The God of Ruin’s Pocket Change

CHAPTER 3: The Decimal Point of Doom

Anya didn't walk; she skittered.

She moved through Sector Z like a cockroach that knew exactly when the kitchen lights were about to flick on. One moment she was in front of me, the next she was sliding under a rusted pipe or vaulting over a pile of radioactive-looking sludge.

"Keep up, Moneybags!" she whispered, ducking into a narrow alleyway that smelled like burning hair.

"I have a name," I grumbled, stepping over a puddle that was glowing a faint, unhealthy green. "And stop calling me that. It’s tacky."

"It's accurate," she shot back. She pressed herself flat against a wall, peeking around the corner before waving me forward. "You have ten dollars. In this zip code, that doesn't make you a person. It makes you a walking vault."

I sighed, adjusting my hood. The rain had picked up, turning the grime on the streets into a slick, black paste. My indestructible celestial hoodie was doing a good job of keeping me dry, but it couldn't keep out the cold, crushing misery of this place.

"Where are we going?" I asked. "You mentioned a safe house. This looks more like a place where people get stabbed for their kidneys."

"We're taking the scenic route," Anya said. "The main streets are buzzing. The Penny Incident at the food stall? That news is traveling faster than a virus. Every gang leader within five miles is currently licking their lips and sharpening their machetes."

"Let them come," I said, bored. "I’ll flick them."

Anya stopped dead. She spun around, her grey eyes blazing. She grabbed the front of my hoodie and yanked me down to her eye level. For a malnourished teenager, she was surprisingly strong.

"Listen to me," she hissed, her voice trembling with genuine frustration. "You think this is a game? You think because you're tall and have pretty skin, you're invincible?"

"I was a God this morning," I pointed out. "So, yes. Habits die hard."

"Well, you're not a God now. You're meat. High-value meat." She let go of me and pointed a shaking finger at a shop window across the narrow street. "Look at that."

I looked.

It was a weapon shop. Or, at least, it tried to be. The sign above the door read IRONFANG ARMORY in flickering red neon, but the "R" and the "Y" were burnt out, so it just said IRONFANG ARM.

The window was barred with heavy steel grates. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion that had been eaten by moths, was a sword.

It wasn't a good sword. I’d seen better toothpicks in the Celestial Realm. The metal was pitted, the hilt was wrapped in cheap leather, and the edge looked like it had been sharpened with a rock.

But it was the price tag that caught my eye.

A small, digital display sat next to the blade.

PRICE: $0.0004

I stared at it. I blinked. I rubbed my eyes and stared again.

"Four..." I did the mental math. "Four ten-thousandths of a dollar?"

"That’s a week’s wages for a scavenger," Anya said quietly, watching my face. "That sword is a luxury item. Only a Lieutenant of the Iron Skulls could afford that."

A cold, heavy stone settled in my stomach.

I pulled the ten-dollar bill halfway out of my pocket, shielding it with my hand so the neon light wouldn't catch it.

I looked at the number 10.

Then I looked at the price tag 0.0004.

If a rusted piece of scrap metal was worth a fraction of a penny...

"Do the math, Russ," Anya whispered. "If that sword is $0.0004... what can you buy with Ten Dollars?"

"Everything," I muttered. The realization hit me like a physical punch. "I could buy the city. I could buy the army. I could buy the air everyone is breathing."

"Exactly," Anya said. "And that's why you need to be scared. Because you can't spend ten dollars."

"Why not?"

"Because nobody has change," she said, her voice dropping to a terrified hush. "If you try to buy a meal with that bill, the System won't be able to process the transaction. It will flag it as an Economic Anomaly. The Overseers will descend. They won't arrest you. They'll dissect you to find out where you're printing the money."

I shoved the bill deep into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cool paper.

Suddenly, the money didn't feel like wealth. It felt like I was carrying a sphere of antimatter in my pants.

"Fiscal Radiation," Anya said, answering a question I hadn't asked.

"What?"

"Money emits energy," she explained, starting to walk again, though her pace was slower now. "The System tracks Value. Small amounts, like copper, emit a low hum. Silver emits a frequency. Paper... Paper screams."

She tapped her own ear.

"There are Scanners. Machines that listen for the scream of high-value currency. Right now, that ten-dollar bill is humming like a beehive. The only reason the Hunters haven't found us yet is because the background interference of the Slums is masking it. But if we go to the Golden Zone? You’ll light up the grid like a supernova."

I walked in silence for a moment.

"So I'm a bomb," I said.

"You're a walking nuclear warhead," she corrected. "And I'm the idiot walking next to the detonator."

"Why help me?" I asked, watching her scan the rooftops. "If I'm this dangerous, why not just stab me, take the bill, and run?"

Anya paused. She looked back at me, and for a second, the hard, street-rat mask slipped. I saw something else in her eyes. Exhaustion. Deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

"Because I have a debt," she said softly. "A big one. And maybe... just maybe... if you're as powerful as that money suggests, you can help me clear it."

"Mercenary," I smirked. "I like it. Honest."

"Survivalist," she corrected. "Now shut up and move. We’re almost to the—"

She stopped.

She didn't just stop walking; she froze, her entire body going rigid.

I sensed it too.

The air in the alleyway changed. The smell of rot and rain was suddenly overpowered by the smell of cheap tobacco and unwashed bodies.

Shadows detached themselves from the walls at both ends of the alley.

Three men stepped out in front of us. Two more stepped out behind.

They were big. Not god-big, but big for mortals who grew up eating synthetic sludge. They wore leather jackets studded with scrap metal, and their faces were covered in crude tattoos that looked like skulls.

