Three more Wererats emerged from the culverts, attempting to swarm him. Johnny gave them no such opening. He capitalized on the long reach of his weapon to sweep their legs out from under them, then obliterated their skulls one by one as they hit the ground.
Then, a Hedgehog Pie appeared. a round, red creature covered in sharp spines—attempted to launch a small fireball from a distance. It was aggressive and notorious for its fire magic.
Johnny, reacting with the reflexes of a war veteran, kicked up a discarded sheet of corrugated metal, forcing it upright into an emergency shield.
BOOM.
As the fireball exploded against the zinc sheet, Johnny didn't flinch. He burst through the lingering smoke, leaped into the air, and cleaved the monster's spine with a crushing vertical arc.
His body was exhausted. His teenage arms burned as if filled with lactic acid. His lungs felt scorched. But Johnny did not stop until the burlap sack he carried felt heavy and full.
When the sky over Sector 7 turned a pollution-choked shade of dark orange, Johnny finally halted. He perched on the rusted carcass of a truck engine, his breath coming in heavy rasps, surrounded by the remnants of his hunt.
He looked at his hands, trembling from exertion, then down at the sack full of loot beside him.
"Enough for today," he whispered. "Mom can buy meat tomorrow."
Johnny hauled the sack back toward civilization. He skirted the main thoroughfares to avoid Shinra patrols, slipping through rat-infested alleyways toward the black market on the sector's fringe.
He stopped at a shabby tent stall belonging to Uncle Drove, a scavenger who dealt in scrap metal and monster parts. The old man was smoking a roll of cheap tobacco.
"You again, kid?" Drove raised a thick eyebrow as he watched Johnny set down the sack stained with black blood and oil.
"Are you a mechanic's son or a butcher?"
Johnny didn't answer the jest. He simply untied the sack.
Drove's eyes widened. "Four pairs of Wererat fangs. A whole Hedgehog Pie hide... Hah, the cuts are incredibly clean. Or rather... shattered in the worthless areas, but pristine where the value lies. You really know how to hit, don't you?"
Drove weighed the items, then counted out some Gil coins and a few tattered bills.
"The market needs hedgehog skin for insulating heat-resistant cables. You're in luck," Drove said, shoving the money across the counter. "650 Gil. Take it."
Johnny accepted the money. His hand tightly grasped the dirty paper bills.
650 Gil.
In his past life, he had been paid in chests of gold to slaughter enemy generals. But for some reason, this loose change felt heavier. More precious.
This wasn't blood money for someone else's ambition. This was money for warm soup.
"Thanks, Uncle," Johnny said, then turned to leave.
The walk home felt light, even though his body ached in every fiber. Johnny imagined his mother's face when he gave her the money. He imagined the burden on his father's shoulders lifting, just a little.
When he reached the front of his house, Johnny paused. He stashed his iron sword back behind the stack of tires, scrubbed his hands and face at the outdoor spigot until every trace of monster blood was gone, and took a deep breath.
He put on a smile—the smile of a boy returning from play, not the smile of a killer.
"I'm home," he said softly as he opened the door.