Six months later.
Morning in Sector 7 remained much the same as always: dusty, noisy, and reeking of acrid factory smoke. However, there was one striking anomaly amidst the squalor: Garrick & Son's Workshop.
The workshop no longer looked pathetic. Shelves that were once as empty as an old crone's mouth were now packed tight with gleaming Grade A parts, organized with military precision.
Garrick no longer wore patchwork work clothes that consisted more of oil stains than fabric. He now sported crisp, sturdy dark blue denim coveralls, with the workshop's logo neatly embroidered on the chest.
Marilla looked revitalized, too. Her cheeks were rosy and fuller. The kitchen, which used to emit only the smell of watery soup and burnt toast, now perpetually wafted the aroma of roast meat or thick, hearty stew, making the neighbors swallow their spit in envy.
The primary cause of this family's "economic miracle" was currently sitting at the dining table, counting a stack of Gil with the hand speed of a professional casino cashier.
"Total for this week... 15,000 Gil," Johnny murmured softly. His fingers deftly bound the cash with a rubber band.
Johnny was now fourteen years old.
His transformation was drastic. He had grown taller, his shoulders broadening and packed with corded muscle—the result of swinging a sword weighing dozens of kilograms every single night. His red hair was cut short in a neat military fade for combat efficiency, though the top was left slightly spiky—a signature look he refused to abandon.
He was no longer Johnny the delinquent. He was the family's "Secret Investor."
"Johnny!" Garrick called from the front door, his face beaming like a child who had just received a new toy. "The steel delivery truck is here! You want to check the quality?"
"Yeah, Dad. Make sure they brought the Tungsten Steel this time, not that cheap cast iron polished to look expensive," Johnny replied as he stood up. With practiced movements, he stashed the money into a secret safe beneath his bedroom floorboards.
Johnny walked out into the workshop yard. His footsteps were steady, heavy, and authoritative.
The residents of Sector 7 who crossed his path greeted him with respect. "Morning, Mr. Johnny!" or "Looking sharp, Little Boss!" Even the street thugs who usually shook down passersby hurriedly stepped aside, pretending to be busy picking their noses as Johnny walked past.
They didn't know Johnny slaughtered monsters every night. They only knew him as the prodigy who had "cornered" the monster scrap business in the black market.
In these six months, Johnny's personal savings had broken the 150,000 Gil mark. An insane figure for a Slums kid. It was equivalent to the salary of a mid-level Shinra manager sitting in an air-conditioned office.
By day, he was nicknamed the "Young Master of the Workshop." By night, in the black market, he was called the "Iron Ghost."
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That afternoon, after the workshop business was concluded, Johnny sat in the backyard, staring at his Scrap greatsword leaning against the wall.
The blade was in a sorry state. Filled with hairline fractures, chipped everywhere, and the hilt had been re-wrapped countless times with scrap cloth.
"You're tired, buddy," Johnny whispered to the metal. "It's time to retire. You won't be strong enough to cleave through a Behemoth's hide."
He needed a new weapon. And with this much money, he wouldn't be making a weapon out of trash anymore. He was going to order a Custom Military Grade weapon.
That evening, Johnny entered his room and locked the door. He pulled the small iron chest from its hiding place.
Puck flew out of Johnny's pants pocket, his eyes sparkling—almost shaped like the Gil symbol—at the sight of the stacks of banknotes.
"WOW! BOSS! WE'RE RICH!" Puck shrieked hysterically. The fairy dove in, doing a backstroke across the pile of cash. "We can buy a castle made of candy! Or rent a whole VIP train car just for the two of us! Or... or buy an apple factory!"
"This isn't for snacks, Puck," Johnny cut in seriously, ruining the fairy's fantasy.
He took out 120,000 Gil.
A fantastic sum. In Sector 7, this amount could buy a house or open a branch store. But for Johnny, this was the minimum price for his new "life."
He wrapped the money in black cloth and stuffed it into the deepest part of his waist pouch. Then, he picked up his severely cracked Scrap Greatsword for the last time.
"Thanks for lasting this long," Johnny whispered sincerely, stroking the rough iron blade.
Although the weapon was ugly, it held sentimental value. This was the first weapon that helped him protect his parents, Sector 7, and of course... Aerith. But sentiment couldn't cut through the steel of stronger enemies.
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The journey to Wall Market felt different this time.
Johnny didn't walk or take the sweat-smelling public train. He pulled back a tarp in the corner of the workshop, revealing his masterpiece from the last five months.
A custom motorcycle, painted matte black with dark red accents. The engine was cannibalized from Shinra scrap, but tuned up by Garrick and Johnny until it purred with a smooth yet powerful hum.
Johnny put on his hooded jacket and started the engine. VROOOM... A beautiful, low bass sound.
He rode the bike through the main road toward Wall Market. The wind hit his face. It felt like freedom.
Upon arriving at the Wall Market gate, he didn't park his bike just anywhere. He left it with Sam, the owner of Chocobo Sam's Delivery Service.
Sam, a middle-aged man with an eccentric cowboy style, let out a long whistle when he saw Johnny's bike.
"Wheee-ew...!" Sam whistled. He circled the bike, touching the tank. "Your bike is shiny, Kid. Slick like Don Corneo's bald head. What kind of polish did you use?"
"Trade secret, Uncle," Johnny replied, taking off his helmet. "I had to make it shine. At the very least, a girl should be able to check her reflection in it."
Sam burst out laughing. "Hahaha! You young people! Love really is the best fuel, isn't it? For the last two weeks, you must have been rubbing this tank until your hands blistered, huh?"
"More blisters than holding a sword," Johnny admitted honestly.
"In that case, I approve," Sam said, stroking his chin. "By the way, seeing your bike got me thinking... why don't I get into the Motorcycle Rental business too? It looks cool."
Johnny shook his head quickly. "Bad idea, Uncle. Very bad."
"Why?"
"With Chocobos, they're smart animals. If a renter tries anything funny, the Chocobo can run home or kick them," Johnny explained logically. "But a motorcycle? If it breaks down in the middle of the Slums, the tires will be gone in five minutes. The engine in ten. In twenty minutes, you'll be left with just the frame."
Sam slapped his forehead. "Makes sense... makes sense! The thugs around here have hands faster than professional thieves. Okay, forget that idea. Chocobo forever."
Johnny handed over a few Gil coins for the VIP parking fee. "Watch it closely, Uncle. If there's even a single scratch on it..."
"Relax! I'll feed it premium greens if I have to!" Sam joked.
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Johnny walked toward the entrance of Wall Market.
In the past, the thug-looking gatekeepers would shake down anyone who passed. But this time, as Johnny approached, the atmosphere was different.
One of the new guards tried to step forward to block him. "Hey, Kid! Pay the tax or—"
His senior partner hurriedly grabbed the rookie by the collar, silencing him. The senior's face went pale.
Johnny only glanced over once. His eyes were cold, empty, yet sharp. The gaze of the "Mad Dog of Sector 7."
The senior guard immediately pretended to be busy looking at a crow on a power line. "Eh, nice weather today... nice bird..."
Johnny snorted softly, then stepped inside. His reputation had already reached the ears of the street grunts.
He didn't go to the flashy weapon shops displaying machine guns and standard swords in the front window. Those shops only sold mass-produced Shinra goods—cheap iron that broke easily.
Johnny walked toward the dark, narrow back alleys, the place where the "real goods" were sold.