And technically, they did it themselves...
Fenric headed downtown, opened a fresh bank account under his altered appearance, then took the slagged bars to a small private gold buyer. Unmarked metal draws suspicion; the quote came in at ~20% below market, but anonymity was worth the haircut. He signed, the buyer wired funds to the new account, and the gold became clean money.
Mission complete.
By the time Fenric got back to his own city, night had fallen. The apartment was dark. His father must already be on another night shift.
Fenric exhaled. Tomorrow, he decided, I’m ending that. With money in hand, there was no reason for his father to grind himself hollow on rotating shifts.
He reheated leftover noodles, ate standing over the sink, set an alarm, and lay down.
Midnight
At exactly 00:00, the full‑moon sigil on his arm flared red.
With a thought, Fenric stepped once more into the Samsara Space—mask on, identity sealed—reborn as Shura.