Before heading to the weapon shop, Johnny veered off toward a stall radiating a faint, oscillating green and blue glow. The Materia Shop.
The scent of ozone and Mako energy hung faintly in the air. Inside a somewhat dusty glass display case, a glowing red crystal orb—the "Chocobo & Moogle" Summon Materia—was still sitting pretty in its spot. Four months ago, Johnny had promised he would come back for it.
"You came back," the old merchant greeted, adjusting his glasses. He looked genuinely surprised to see the boy actually return.
Without saying much, Johnny reached into the pocket of his worn trousers. He pulled out a heavy cloth pouch that landed with a solid clink on the wooden counter.
"Sixty thousand Gil," Johnny said flatly. "As promised."
The merchant's eyes went wide. He opened the pouch, staring at the pile of gleaming Gil coins—the result of months of hard labor in the workshop, scavenging scrap metal, and hunting monsters on the sector outskirts.
"Kid, are you serious?" The merchant looked at Johnny in disbelief. "The price was only 50,000 Gil. You're giving me 60,000? Do you know how hard it is to make money in this rat hole?"
Johnny just shrugged, giving a brief thumbs-up. His face was calm, but his eyes conveyed an unshakable principle.
"The extra ten thousand is your fee for holding it for me for four months. Consider it bank interest."
The merchant paused for a moment, looking into Johnny's eyes, which seemed far older than his years. He smiled, shook his head, took 55,000 Gil from the bag, and pushed the rest back toward Johnny.
"You have a strange sense of honor, Kid. Rare to find folks like you Under the Plate," the merchant said, handing over the red crystal orb. "Take back the 5,000. I'll take 55,000. Just shop here often, alright?"
Johnny nodded respectfully. He took the change and grasped the Summon Materia. The orb felt warm in his palm, pulsing gently with life energy.
"Awesome, Boss! Finally!" Puck, the little Fairy, popped out from behind Johnny's collar, hovering around the materia with sparkling eyes. "I have a playmate again! That Moogle looks like he'd be fun to fly with!"
Johnny offered a faint smirk at Puck's antics. He carefully tucked the materia into a special pocket in his pouch.
===============================================================
Johnny continued his journey into the back alleys of Wall Market's industrial district, a place where the grime felt permanent. There, on a red brick building with a chimney belching thick black smoke, hung a simple wooden sign bearing bold Wutai Kanji: "KAZAN" (Volcano).
The rhythmic clang of a hammer striking metal echoed from within. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Johnny pushed open the heavy door. Heat blasted his face like a dragon's breath. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur, sweat, and hot iron.
Inside, a burly old man with skin mapped by burn scars was forging a katana. His white hair was tied in a topknot, his eyes narrow but sharp as a hawk's.
This was Master Izo, a Wutai war veteran who chose to become a smith in Midgar rather than surrender to Shinra.
Izo didn't turn around when Johnny entered. "We don't fix leaky pots or broken broom handles. Get out."
Johnny didn't leave. He walked up to the ash-covered workbench and set down the cloth bundle containing his broken scrap sword.
THUD.
The heavy sound of the scrap metal made the sturdy teak table shudder; even a small hammer on a nearby rack fell over.
Izo stopped hammering. He set his mallet down slowly, then glanced at the bundle with the corner of his eye. He opened it, revealing the slab of railroad steel—cracked, chipped, and pathetic.
"What is this garbage?" Izo scoffed, reaching for his pipe. "Who uses a railroad track to fight? This is an insult to the art of swords. This iron is crying out to be put out of its misery, Kid."
"It's not garbage," Johnny answered calmly. "It has killed hundreds of monsters. But it has reached its limit."
Johnny then placed a second bundle on the table.
THUMP.
The solid sound of stacked banknotes was far more melodious than the clank of scrap iron. Johnny opened the cloth. 50,000 Gil sat there in plain sight.
Izo's eyes narrowed. He stared at the money, then at Johnny. He looked at Johnny's hands—the distinct calluses on his palms. Not the calluses of a factory worker holding a wrench, but the calluses of a Warrior who had gripped a sword hilt his entire life.
"I need a new sword," Johnny said. "Not some thin Shinra toy. I need... a Monster."
Izo wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty towel. He lit his pipe with an ember from the forge.
