The world shimmered .

He held the cartridge. He had no slot to put it into. But the Code Weaver had whispered instructions: “Place it over your heart and speak the incantation: ‘Up, Down, Left, Right, Start, Select, R, L.’”

He looked into the pouch one last time. At the bottom, deeper than any item, he saw a new thing. A single, small, unassuming slip of paper. He pulled it out.

Tonight, the rain had stopped. The clock tower struck twelve.

Riou wept. He would forget this week. He would forget the power. He would go back to scarcity, to struggle, to the honest weight of a single herb pouch and a worn tunic. He would let the merchants haggle, the farmers sweat, the blacksmiths hammer.

He thought of the legends. Tales whispered by old merchants and drunken sailors of a "perfect arsenal"—every piece of armor ever forged, every rune ever inscribed, every sharpened blade and rusty nail. A hoard so complete it could end all want, all scarcity, forever.