Carmen and her organisation had ties to the ahmarians!
Or at least, that was what Mirac's instinct suggested after catching that slight reaction from her—barely perceptible, lasting less than the blink of an eye.
Although he trusted his sixth sense implicitly, Mirac could not be absolutely certain.
After all, there could be other explanations for Carmen's sudden reaction: perhaps she had simply responded on instinct upon hearing the name of a tribe she believed was known only to her and the members of her organisation.
'It would be easier if I asked her directly. But unfortunately, I have a strong feeling that right now, if I tried to ask her about the ahmarians, she would pretend she knew nothing…' Mirac thought, glancing sideways at Carmen as she continued washing the dishes.
With that thought in mind, the masked boy decided not to dwell further on the matter, and to postpone any conversation about the ahmarians to a later time.
Thus, Mirac continued recounting his day.
He then briefly described the visit to the Iron District, where Blake had taken him to the workshop "The Dragon's Jaws", run by Thomas, the son of the legendary blacksmith Derek, whom Blake had mentioned the previous night, including his mysterious disappearance months earlier.
He explained that, at Blake's insistence, he had decided to buy a sword, the very one now at his side: a sword forged from a precious alloy of Mana Metals, lightweight yet sturdy, perfect for his fighting style.
He didn't forget to mention that, as a gesture of gratitude for saving Blake from the Rogthars and to celebrate his promotion to the rank of Rectified Blade, Thomas had sold him the weapon, agreeing to accept a deferred payment when Mirac would be able to afford it, including a scabbard and a belt as a gift.
When the masked boy finished summarizing his day, Carmen looked up, placing the wet plate on a cloth next to the sink.
Her dark eyes, behind the rectangular lenses of her glasses, carefully examined the sword.
"A good deal, especially considering you'll only have to pay half of the original price," she commented, clearly referring to Blake's generous gesture.
After a brief pause, the red-haired woman added:
"Anyway, as for my day, I managed to sell all the Rogthars' organs. It took longer than expected, but in the end, it was worth it: in total, we earned 1300 Quorins. However, after spending 30 on ingredients for the cake and some decorations for the party, we're left with 1270 Quorins."
Mirac did a quick mental calculation, drawing on his knowledge of magical item prices.
"Not bad, but it's not enough," he commented, his tone flat but reflective. "The equipment for the Red Desert will cost us at least 1,500 Quorins. Then, factoring in the 200 Quorins we owe Blake for the entry fee, the 60 Quorins to Thomas's workshop for the sword, and the 400 Quorins to the Association for registration, that's another 660 Quorins we absolutely need to account for in the overall balance. So, we're short by about 890 Quorins."
Carmen looked at him for a second, astonished. "Wow, you're really good with numbers… Do you have a hidden talent for math?"
'Dammit!' Mirac tried not to flinch, but his tone of voice betrayed an inner quiver. "Oh, uhm… It's nothing special, really…"
Carmen stayed silent for a brief moment, staring at him without meeting his gaze. "If you say so…"
She placed the last clean plate on the cloth, then continued speaking:
"Anyway, you get the point: we're short on money. So we have no other choice: we need to take on some Association missions to earn what we need to repay Blake and properly equip ourselves for the journey ahead."
Mirac nodded without the slightest hesitation.
Deep down, he already knew perfectly well they would reach this point.
The lack of funds had been a known problem for both of them since the first day of their journey.
In that regard, the simplest and fastest solution would undoubtedly be to use the "Multiplicative Touch" ability to create all the money they needed.
That way, in theory, they would never have to worry about ending up with empty pockets.
But unfortunately, this alternative was an impractical option, for more than one reason.
Both banknotes and coins bore unique serial numbers, specifically designed by the government to combat counterfeiting. Duplicating them would therefore mean creating practically perfect copies—an enormous risk that could attract unwanted attention.
This obstacle alone was enough to discourage any attempt at currency forgery.
But for Mirac, there was more to it…
A more personal reason.
In his previous life, even in the darkest moments, when hunger gnawed at him and he didn't have a single coin, Vector had never given in to the temptation to steal money.
It wasn't a matter of fear or lack of opportunity, but rather the fact that taking what belonged to others would have meant losing the last spark of dignity that kept him standing even on the hardest days.
His current living conditions were certainly no worse than back then. Therefore, there was no reason for him to compromise now the moral principles he had upheld even while living in poverty.
