Jack stood in the courtyard, drenched in sweat. His body ached in places he hadn't known existed, but he pushed through the pain. He was starting to get the hang of the movements from his father's memory ball. Each strike, each stance, and each breath began to feel slightly less foreign. It wasn't perfect—his kicks lacked the force he envisioned, and his punches often wavered with uncertainty—but there was progress. And that, at least, kept him going.
Victor observed from the side, his arms crossed. "Not bad, young master. Still clumsy, but you're hitting harder than yesterday."
Jack paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's harder than I thought it'd be. How did you learn all this stuff?"
Victor smirked. "Years of getting my ass handed to me. You'll get there eventually. Just don't get cocky."
Jack's lips twitched upward, but his expression quickly sobered. He'd learned early on that training wasn't just about self-defense; it was about discipline. And discipline was what he needed to ensure he never ended up helpless again.
As Jack resumed his drills, Clara approached, holding a ledger in her hands. "Jack," she called out, her tone sharp, "you need to see this."
He stopped mid-strike, turning to her. "What is it?"
She handed him the ledger. "These are the expenses and the income projections for the next few weeks. After the robbery, our resources are stretched thin. If we don't find a way to generate steady income, we'll be back to square one before you know it."
Jack stared at the numbers, his mind whirring. Clara wasn't exaggerating. Despite his growing knowledge from the memory ball, turning ideas into action was proving harder than he had imagined. He flipped through the pages, absorbing every detail.
"Give me until the end of the week," he said, handing the ledger back. "I'll figure something out."
Clara arched a brow, skepticism evident. "I hope you do, Jack. We can't afford to waste time."
That afternoon, Jack ventured into the heart of the city. The bustling streets were alive with the chatter of merchants, the clinking of coins, and the occasional bark of a street performer calling for attention. It was overwhelming, but it also stirred something inside him—a sense of possibility.
His gaze fell on a small stall selling brightly colored gemstones. An idea flickered in his mind, one inspired by his mother's memory ball. The gemstones reminded him of the jade gamble, but instead of luck, this time, it was about strategy.
"Excuse me," Jack said, approaching the vendor. "Where do you source these stones?"
The vendor, an elderly man with sharp eyes, looked him over. "Depends on the stone. Why're you asking?"
"I'm looking to invest in a gemstone business," Jack replied, keeping his tone confident. "I want to know if you'd consider partnering with someone like me."
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Kid, gemstones aren't just about buying and selling. You need connections, trust, and knowledge. You got any of that?"
Jack hesitated. "Not yet, but—"
"Then come back when you do," the man interrupted. "This business eats amateurs for breakfast."
Frustration bubbled inside Jack as he walked away. His plan to leverage gemstones was solid, but without a way to source them, he was stuck. As he wandered, he spotted a group of men arguing outside a shop. Their loud voices drew a crowd, and curiosity got the better of him.
"You owe me, Langston!" one man shouted, jabbing his finger at a wiry shopkeeper.
"I don't owe you anything!" Langston shot back, his voice shaking. "The shipment never arrived—it's not my fault!"
Jack stepped closer, catching snippets of their argument. It seemed Langston's business was in trouble due to a lost shipment. An opportunity clicked in Jack's mind.
"Excuse me," Jack interjected, stepping between the two men. "What's going on here?"
The angry man turned to Jack, scowling. "None of your business, kid."
Jack held his ground. "Maybe it is. I'm looking for opportunities, and it sounds like you've got a problem I might be able to solve."
Langston eyed Jack warily. "And who are you supposed to be?"
"Someone who doesn't like wasted potential," Jack said, his tone firm. "Tell me about the shipment." Ever since the memory balls unlocked, Jack had a profound sense of confidence and his tone seemed a hint of an imperial command rather than a statement or request.
Langston hesitated but eventually relented. "It was a batch of semi-precious stones. Got stolen en route. Without them, I can't fill my orders, and if I can't fill my orders, I'm finished."
"And what happens to the stones if you recover them?" Jack asked.
Langston frowned. "They're mine, of course. Why do you care?"
Jack's mind raced. If he could recover the stones and strike a deal with Langston, it might be the break he needed. "Let me find them for you. If I succeed, we split the profit fifty-fifty."
Langston laughed bitterly. "Kid, those stones are long gone. What makes you think you can find them?"
Jack smirked, his confidence growing. "Let's just say I've got a knack for solving problems."
By nightfall, Jack had gathered information from a few local contacts Victor had introduced him to. The stolen shipment had been intercepted by a small-time gang that operated out of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town.
Jack knew this was risky. He wasn't a fighter—at least, not yet—but he couldn't let the opportunity slip away.
Victor caught wind of Jack's plan and immediately protested. "This is suicide, Jack. You're not ready for this kind of confrontation."
"I don't have a choice," Jack argued. "If I don't take risks, I'll never get ahead. Besides, I'm not going in blind. I have the element of surprise."
Victor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "At least let me come with you."
"No," Jack said firmly. "If things go south, I need you to protect Clara. I can handle this."
Despite his reservations, Victor relented, though his parting words lingered in Jack's mind. "Don't get yourself killed, kid."
The warehouse loomed like a shadow against the moonlit sky. Jack crept inside, his movements careful and deliberate. His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the area. Crates were stacked haphazardly, and the faint sound of voices echoed from deeper within.
He spotted the gang's stash—a pile of goods that likely included Langston's stones. Jack moved quickly but quietly, prying open one of the crates. Sure enough, the gemstones glimmered under the dim light.
Just as he was about to grab a handful, a gruff voice rang out. "Hey! What the hell are you doing?"
Jack froze. Two men approached, their expressions darkening as they realized he didn't belong.
"Looks like we've got a rat," one of them sneered.
Jack's training kicked in—clumsy as it was—and he lunged forward, aiming for a strike. His fist connected with the man's jaw, but it lacked the power to do serious damage. The second man tackled him to the ground, and a scuffle ensued.
Pain exploded in Jack's side as one of them landed a brutal punch, but he fought back with everything he had. Memories from the ball surfaced, guiding his movements. Though unrefined, his strikes grew more calculated, and he managed to knock one man unconscious with a wild swing of a nearby plank.
The remaining thug glared at Jack, reaching for a knife. "You're dead, kid."
Jack's mind raced. He was outmatched and out of options.
Then, a loud crash echoed through the warehouse. Jack turned to see Victor storming in, his face a mask of fury.
"I thought I told you not to get killed!" Victor shouted, barreling into the remaining thug. Within seconds, the man was on the ground, groaning in pain.
Jack staggered to his feet, clutching his ribs. "I had it under control," he muttered, wincing.
Victor snorted. "Sure you did."
Together, they secured the gemstones and slipped out of the warehouse before reinforcements arrived.
By the time Jack delivered the stones to Langston, the sun was beginning to rise. Langston was stunned, his gratitude barely concealing his disbelief.
"You actually did it," Langston said, shaking his head. "I don't know how, but you did."
"Fifty-fifty," Jack reminded him.
Langston nodded. "A deal's a deal. This might just save my business—and yours."
As Jack walked away, exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but so did a sense of accomplishment. For the first time, he felt like he was truly carving his path.
But as he rounded the corner, a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows—Neville.
"Well, well," Neville drawled, his smile as cold as ice. "Looks like the piglet's learning to squeal. Let's see how long you last."
Jack's blood ran cold. Neville's words weren't a threat—they were a promise.
End of Chapter 9