Kelvin turned his attention to Walker, who had been unusually quiet throughout the exchange between him and Hope. Unlike his usual laid-back and nonchalant attitude, Walker seemed slightly annoyed—almost like he had been left out of something important.
Kelvin studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Stretch out your hand," he said.
Walker arched an eyebrow, clearly confused. "Why?"
"Just do it."
With a small shrug, Walker extended his arm.
Kelvin raised his own hand and placed it over Walker's palm. A faint shimmer of essence flickered between them, swirling in tiny, luminous wisps that coiled around Walker's fingers before sinking into his skin.
Hope, who had been watching from the side, narrowed his eyes.
Again?
Kelvin was just giving out Memories—powerful ones, too—like they were worthless scraps?
Hope had no idea how rich this guy was, but even he could tell that the daggers he received weren't cheap. In the Waking World, Memories were sold for absurd amounts, with some reaching hundreds of thousands of QTA—the currency used in the waking world.
For someone like Hope, who had spent most of his life barely scraping by, a single Memory of this level could have been enough to live comfortably for years.
And Kelvin was handing them out like candy.
Is he that rich? Hope thought, skeptical. Or just that confident that he won't need them?
He had already gathered that Kelvin wasn't some ordinary survivor. The guy had an Ascended-tier armor, had been inside the Ashlands for a week which was unheard of—and was casually forming plans to take down a Sacred Beast. Now, on top of that, he had enough high-tier Memories to spare?
Hope didn't trust that. Not one bit.
Meanwhile, Walker remained still, his gaze unfocused. His breathing slowed slightly, his expression slackening as his consciousness drifted inward—to his Soul Sea, where the new Memory was taking shape.
Hope recognized the look. It was the same blank, distant stare he had worn when he received the daggers.
A few seconds passed before Walker's fingers twitched, and his eyes sharpened with clarity. He took a slow breath, then clenched and unclenched his fist a few times, getting used to the unfamiliar sensation.
Then, with a small flick of his wrist, something materialized in his grasp.
A weapon—long, curved, and wickedly sharp.
It was a machete, but unlike any ordinary one Hope had seen before. The blade was jet-black, with a serrated edge near the tip and a sleek, obsidian-like sheen that seemed to absorb the light around it.
Intricate carvings, resembling ancient runes, ran along the flat side of the blade, pulsing faintly with an eerie crimson glow.
Walker studied it with mild interest, shifting his grip, testing the weight.
Then, after a long pause, he nodded once in satisfaction.
"Cool," he muttered, his lips curling into a small smirk.