The crowd parted as a new figure stumbled forward, draped in layers of tattered fabric that fluttered in the wind like shredded flags.
His beard was a wiry thicket of grey, and his hands shook—not from fear, but from exhaustion, the kind born of too many nights sleeping under alley eaves and temple stairs. His eyes, however, gleamed with a peculiar sharpness that cut through the dust caking his face.
"I… I want to try," the beggar rasped, stepping toward the table of vibrant boxes.
A few people gasped. One woman clutched her companion's arm, whispering, "Is he mad?"
Another man chuckled cruelly. "Old fool doesn't even have shoes. He thinks he's lucky now?"
The beggar bowed his head, then slowly lifted a small cloth pouch from beneath his robes. He opened it, revealing ten chipped and dulled mana crystals. Not the purest grade, but unmistakably real.