The Iron Skulls.

"Well, well," a voice rasped.

The man in the center stepped forward. He was holding a lead pipe that was wrapped in barbed wire. He was bald, with a barcode on his neck that read $0.15—the highest number I’d seen on a person yet.

"The little rat found a big cheese," the leader grinned, revealing a mouth full of metal teeth.

Anya stepped in front of me. She pulled her knife, holding it in a reverse grip. She looked tiny compared to them, like a kitten hissing at a pack of wolves.

"Back off, Rex," Anya warned. "He's not a tourist. He's a VIP."

"VIP?" Rex laughed. It was a wet, hacking sound. "He looks like a stray dog in a fancy hoodie. But the rumors... the rumors say he paid Old Jenk with a Whole One."

Rex’s eyes shifted to me. They were greedy, stupid eyes.

"Is it true, tall boy?" Rex asked, slapping the pipe into his open palm. "You carrying copper? Maybe even... a nickel?"

I looked at Anya. She was trembling, but she held her ground.

"Run, Russ," she whispered out of the side of her mouth. "I'll distract them. Go left, climb the fence."

"And leave you here?" I asked.

"I can slip away. You can't. You're too big."

"Touching," I said. "But unnecessary."

I stepped around Anya.

"Russ!" she hissed. "Don't be an idiot!"

I ignored her. I walked toward Rex until I was just out of swinging range. Up close, he smelled terrible.

"You're interrupting my walk," I said politely. "And you're blocking the path to my bed. Move."

Rex blinked. He looked at his goons, then burst out laughing.

"He thinks he's tough!" Rex crowed. "He thinks because he has a few cents, he’s a Warlord!"

The goons chuckled, tightening their circle.

"Hand it over," Rex snarled, losing his smile. "Empty your pockets. Every coin. Or we peel that fancy skin off you and sell it by the square inch."

I sighed. A long, dramatic sigh that echoed in the quiet alley.

"You mortals," I said, shaking my head. "You have no concept of scale."

"Scale?" Rex raised his pipe. "I'll show you scale!"

He swung.

It was a clumsy, telegraphed blow aimed right at my temple. If it connected, it would crush a human skull.

But I wasn't human. Not really.

I watched the pipe move in slow motion. I saw the rust on the barbed wire. I saw the sweat flying off Rex’s knuckles.

I didn't dodge. I didn't block.

I just raised my right hand and flicked my middle finger.

Not a punch. A flick. The kind you use to knock a fly off a table.

My finger connected with Rex’s forehead.

The sound was deafening. It sounded like a gunshot going off inside a cathedral.

Rex didn't scream. He didn't crumble.

He launched.

His feet left the ground. His body went horizontal. He flew backward through the air, traveling thirty feet down the alleyway. He smashed through a wooden crate, crashed through a sheet-metal fence, and finally came to a stop when he hit a dumpster with a resounding GONG.

Silence.

Absolute, paralyzed silence.

The pipe clattered to the ground, spinning noisily on the concrete.

The other four gang members stood frozen, their weapons raised, staring at the empty spot where their leader had been standing a second ago.

They looked at the dumpster. Then they looked at me. Then they looked at my finger.

I inspected my nail. No dirt. Good.

"Oops," I said, breaking the silence. "I think I used too much torque."

I looked at the remaining thugs.

"Next?" I offered.

The thug to my left dropped his knife. It hit his foot, but he didn't seem to notice. His mouth was hanging open so wide I could see his tonsils.

"He... he flew," the thug whispered.

"He ascended," I corrected. "Now. Are we done here? Or do I need to start flicking everyone?"

The thugs didn't attack. They didn't run.

Simultaneously, as if choreographed, they dropped to their knees.

Heads slammed into the muddy pavement.

"Forgive us!" one screamed into the dirt. "We didn't know! We didn't know you were a Physical Cultivator!"

"A Master!" another wailed. "Only a Master has the Finger of Death!"

"We surrender! We submit! We are your dogs!"

I stood there, blinking.

Anya slowly walked up beside me. She looked at the thugs, then at the distant dumpster, then at me. Her mouth was opening and closing like a fish.

"You..." she stammered. "You just... flicked him."

"He was in my personal space," I defended.

"You launched a two-hundred-pound man across a city block with your finger."

"I told you," I said, stepping over the prostrate bodies of the gang members. "I was a God this morning. My muscles haven't gotten the memo that we're retired."

I looked down at the shivering thugs.

"Get up," I commanded.

They scrambled up, but kept their heads bowed low, refusing to look me in the eye.

"You know the area?" I asked.

"Yes, Master! We know every crack! Every sewer!"

"Good. My guide here," I pointed to a stunned Anya, "says I have a 'Fiscal Radiation' problem. We need a place that’s shielded. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can sleep without people trying to rob me every five minutes."

The thug who had dropped his knife stepped forward.

"The Bunker," he whispered reverently. "Old Rex... I mean, the former leader... he had a bunker. Lead-lined. Deep underground. Hidden from the Scanners."

"Perfect," I said. "Take us there."

"Yes, Lord! Right away, Lord!"

They scrambled to clear the path, kicking debris out of my way, ushering me forward like I was royalty.

I glanced at Anya. She was still staring at my hand.

"Are you coming?" I asked.

She shook her head, snapping out of her trance. She looked at me with a new expression. It wasn't just suspicion anymore. It was fear. And maybe... a little bit of awe.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I'm a tourist," I corrected, flashing her a grin. "Now come on. I'm still hungry, and I bet Rex has a better pantry than a rat stall."