"Specs?" Izo asked, his tone shifting to professional. "Katana? Broadsword? Buster Sword knockoff?"
"Minimum length 200 cm," Johnny began listing, his face impassive. "Blade width as wide as an adult man's back. Minimum thickness 3 inches in the center. No fancy handguards."
COUGH! COUGH!
Izo choked on his own pipe smoke. He coughed violently until his face turned beet red.
"Are you insane, Kid?!" Izo laughed harshly, the sound echoing through the workshop. "Who are you planning to fight? The Shinra Building?! That's not a sword! That's a raw slab of iron! That's a bridge piling!"
Izo hopped down from his stool, measuring Johnny's height with his eyes.
"Look at you! You're barely 185 centimeters tall! The sword you're ordering would weigh 100 kilograms, maybe more if we use solid steel! You plan on dragging it along the ground, huh?!"
In Johnny's jacket pocket, Puck vibrated with glee. He poked his head out slightly, whispering enthusiastically.
"Awesome, Boss! Finally! Dragon Slayer! Let this old man know the Boss eats fridge-sized iron for breakfast!"
Johnny ignored Puck's chatter and Izo's doubt.
"I can swing it," Johnny cut in flatly. "Just make it. Use high-carbon steel, fold-forged. I don't need pretty decorations. I don't need dragon engravings or gold inlays. I need durability and dead weight."
Johnny looked Izo in the eye. "And I want that sword to have 6 Materia Slots."
Izo's jaw dropped. "Six?! Do you think it's a circuit board?!"
However, when Izo looked deep into Johnny's eyes, he fell silent. He searched for hesitation or stupidity in the boy's gaze, but he found only an ocean of dark, calm resolve. The gaze of a killer who knew exactly what his weapon was.
The old man grinned. His gold tooth glinted in the firelight. His smithing soul was challenged.
"Interesting... Very interesting. It's been a long time since I forged something 'crazy' that defies the laws of physics," Izo said, scooping up the money. "Usually people ask for light and sharp. You ask for an iron beam."
"This will take one week," Izo continued. "And since this is a custom order... I'll mix a little Mithril into the alloy. So it won't snap when you use it to whack a Shinra Tank."
"Three days," Johnny cut in.
"Hah?! You think forging Mithril is like baking donuts?!" Izo protested.
"Three days. I'll pay extra for your coffee," Johnny said.
Izo grunted, but he had already picked up his heavy hammer. "Damn it. Fine. Three days. But don't blame me if your back snaps when you try to lift it."
Before leaving, Johnny looked at the display of finished weapons on the wall.
On one shelf sat a wooden staff, beautifully polished with an elegant metal-reinforced tip. Below it was a label: "Guard Stick: Experienced and well-maintained. Also eco-friendly."
Johnny imagined Aerith holding it. Far better than the whack-a-mole stick she usually used.
And next to it, there was a standard Shinra sword. "Standard SOLDIER 3rd Class Sword". Light, sharp, but brittle. Decent enough as a backup in case his main sword was being serviced or got left behind.
"Uncle, I want to buy this staff and that standard sword," Johnny said.
Izo shook his head. "First time I've ever made such a killing off one crazy customer. Total extra is 5,000 Gil."
Johnny tossed the extra coins without hesitation.
Johnny turned to leave, but Izo called him back. His voice was heavy.
"Hey, Kid. What's your name?"
"Johnny."
"Johnny..." Izo blew out a puff of smoke, staring at the boy's sturdy back. "If you die a stupid death because that sword is too heavy, I'll melt it back down into a chamber pot. Remember that."
Johnny paused. He turned slightly, offering a faint grin—the signature feral grin of Guts.
"That won't happen."
Johnny waved his hand without looking back, stepping out into the heat of Wall Market.
Inside his pocket, Puck cheered quietly. "Chamber pot, he says! Hahaha! He doesn't know the Boss once cleaved a god with a scrap heap!"
==============================================================
Johnny pulled his hood deeper over his face. He paid the 50 Gil entry fee to the scowling bouncer manning the door.
Corneo Colosseum.
The moment he stepped inside, the roar of the crowd assaulted his ears. The air was hot, humid, and reeked of a nauseating cocktail of sweat, spilled beer, dried blood, and raw aggression.
The arena was circular, enclosed by a high iron cage. In the center lay a sand floor that had turned a muddy reddish-brown hue from absorbing too much blood over the years.
