The scent of tallow still lingered faintly on Alex's breath, a tiny, necessary fuel for the battle he was about to fight. Theron was in the yard, examining a large piece of cured hide, swearing under his breath. The brute was anticipating the hours of tedious, fine work required for the smaller, most profitable items—the pouches, knife sheaths, and straps that demanded an attention to detail he violently lacked.
Alex walked toward him, deliberately shedding the spectral, sickly slump of Elian. He moved with a stiff, unnatural precision, focusing the minimal energy he had to project the cold, professional confidence of a modern analyst.
"The small hides," Alex rasped, his voice low but unnervingly clear. "You rush the corners and the stitching. You lose margins due to defect."
Theron froze. His massive hand, scarred and stained, clamped onto the hilt of his belt knife. Elian never spoke with intent, let alone critiqued his craft.
"What did you say, worm?" Theron's voice was a low growl of pure threat.
Alex did not flinch, treating the knife as an irrelevant variable in the negotiation. "Your finished goods in the market are sold for less than their potential. You waste time on basic hauling that I can do, and then you rush the high-value finishing that I can do better. It is an inefficient labor allocation."
Alex pointed a skeletal finger at the hides. "I take over all finishing work on pieces smaller than a bread basket. I eliminate defects. Your net income increases immediately."
Theron's face twisted in conflict. Fury warred with a glimmer of avarice. The boy was right. The detailed work was a constant frustration that cost him money.
"And what is your price, you insolent wretch?" Theron demanded, leaning in close.
"Sustained function," Alex stated, driving the bargain home. "The work requires consistent focus. I must be able to prevent collapse. I demand a full, consistent portion of supper—not scraps—and a daily piece of salted fat to maintain the necessary mental capacity for the detailed work."
Theron stared, measuring the cost of a few extra calories against the promise of higher profits and less tedious labor. Alex watched him, confident in the brute's predictable greed.
"Fine," Theron spat, shoving the hides at Alex. "You get the full rations. The fat is non-negotiable, you get one small piece daily. If I find one defect, one single wrinkle or tear, I will ensure you live long enough to regret it."
Alex nodded once, the victory absolute. "Understood."
The bargain was struck. Alex had secured his anti-aging currency. He now had the resources to rebuild his host body, stabilize his Stillness threshold, and prevent the suicidal, self-inflicted aging from his power.
With Ledger One tentatively balanced, his analytical focus immediately turned to the terrifying second ledger. He had to quantify the cost of his own future before he could risk using his magic again.
Alex has successfully bought himself time and resources. The next logical step is to address the unknown variable: the cost of his power.