The Divine Nerve: Healing And Ecstasy

Trash Into Gold

Silas walked until his muscles burned. He was far from the hospital now, deep in the residential district of Oakhaven. It wasn't the slums, but it certainly wasn't the Heights either. It was a place for the working class.

His stomach growled, a feral sound that reminded him of his current reality. He had saved the life of a billionaire CEO just an hour ago, yet he didn't have a single penny to buy a hotdog.

“Your body is refining the energy you stole,” Victor’s voice echoed in his mind, sounding bored. “But biological processes require calories. You need food. And for that, you need money.”

"Tell me something I don't know," Silas muttered, pulling up his damp collar.

He turned a corner and saw a moving truck parked in front of a two-story house. A middle-aged couple was arguing on the lawn, surrounded by piles of cardboard boxes and discarded furniture.

"I told you, Martha! We don't have room for this junk in the new condo!" the husband shouted, tossing a rusted metal box onto a pile of trash by the curb.

Silas slowed his pace. He intended to walk past, but suddenly, his right eye twitched violently.

A sharp, stinging sensation washed over his retina.

He blinked, rubbing his eye. When he opened it again, the world had lost its color. The street, the truck, the angry couple, everything turned into dull shades of grey.

Everything, except for one thing.

The rusted metal box on the trash pile.

It was pulsating. A soft, golden halo emanated from beneath the grime and thick rust. It wasn't just shining; it was breathing with a rhythmic golden light.

“Stop,” Victor commanded, his tone suddenly sharp.

Silas froze. "What is that?"

“That,” Victor purred, “is a profitable mistake. Do you see the aura? That is ‘Old World’ craftsmanship. Beneath that rust lies a mechanism infused with Alchemical Silver. To these peasants, it is scrap metal. To a collector? It is a retirement fund.”

Silas swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"

“I am never wrong. Get it. Now.”

Silas straightened his posture, trying to look natural rather than like a fugitive. He approached the couple.

"Excuse me," Silas called out.

The man, red-faced and sweating, looked up. He eyed Silas’s wet, slightly dirty medical scrubs with suspicion. "We’re not hiring movers, pal. And we don't have spare change."

Silas forced a polite smile. "I'm not asking for money. I just... happened to be passing by and saw you clearing out the garage. I’m looking for scrap metal for an art project. Would you mind if I took that rusted box?"

The man scoffed. "That? That’s just a broken clockwork piece from my grandfather’s attic. Heavy as hell."

He looked Silas up and down, a sly glint appearing in his eyes. "Tell you what. You look strong. If you move the rest of these heavy boxes from the garage to the curb so the garbage truck can take them tomorrow, you can have the junk. And I’ll toss in... twenty bucks."

It was an insult. The work was heavy labor that would usually cost a hundred dollars minimum.

“Do it,” Victor hissed. “The box is worth a thousand times that.”

"Deal," Silas said.

For the next thirty minutes, Silas worked. And to his surprise, it wasn't hard. The energy he had absorbed from Seraphina was still coursing through his muscles.

Boxes that should have broken his back felt as light as feathers. He moved with a speed and efficiency that made the homeowner blink in surprise.

"All done," Silas said, wiping his hands.

The man grunted, tossed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill at Silas, and kicked the rusted box toward him. "Take it and get lost."

Silas picked up the box. It was heavy, covered in layers of oil and soot, but in his vision, the gold light was blinding.

"Thank you," Silas said. He pocketed the cash and walked away, clutching his treasure.

Forty minutes later, Silas stood in front of The Gilded Cage, a pawn shop and antique store on the edge of the downtown district. It wasn't a seedy place; it was the kind of shop that sold 'vintage' items to hipsters and tourists.

The bell chimed as he entered. The shop smelled of old paper and lemon polish.

Behind the high oak counter sat Mr. Finch, a man with thin spectacles and a mustache that was even thinner. He was polishing a pocket watch with a jeweler's loupe.

He glanced up at Silas, his nose wrinkling in disgust at Silas’s disheveled appearance. "We’re closing in five minutes. And the homeless shelter is two blocks down."

Silas ignored the jab. He walked up to the counter and placed the rusted box on the velvet mat.

"I'd like to sell this," Silas said firmly.

Finch didn't even pick it up. He glanced at the rust, the grime, and the dented corner. "We don't buy scrap metal, son. This is an antique store, not a junkyard."

"It's not scrap," Silas said, channeling Victor’s confidence. "It’s a Victorian-era Astrarium. A mechanical star-chart. Underneath the rust, the gears are intact."

Finch let out a dry, mocking laugh. "An Astrarium? Do you even know what that word means? Look at this thing. It’s seized up. It’s trash."

"Just look at it," Silas insisted.

Finch sighed, rolling his eyes. He picked up the box with two fingers, as if it were contaminated. He shook it. It made a dull clunk.

"Hear that? Broken loose parts," Finch sneered. He dropped it back on the counter with a heavy thud. "Look, I’m feeling generous today. I’ll give you ten dollars. That covers the scrap value of the metal. Take it and go buy yourself a meal."

Ten dollars. It was robbery.

“Insulting,” Victor growled. “Open the casing. Show this peasant what he is holding.”

"It's worth more," Silas said, his voice dropping. "Much more."

"Get out," Finch snapped, pointing to the door. "Before I call the cops. I bet you stole this from a construction site anyway."

Silas clenched his fists. The accusation stung.

"Wait."

The voice came from the shadows in the corner of the shop.

Silas and Finch both turned. An old man in a neat grey suit had been browsing the bookshelf. He walked forward, leaning on a cane with a silver handle. He had snow-white hair and sharp, intelligent blue eyes.

"Let me see that," the old man said softly.

"Mr. Vance," Finch’s demeanor changed instantly. He smiled, obsequious and oily. "Oh, don't bother yourself with this garbage. This kid is just trying to hustle us."

The old man, Mr. Vance, ignored Finch. He walked up to Silas. "May I?"

Silas nodded, stepping back.

Vance pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket, put them on, and gently lifted the rusted box. He didn't shake it. He turned it over, examining a faint, barely visible engraving on the bottom.

He pulled out a small penlight and shone it into the cracks of the rust.

"Incredible," Vance whispered.

"Incredible junk, right?" Finch laughed nervously. "I offered him ten bucks, it was charity, really."

Vance looked up, his eyes locking onto Finch with icy disdain. "You are a fool, Finch. You’ve been in this business for twenty years, and you still can't tell the difference between rust and patina."

Vance turned the box toward Silas. "Young man, do you know what this is?"

"It's a prototype," Silas said, repeating the information Victor was feeding him. "Made by the ancestors of the Sterling family during the Civil War. It’s a field-surgical sanitizer, disguised as a music box."

Vance’s eyebrows shot up. "You have a sharp eye. Most people would assume it's a clock."

Vance placed the box down reverently. "The mechanism is seized, yes. But the internal gears are made of 'Blue Steel', a lost alloy. This isn't just an antique. It’s a piece of Silver City history."

Finch’s face went pale. "W-Wait... surely you’re joking. It’s just a box..."

Vance reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He didn't look at Finch. He stared straight at Silas.

"I have been looking for one of these for my private collection for a decade," Vance said. He uncapped a fountain pen. "I will not insult you with a low offer. The restoration will cost me a fortune, but the core is pristine."

He wrote quickly, ripped the check out, and slid it across the glass counter.

"Ten thousand dollars," Vance said calmly. "Cashable at any bank in the city."

The silence in the shop was deafening.

Finch’s jaw literally dropped. His eyes bulged, darting between the check and the rusted box. "Ten... ten thousand?" he squeaked.