Chapter 3: The Merchant’s Scale
The Market District of Oakhaven woke up under a blanket of cold morning fog. Shops unbuttoned their heavy wooden shutters, and the smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh bread filled the cobblestone streets.
At the edge of the market stood The Gilded Anvil, the premier gear shop for adventuring recruits. Its windows displayed gleaming steel longswords, polished breastplates, and fine leather cloaks—all crafted by certified C-Rank and B-Rank smiths.
Inside, Master Theron, a dwarf with a braided gray beard and a heavy leather apron, was wiping down the counter when the front door’s brass bell chimed.
Theron looked up, frowning.
Walking into his pristine shop was a lean young man wearing a faded, patched coat stained with grease and mud. Dark circles sat under his eyes, but his gaze was sharp, clear, and unnervingly calm. He carried a heavy burlap sack slung over his shoulder.
"We aren’t taking hand-outs, kid," Theron grunted, leaning his thick forearms against the counter. "And if you’re selling scrap metal, the foundry is three blocks down."
Kael walked up to the counter and set the heavy burlap sack down with a solid clunk.
"I’m not here to sell scrap metal, Master Theron," Kael said, his voice quiet but steady. "I’m here to sell gear."
Theron blinked, then let out a booming laugh that shook the glass display cases. "Gear? You? Kid, you look like you haven’t slept in three days and your coat is held together by hope and spit. What kind of gear could you possibly have?"
Without a word, Kael reached into the bag and pulled out a long, sleek dagger.
Theron’s laughter trailed off.
The dagger didn’t look like anything sold in the city. The blade was crafted from dark, overlapping scales of pitted iron, fused together in a pattern that resembled the scales of a serpent. The hilt was wrapped in coarse brown leather, and at the pommel sat a faint, pulsing red stone fragment secured by twisted brass wire.
It looked wild, primitive, and undeniably deadly.
"What is this?" Theron muttered, his merchant instincts taking over. He reached out and picked up the weapon.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the leather grip, the dwarf’s eyes widened.
Theron reached under the counter and pulled out an Assessment Monocle, placing it over his left eye. A soft amber light swept over the blade.
[Item: Serrated Scale Dagger (Uncommon)]
Durability: 45/45 Attack Power: 22 - 28 Special Effect [Corrosive Bleed]: Attacks have a 20% chance to inflict armor corrosion, reducing the target’s physical defense by 15% for 10 seconds. Crafting Technique: Anomalous Fusion (High Efficiency)
"Uncommon grade..." Theron whispered, his thumb running along the razor-sharp edge of the scale-blade. "The weight balance is flawless. But... these are Scraptooth Rat scales! How did you bypass the impurity brittleness? Whenever our smiths try to forge with monster scrap, the metal shatters in the furnace!"
"By not putting it in a furnace," Kael replied calmly. "Heat forces the impurities to expand, which ruins the lattice structure. If you align the mana along the natural stress fractures of the rusted scale instead, the impurities act as an anchor."
Theron pulled the monocle from his eye and stared at Kael as if he were looking at a ghost. "Who made this? Which Master Crafter are you apprenticed to? Master Vance from the Upper District?"
"I made it," Kael said. "And my name is Kael Vance. I’m an F-Rank Scrap Artisan from the academy."
Theron stood frozen for three full seconds. Then, a dark scowl crossed his face. "Are you taking me for a fool, boy? An F-Rank trash class can’t produce an Uncommon weapon with an armor-shredding enchantment! Is this stolen?"
"Check the signature," Kael said evenly, gesturing to the flat of the blade.
Theron lifted the dagger to the light. Scratched minutely into the metal near the guard was a tiny, distinct mana signature—the unmistakable mark left by a crafter’s unique energy footprint. It matched Kael’s aura perfectly.
Theron took a slow, deep breath, sitting back on his wooden stool. The hostility in his eyes transformed into something far more dangerous: intense curiosity and greed.
"An F-Rank..." Theron muttered, rubbing his beard. "A technique that converts worthless scrap into Uncommon combat gear... Do you have any idea what this means, boy? The Smithing Guild would pay a fortune for this method."
"The method isn’t for sale," Kael said directly. "The dagger is. How much?"
Theron narrowed his eyes. "It’s an unconventional design. High performance, but low durability compared to forged steel. I’ll give you eight gold credits for it."
Kael didn’t flinch. He reached out, grabbed the hilt of the dagger, and began sliding it back into his burlap sack.
"Hey! What are you doing?" Theron barked.
"A standard Iron Shortsword sells for ten gold and has no special effects," Kael said, looking Theron straight in the eyes. "This dagger grants a 15% armor reduction. Any rogue or scout entering the Green Mist Dungeon would pay twenty gold for this edge. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it to the Adventurer’s Association auction house."
Theron gritted his teeth. The kid was sharp. He knew the market better than most veteran adventurers.
"Fifteen gold," Theron snapped. "Final offer. And I buy whatever else you have in that bag."
Kael paused. He unzipped the bag further, revealing three more items resting inside: two lightweight arm guards made from reinforced automaton shell plating, and a small, heavy iron shield reinforced with overlapping rusted hinges that hummed with a defensive kinetic ward.
All three glowed with the soft green hue of Uncommon quality.
Theron gasped, dropping his monocle onto the counter. "You... you made four of them?!"
"Total price for the set," Kael said, his voice cold and precise, "is sixty-five gold credits. Take it or I walk."
Theron stared at the collection on the counter. The raw materials couldn’t have cost more than a few silver in the scrap district, but the execution was brilliant. The profit margin for selling these to desperate academy recruits before the weekend dungeon trials would be massive.
"Fine!" Theron grumbled, slamming his fist on the counter. He reached under the register and pulled out a heavy velvet pouch, counting out sixty-five shiny gold coins. "Sixty-five gold. But on one condition."
"I’m listening," Kael said, sweeping the gold into his coat pocket. The weight felt incredible—more money than his family had seen in three years.
"You bring your creations to me first," Theron said, his voice dropping low. "Don’t sell to the Association. Don’t sell to the Guilds. Bring them here, and I’ll give you fair market price every time."
Kael closed his pocket, feeling the cold, hard reality of the gold against his chest. His mother’s medicine was secured. His academy tuition was paid.
"I’ll think about it," Kael said.
He turned and walked toward the exit. But as he pushed the heavy oak door open, three figures blocked his path on the street outside.
It was Marcus, accompanied by two heavy-set guards wearing the emblem of the city patrol.
Marcus took one look at Kael coming out of the elite gear shop, then spotted the fat pouch tucked into Kael’s inner coat pocket. A dark, ugly sneer twisted Marcus’s face.
"Well, well," Marcus said, stepping forward to block the doorway. "Look what we have here. Patrol Officers! That’s the thief I told you about. An F-Rank scrap collector carrying a pouch full of gold—there’s no way he earned that legally."
To Be Continued...
Thanks for reading!
If you’re enjoying the story, please consider adding it to your Library and giving it a Power Stone. Your support helps the novel grow. Thank you!