Johnny didn't sit in the expensive front rows. He chose to stand at the very top of the stands, leaning against a concrete pillar in the shadows. Puck peeked out just a fraction from his jacket collar.
"Ugh, this place smells barbaric," Puck whispered, pinching his tiny nose. "Why do humans love watching each other get beaten to a pulp?"
"It's not a sport, Puck," Johnny answered flatly, his sharp eyes scanning the arena floor. "It's an outlet. The people of the Slums need to see someone suffering more than they are."
Down below, a match was currently in progress.
A giant fighter wearing an executioner's hood was pummeling his opponent—a lanky, agile martial artist.
The Giant swung a massive spiked mace. The Lanky fighter dodged, trying to strike at vital points.
CRACK!
The Lanky fighter was half a second too slow. The spiked mace smashed into his shoulder. The sound of bone snapping was audible even from the nosebleeds. The crowd went wild.
"KILL! KILL! KILL!" they screamed in unison.
Johnny didn't join the cheering. His eyes narrowed, analyzing.
"That Giant is strong, but slow. He always leaves an opening on his left ribs every time he swings. If I step into his range before the swing finishes, one stab to the solar plexus will paralyze him."
"That Lanky guy has good technique, but his punches lack weight. He fights for points, not to kill."
Johnny filed it all away in his head. Here, the fighters relied on Spectacle. They wanted to look cool. They used exaggerated movements to play to the crowd.
To Johnny, those were all fatal openings.
The match ended with the Giant winning by KO. The Lanky fighter's body was dragged out across the sand like a sack of trash.
Then, the match MC—a short man in a flashy suit with Punk-Blonde hair named Kotch—stepped onto the stage with a microphone.
"And now! Let's welcome our favorite! The undefeated King of the Underground! The Smashing Machine... TANK!"
The heavy iron gate on the far side ground open.
Out walked a man of unnatural size. His muscles were swollen as if ready to burst, veins bulging purple against his skin. On his back, a small canister was implanted directly into his spine, injecting a glowing green fluid—likely a steroid mixed with Mako or some cheap experimental drug.
Tank carried no weapons. His hands were wrapped in heavy brass knuckles.
He roared at the crowd, a sound more beast than man, then slammed his fist into the concrete arena wall.
BLAM!
The concrete cracked under the impact.
Johnny straightened up, his interest piqued. "Artificial physical enhancement. Similar to a low-class Apostle," he thought. "His strength is probably equal to a large monster. But his mind must be dull."
The match began. Tank's opponents were three men at once, all armed with spears.
In less than a minute, Tank snapped the spears with his bare hands, then threw all three opponents out of the ring as if they were ragdolls.
Brutal. Efficient. Merciless.
Johnny grinned slightly. Now this was a challenge.
"Puck," Johnny whispered. "Remind me not to get hit by that guy. If I do, my ribs will turn to powder."
Johnny had seen enough for today. He turned, intending to leave the arena before the next match started.
However, as he walked toward the exit tunnel, a man intercepted him.
The man wore a tacky floral shirt, sunglasses indoors, and chewed on a toothpick. He was a Colosseum Talent Scout.
"Hey, Kid," the man called out, looking Johnny up and down. "I've been watching you. You don't cheer, you don't drink beer, and you stare at Tank like you're looking at a steak dinner."
Johnny stopped. "Is there a problem?"
"You have that 'smell'," the Scout grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "The smell of blood. You're a fighter, aren't you? Or an aspiring one?"
Johnny remained silent.
"The 'Rookie Crusher' tournament is happening in 4 days," the man said, shoving a crumpled flyer at him. "Grand prize is 10,000 Gil and access to the Pro bracket. Registration is at the back counter."
The man leaned in closer. "I need fresh blood. Tank is getting boring because he keeps winning. If you have the guts... sign up. What's your name?"
Johnny took the flyer. He looked at the crude illustration of a trophy and a pile of money printed on the paper.
"Johnny."
"Johnny... a common name," the man chuckled. "I'll wait for you on the sand, Johnny."
Johnny stuffed the flyer into his pocket, then walked out of the noisy Wall Market, heading toward the quiet night of Sector 7 on his motorcycle.
3 days until his sword was ready. 4 days until the tournament began. The timing was perfect.