The Trash King's System

Hidden Riches

Chapter 2: Hidden Riches

The scavenger crashed through the debris, his boots skidding on loose scree. His eyes weren't on Deyvok; they were locked onto the spot where the violet light had flickered. He stopped, chest heaving, his hand still clamped tight around the hilt of his rusted short-sword.

"Where is it, kid?" the scavenger spat, his eyes darting frantically across the dirt. "Don't play dumb. I saw that glow. That wasn't a standard mana-leak. What did you pull out of the scrap?"

Deyvok forced his trembling hands into his pockets, his fingers curling around the cold, jagged edges of the mithril shard. His heart felt like a trapped bird, frantic and heavy.

"I don't know what you’re talking about," Deyvok wheezed, keeping his voice steady despite the nausea rolling in his gut. "Maybe you’re dehydrated. The sun does strange things to the eyes out here."

"Don't give me that," the man snarled, stepping into Deyvok’s personal space. He smelled of stale tobacco and machine grease. "I’ve been scavenging these pits for ten years. I know what a high-grade refraction looks like. You found something, and you’re going to hand it over before I decide to carve it out of your corpse."

Deyvok took a slow step back, his boots crunching loudly in the silence. "There's nothing here, man. Just scrap. Rust. You want a piece of pipe? Help yourself. That’s all there is."

"Open your jacket," the scavenger demanded, his fingers tightening on his sword-belt. "Right now."

Deyvok felt the System pulse—a dull, warning thrum behind his eyes. He realized then that he couldn't fight. His mana was tapped dry, his body bordering on shock. He had to be smarter. He had to be invisible.

"Fine," Deyvok said, exhaling a shaky breath. He pulled his thin, ragged jacket open, revealing the patched lining of his shirt and the empty, stained pockets of his trousers. "See? Nothing but lint and disappointment. You want to kill me for an empty pocket? Go ahead. I’m barely standing anyway."

The scavenger leaned in, his gaze scanning Deyvok’s frame with predatory intensity. He patted the air near Deyvok’s chest, sniffing the ozone-heavy air. "It smelled like metal. Like clean, forged steel."

"It’s the static in the dump," Deyvok lied, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. "You’ve been out here too long, friend. Everything starts to shimmer when your blood sugar drops. Just walk away. There’s nothing for you here."

The scavenger squinted, his skepticism lingering like a bad taste. He kicked a pile of nearby gears, sending them clattering into the darkness. "If I find out you’re hiding a score, Rhamelis, I’ll find you. And when I do, I won’t bother with the talking."

"Understood," Deyvok murmured, bowing his head to mask the flash of panic in his eyes.

The man turned, muttering curses under his breath, and began kicking through the piles again, frustrated and aimless. Deyvok didn't wait. He turned and stumbled toward the exit of the Scrapyard, his legs leaden and uncooperative.

Every muscle in his body screamed, a burning ache that radiated from his core. The transmutation had cost him everything—his stamina, his clarity, and his sense of safety. He walked until his vision cleared, the outskirts of the residential district appearing as a cluster of grey, windowless concrete blocks.

He was halfway to his unit when a hulking shadow detached itself from the wall near the entrance. Jorvik Dalm. The man was built like a pressurized tank, his knuckles scarred from years of strong-arming the desperate.

"You're late, Rhamelis," Jorvik rumbled, his voice vibrating in his chest.

Deyvok stopped, his throat constricting. "I'm sorry, Jorvik. The yard was quiet today. Barely found enough to cover the basic sorting fees."

Jorvik stepped forward, blocking the narrow alleyway. "Quiet, huh? I heard a commotion over in the sector. Heard someone found something worth a few credits. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Deyvok kept his hand pressed firmly against the bulge in his inner pocket. "You know how the rumor mill is. People hear a clatter and start dreaming of gold. It was just an old pipe. Nothing worth the air we’re wasting."

Jorvik chuckled, a low, grating sound. "Is that so? Well, the debt doesn't care about dreams. It cares about numbers. You’re three days behind. That’s thirty credits, kid. Pay up, or I’ll start collecting in blood."

Deyvok pulled a small, grime-covered pouch from his side bag. It was filled with standard scrap copper—the scraps of the scraps he had spent all week gathering. He handed it over with a trembling hand. "That’s everything I have. It’s mostly refined copper wire. It should cover the interest, right?"

Jorvik snatched the pouch, hefting it with a sneer. He opened it, dumping a few strands into his palm. "This is junk, Rhamelis. Absolute trash."

"It's all I have," Deyvok pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please. I’ll double it tomorrow. Just give me the shift."

Jorvik stepped closer, his shadow engulfing Deyvok. He leaned down, his breath smelling of bitter ale. "You’re a failure, Rhamelis. Just like your old man. Don't think you can hide from me. I see the way you clutch that jacket. What’s in the pocket?"

"Nothing," Deyvok hissed, backing into the cold concrete wall. "Just my tools."

Jorvik grabbed Deyvok’s shoulder, his grip like a vice. "Tools? You can't even afford to fix your own boots, let alone own tools. Give it here. If it’s high-grade, we’ll call it even for the month."

Deyvok’s pulse hammered against his skin. He couldn't let go of the mithril. If Jorvik saw it, he would kill him for it. It was too valuable, too dangerous.

"I said no," Deyvok gritted out, shoving against the man's forearm.

Jorvik paused, surprised by the resistance. He narrowed his eyes, a cruel smile curling his lip. "You’re feeling brave today, huh? Or maybe you’re just stupid."

"I'm tired, Jorvik," Deyvok said, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharp clarity. "I'm tired of the scraps, and I'm tired of you. Leave me be."

Jorvik stared at him for a long, agonizing moment, then threw his head back and laughed. He shoved Deyvok backward, sending him stumbling onto the hard, cracked pavement.

"Keep your trash, then," Jorvik spat, turning away. "But don't come crawling to me when you're evicted at the end of the week. You're walking a thin line, kid. One more screw-up, and you're not just losing your room—you're losing your life."

Deyvok didn't respond. He stayed on the ground, watching as the giant walked toward the streetlights, his silhouette sharp against the gloom.

As Jorvik turned the corner, he stopped. He hesitated, his head tilting ever so slightly as if he’d caught a glimpse of something in the periphery of his vision. He squinted back toward the alley, his eyes narrowing.

"Wait a minute," Jorvik muttered to himself, his voice carrying clearly in the stagnant night air.

Deyvok froze. He held his breath, his hand still clutched around the mithril shard, praying the dim moonlight wouldn't catch the reflection through the tear in his fabric.

Jorvik stood still for a second, his gaze fixed on the pocket where the violet hum resided. A flicker—just a tiny, crystalline pulse—leaked out from the fabric, casting a sharp, metallic shimmer against the damp concrete.

"What was that?" Jorvik whispered, his interest piqued, his eyes turning back toward the shadows where Deyvok lay.

Deyvok crawled further into the dark, his

heart failing him. The secret was out, and he was no longer alone in the hunt.