Guided by this moral compass, Vector had always managed to honestly obtain what he needed to survive—food, clothes, small items of little value—by making the most of the opportunities life offered him.
And that was the same line that, for better or worse, he did not intend to cross in this life.
"I know we haven't decided yet whether to participate in the Raid on the Rogthars' Dungeon," Mirac continued, "but if we do decide to go, it would be best to choose short missions that don't keep us away from the city for too long."
He paused briefly, then added:
"Combining the money we'll earn tomorrow with what we could get after the Raid, I'd say we'll set aside a nice sum. And even if it's not enough to equip both of us, we'll buy a complete set for just one of us. Then, when we're alone, I'll use my powers to duplicate every piece: that way we'll have everything we need without spending twice as much."
Carmen met his gaze and, with a slight nod of agreement, replied: "Sounds like a good plan to me."
"Good. Then it's settled," Mirac responded, turning toward the stairs. "I'm going to wash up now. It's been a long day."
But as he was walking away, he suddenly stopped at the edge of the kitchen door.
"Thanks anyway… for all this," he added, his voice lighter and shyer, gesturing vaguely toward the living room, where the colorful paper decorations still hung from the ceiling.
But Carmen didn't turn or respond.
She simply shrugged, moving on to washing the cutlery and glasses.
Without adding anything else, Mirac headed upstairs, the sound of his footsteps echoing across the wooden floor.
Arriving in the room he shared with Blake, he found the tall, lanky boy already there, his hair still wet and wrapped in a white towel.
Blake was wearing a loose, light-gray cotton tunic with long sleeves that slipped just past his wrists, and a pair of light-brown linen trousers tied at the waist with a rope belt.
His gangly figure seemed even more relaxed, carrying the air of someone who had just shed the weight of the day.
"Hey, Isaac!" Blake exclaimed, pulling the towel off his head and shaking his damp hair like a wet dog. "I set out a change of clothes for you: a tunic and some comfy trousers. You can use them as pajamas. Hope they fit."
Blake pointed to Mirac's mattress, and the latter noticed a neatly folded stack of clothes on his bed.
"Thanks," said the masked boy, smiling.
With that, Mirac approached the mattress, bending down to pick up the clothes: a light-gray linen tunic, a pair of dark gray cotton trousers, and underwear, folded with a precision that drew an ironic smile from him.
'So you can fold clothes properly when you want to…' Mirac thought, recalling Blake's chaotic wardrobe, where a pile of crumpled garments threatened to spill out every time it was opened.
As Mirac set his sword and sheath beside his mattress, however, Blake's voice caught him off guard:
"You know," he began, his tone suddenly more serious, "if I'd told Thomas it was your birthday today, he probably would have given you the sword for free, without asking for anything in return. But I didn't, because he would've noticed the discrepancy between today's date and the one listed on your Association Identity Document…"
Mirac froze instantly, the clothes still clutched in his hands. 'Huh?'
Slowly, he turned toward Blake, his heart picking up speed.
The tall, lanky boy lay down on his bed, hands behind his head, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "On that note, when I realized it, I started wondering how much and which information on your registration form was actually true… And thinking about it, I feel the need to clarify something: I know full well that your name probably isn't really Isaac, just like the other woman's name isn't really Ananya."
Mirac didn't move, like an insect vainly trying to escape the gaze of a predator already aware of its presence.
Blake paused, observing the boy's silent reaction for a few seconds.
After a moment, as if to let his words settle, Blake slowly shifted his gaze away from Mirac.
He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, his face taking on a reflective expression.
He seemed lost in his own thoughts, contemplating the afternoon they had shared, while a faint sigh betrayed the depth of the emotions he was trying to contain.
"Anyway, you can relax," Blake continued, his voice thoughtful, devoid of any malice. "I don't care who you really are, or about your past or your intentions. After all, everyone has their secrets, right?" He paused, a strange expression crossing his face, as if revisiting a distant memory.
Then he went on: "I get that it's not easy to open up, especially when the past weighs heavier than the present… I'm not expecting anything, really. You helped me and accepted me for who I am. You're obviously good people, and that's enough for me. I'm sure that when you're ready, you'll tell me the whole truth about yourselves and your real identities…"
Mirac remained silent, the weight of Blake's words settling over him.
There was no accusation in the boy's tone, only a disarming sincerity.
Beneath the mask, Mirac pressed his lips together, nodding slowly.
"We'll see…" he said, his voice low.
Without adding anything else, he headed toward the bathroom, his thoughts swirling.
