The ink still flooded down. Rye leaned, and cupped the ink so it wouldn't scatter. With the situation in hand, he couldn't do anything but stare at the panicked child. Rye couldn't even do something so simple as to apologize.
The kid did the same. They took what they could, and placed it in a new empty jar. What returned was barely half the original amount. The floor was still black and slippery.
"Dad's gonna kill me." the kid said, "Don't you feel bad?"
"I promise to pay it off." Rye replied. No use guilt-tripping him about it. He'd get a job, get ink, and trade – making newfound inventions with his system and creative paintings. He'd get rich and pay that shit off.
Haaah, that was unrealistic. But still – ink wasn't that expensive as to cry about it, right?
"No need." The kid retorted, then glared down at the kneeling Rye. "It's all already gone, what can we do? Not like a scrawny kid like you or your poor outskirts family has a job. A good one at that."
Oh, so this kid was racist… rather, regionist? It was true. They're merchants and probably saw the outskirts as business opportunities and not people. Basically, the kid's a nepo baby spoonfed by their parents' job.
"You know what?" Rye had an idea. "I'll pay it off."
Maybe then the kid's parents would actually give him the ink for free. Good deeds provide good harvest. He shouldn't run away from problems like that.
"Alrigth then." the kid replied.
They started to pull the wagon
—
The two walked in silence. The kid pulled the wagon while Rye followed behind, hands stuffed in his pockets, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.
Who knew what the kid's parents would say?… probably just overwork him to death in order to pay for those ink. That would be a time constraint in his art skills, and before he knew it, he'd learn to be a merchant instead of an artist.
A future Rye couldn't accept!
The square was busier now. More people setting up stalls, shouting prices, arranging goods. Trees lined up against the corners, sprinkles of green amidst the wooden stalls. Really, was there some sort of event?
That would explain why merchants were all around. Festivals and stuff are business opportunities, and a way to get customers.
The kid stopped at a cart with faded blue cloth draped over the sides. A man was unloading crates—tall, broad-shouldered, with the same green hair as the kid but cut shorter. He wore a leather vest over a plain shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He looked up when they approached. "Eirin. You're back. Did you bring the jars—" His eyes landed on the half-empty bottle.
Eirin's grip tightened on the wagon handle. They scratched his nape apologetically, trying to sound innocent. "I tripped. The jar broke. I salvaged what I could."
The kid glanced at Rye. He shuttered away, stepping back a couple centimeters. The man was intimidating, that's for sure.
The man's expression darkened. He set down the crate he was holding with a heavy thud. He sighed. Like a disheartened, disappointed sigh. He replied sarcastically to Eirin's tone. "Oh, so you tripped?"
"Yeah."
"That jar cost a hundred crowns, Eirin. Don't give me that shit." Oh, a hundred crowns? For a bottle, Rye thought it was pretty expensive. Considering the jars were so small.
Now he had two references for the prices: old parchment was for 40 crowns (?) and a small bottle of ink was for 100.
"I know." Eirin nodded. They looked down, and gripped his vest. The glare of his father made the kid hiccup.
"That's two days of profit gone."
"I'm sorry!!"
Rye cringed. 'Say something. You have to say something. You're the one who offered to go!'
But his throat closed up. The man was intimidating. Loud. And definitely not in a good mood. Who knows what he'd do to Rye, once he realizes it isn't his son's fault but a stranger's?
The man sighed and rubbed his face. "This is the third time this month you've—"
Rye's ears perked. Oh, so this wasn't the first time the kid did it. He didn't need to confess, the man could just assume it's Eirin's fault and let them get away. But Rye wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully that way. It's unfair to get scolded for something you didn't do.
And this was an opportunity to trade for paper and ink.
A proper merchant.
"It was my fault."
Both of them turned to look at Rye. Eirin, in this case, actually looked surprised. They sighed in relief.
"I wasn't paying attention. I bumped into him and the jar fell. It was my fault." Rye pressed his hands together, trying to look apologetic so the kid's father would have mercy.
The man studied him. "You are?"
"Rye Scarrow." He replied.
The man groaned, then rolled his shoulder to ease up. It was clear he was trying hard not to snap. "At least you're honest. Most kids would've run off." The man tried looking for redeeming qualities. Great. He crossed his arms. "For that, you only owe me fifty crowns. Pay it off. Consider it a blessing."
Rye's heart sank. A blessing, indeed. But a blessing was useless without a way to use it… "I don't have a single crown."
"Really?" The man looked surprised. Seriously, what had he taken in Rye for? A rich kid? He glanced at the wagon, then back at Rye. "Then, are you good with your hands?"
Rye blinked. Drawing, he wasn't so much. But the man was asking whether he could carry goods or not. His strength was a whopping 28, he couldn't carry shit.
Rye lied anyway. "Sure."
"Can you carry things without breaking them?"
"...Yes."
"Good. You work it off. Two hours a day for ten days. Organizing, carrying, cleaning, whatever I need. Miss a day, you owe the full price. Understood?"
Rye nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
"Don't call me 'sir.' My name's Tomas." He turned back to Eirin. "And you—be more careful next time. I can't afford to keep replacing our stock."
"I know, Dad. Sorry." Eirin laughed out. The kid looked like they were about to cry a second ago, now they're laughing. What a joke.
Tomas waved them off and went back to unloading. Eirin let out a breath and looked at Rye.
"You actually didn't run."
"I wasn't." A lie. He'd definitely considered it.
Eirin tapped their foot. "Most people would've. A hundred crowns is no joke."
Well, that probably contributed to Rye not running. If he'd known it was that expensive – two hours a day for ten days type of money – he would have most likely have ran as well.
They stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Eirin gestured to the half-full jar still sitting in the wagon. "You can have the rest. The wasted ink, I mean. We can't sell it anyway."
Rye blinked. "Really?" He expected that much.
He had to work for ten days, but he got the ink he needed. Later, he could actually go ahead and practice his drawing skills.
System level-ups would just be the bonus.
"What do you need it for? You look wayyy too happy." Rye hadn't realized it but he was laughing. Eirin crossed their arms as they asked this question.
"Art. You know, drawing and stuff."
"Oh really?! I like drawing too. Maybe you could teach me every time after work."
Rye considered the nuisance, but, it was a forced time to make him learn anatomy instead of just leveling up. His art skills may plummet if he didn't accept this mission.
So he did.
And then, at that moment, Rye Scarrow got ink and a job application. He didn't know he'd even come this far. Everything worked out perfectly.
All he had to do now was advance higher than [LEVEL 12].
And maybe get some paper.