Blake wasn't the carefree fool he sometimes seemed to be.
He had noticed the discrepancies, had sensed that "Isaac" and "Ananya" were false identities, yet he had chosen not to ask questions, not to press.
Mirac realized that Carmen had likely anticipated this when she decided to involve Blake in the surprise party plan.
Perhaps she had considered that the risk of him uncovering their false identities wasn't a real threat, confident that his kind nature would ultimately prevail.
And if Carmen didn't see it as a problem, then Mirac didn't need to worry either.
Entering the bathroom, Mirac closed the door behind him and removed his mask, placing it carefully on the edge of the sink.
His face, reflected in the cloudy mirror, showed the features of a fifteen-year-old boy, marked by fatigue but lit with a newfound determination.
He stripped off his sweaty clothes, letting them fall into a wicker basket, and stepped into the tub, the warm water easing the tension built up over the day.
As he relaxed, the water lapping against his skin, Mirac closed his eyes, letting his mind settle.
He felt his heartbeat slow, his shoulders loosen, as if each drop washed away the invisible remnants of the stress he had accumulated.
For the first time in days, he felt he could allow himself a moment of respite, a breath amidst the storm of events that had now radically changed his second life.
That evening, he sensed a strange lightness within himself, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time.
'Heh! I'm 95 years old, and yet I could barely contain my joy at the surprise they pulled off. Come to think of it, it's definitely not the first time I've acted "differently" from my actual age. As a kid, for example, I behaved like a total brat! And I'm sure Carmen would be the first to confirm that…'
Mirac stifled a laugh, biting his lip slightly to keep it from escaping completely.
'Over time, though, I'd say I've grown and matured. And yet, right now, I feel like… I'm really just a fifteen-year-old kid… So, I wonder if reincarnating in this body did something more than just transfer my adult mind into a brand-new shell. Maybe growing up again, starting as a baby and living a second life, has slowly shaped my mentality, year by year, almost without me realizing it…'
* * *
Stepping out of the tub, Mirac dried himself with a rough linen cloth and put on the clothes Blake had prepared for him.
Returning to the room, he found Blake already laying on his mattress, his deep, rhythmic breathing signaling a heavy sleep.
No lights or sounds came from the ground floor, a sign that Carmen had finished tidying and cleaning downstairs and had retired to her room.
The house was enveloped in near-total silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fireplace slowly dying out.
Mirac approached his mattress, catching the faint glint of his sword's sheath, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window.
He rubbed his hair with the towel, then lay down, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, lost in his thoughts.
'Well, I'd say it's time to unwrap my last gift...' he murmured to himself, a faint smile playing on his lips.
With that in mind, Mirac closed his eyes and focused, deliberately summoning the vision where his Syntony with Math projected him whenever it needed to communicate directly with him.
A few moments later, the world around Mirac faded, and his consciousness was swiftly enveloped by a deep sleep.
Without noticing the exact moment of transition, he found himself immersed in a boundless black sky, dotted with bright, pulsating stars.
As he had anticipated, the same message that had reached him the night of his escape from the royal family's underground prison floated before him, suspended in the star-strewn darkness.
The words, traced in threads of white smoke, danced lightly, never straying too far from their place:
[ Do you wish to access the Realm of Numbers? ]
While relaxing under the warm spray of the shower, Mirac had decided it was time to explore the mystery that had been awaiting him for so long.
As always, in that dreamlike dimension, Mirac could neither speak nor nod, but his response echoed clear and powerful in the recesses of his mind:
'Yes!'
At that response, the message dissolved into wisps of smoke, only to reform into new words, sharper and more solemn:
[ Searching for an inhabitant of the Realm of Numbers… ]
[ Warning! ]
[ Access to the Realm of Numbers is currently restricted to the "Positive Peak" ]
[ Searching for an inhabitant of the "Positive Peak"… ]
[ Inhabitant found! ]
[ Numerical Identity of the inhabitant: +204843 ]
[ Establishing sensory connection with inhabitant +204843… ]
[ Connection established! ]
[ Initiating sensory synchronization… ]
Suddenly, the message and the surrounding stars erupted in a blinding flash, a wave of light that overwhelmed Mirac, enveloping him completely.
'Shit!' he exclaimed inwardly, overcome.
In that istant, a final message stood out in the dazzling light, and Mirac, just barely, managed to read it:
[ Welcome to the Realm of Numbers, Son of Math… ]