"…then I'm done being poor."
The words still sat on his tongue when the window dimmed slightly. The system didn't respond—it never did. It just flickered gently in the dark like a lamp that didn't care if he was bluffing or not.
Frank leaned forward, his back cracking from the angle. He wiped a streak of sweat from his forehead, dragged the screen closer with a flick of his fingers, and opened the [Marketplace] tab.
A cascade of listings exploded across the interface—hundreds of them, layered in shifting text and half-glowing icons. Items from different realms rolled in like market stalls at a festival: bone flutes, powdered mana, teeth wrapped in silk, and something labeled "void-slug shells" with a customer warning attached.
Frank scrolled through, his jaw clenched.
"Filters," he muttered. "There've gotta be filters…"
He tapped the screen again. A side panel popped up.
Sort by:
– Price (Low to High)
– Realm of Origin
– Verified Seller
– Combat Use
– Potion/Consumable
– Tier: One Only
He clicked all of them except "Low to High.", then adjusted the price cap to just under his current balance—360 Tokens.
The marketplace thinned immediately. Clutter vanished. What remained looked more stable: basic gear, food concentrates, emergency talismans, and two potion entries.
Frank's eyes narrowed on one in particular.
Vital Surge – Low-Grade Recovery Elixir
Seller: Clan Herbalis
Realm: Greenfen Marsh
Type: Consumable – General Use
Price: 5 Tokens per unit
Stock: 200+
Status: Verified Trader
He tapped it. The listing expanded, clean and professional. No loud banners. No glowing "LIMITED DEAL" nonsense. Just neat font, organized specs, and one short product description:
"Restores stamina by 15% over three minutes. Promotes clotting of shallow wounds. No side effects. Light herbal aftertaste."
Frank read it twice. Then opened the seller profile. High rating. Several hundred trades. Buyers from three different realms—all Tier 1. The words "Efficient. Reliable. Clean brewing." appeared in more than one review.
He hovered over the chat icon.
Then tapped.
The seller responded faster than expected. A new window slid in.
Clan Herbalis: "Greetings, Trader. Interested in Vital Surge?"
Frank typed slowly.
Frank: "How do I know it's not diluted?"
Clan Herbalis: "We do not water our stock. We are bound by the Marsh Code. You may request a test vial."
Frank: "How many have you sold this week?"
Clan Herbalis: "Seventy-two. Mostly to Beastkin Ridge and Ember Wastes."
Frank hesitated. He wasn't buying for goblins or beasts this time; he was buying for Earth. And Earth was picky—especially Hunters who'd rather bleed than trust a stranger.
Frank: "What's your fastest delivery option?"
Clan Herbalis: "Standard sync window. Ten seconds after confirmed trade."
Still cautious, he clicked Request Sample – 1 Token. The window shimmered once.
An orb appeared in the air.
This time, Frank didn't flinch.
He caught it.
It was warm—not hot. Light weight, as if it were barely there. He popped it open and reached inside. A single brown-glass vial lay nestled in soft moss lining. The seal was clean, and the liquid inside was a deep amber—not glowing like a mana potion, but subtle and almost trustworthy just to look at.
Frank uncapped it and took a small sip.
The taste hit instantly—earthy, not sweet, but crisp, with something minty trailing behind. His stomach warmed. His heart didn't race, but his shoulders stopped aching.
He stared at the back of his hand. Just earlier, he'd cut it testing the goblin's fake blade. The mark was shallow, barely visible now. But the sting—it was gone.
He set the vial down. Opened the chat again.
Frank: "I'll take 40 units."
Clan Herbalis: "Confirming. 200 Tokens."
He tapped Confirm Purchase. The system deducted his balance, leaving him with 160 Tokens.
Another orb appeared—larger this time. He cracked it open.
Inside was a compact wooden crate with softly glowing seals on the edges. Dozens of glass vials nestled tightly together, held in place by bands of thin plant fiber. He reached in and picked one up. Every seal was identical—no leaks, no cheap refills.
He placed three vials on the desk beside him and leaned back slowly.
These weren't cosplay props.
These were real.
And he knew exactly where to take them.
____
Outside East Arcadia – E-Rank Dungeon Gate, Midday
The wind tugged at the cardboard sign as if trying to steal it.
Frank pressed it down with a spare vial, adjusted the scrawl across the front one last time, then stepped back.
Vital Surge – 10 Credits
Fast Recovery. No Watered-Down Trash.
The words looked a little desperate. So did the table. It was the same folding table he used back when he delivered heat packs to cheap outpost vendors. Now it sat crooked on the dusty stone path, its legs wobbly unless braced with a broken brick underneath. A worn crate sat beside it, bottles arranged in rows—twenty-seven vials visible, the rest tucked away in his backpack.
He pulled his jacket collar up against the sun and squinted at the dungeon gate down the path.
East Arcadia's Gate 12. Class: E-Rank. Common entry point for low-level Hunter groups and freelance scavengers—the kind who patched their gear with duct tape and didn't complain when their potions tasted like swamp. There were maybe twenty-five people already circling near the launch line—some stretching, some trading gear, and others snacking on hot noodles or meat sticks.
Frank rubbed his hands together and stayed silent.
He'd paid 75 of his last 100 Earth credits that morning at the vending license kiosk. It printed a yellow permit stub—already bent in his pocket. He'd registered as a "Freelance Merchant – Support Goods." That was all it took to set up just outside the gate boundary. No guild required. No insurance. Just the unspoken risk: if someone used your goods and died, it was your name they remembered.
A girl walked past, wearing leather armor, messy red hair, and a staff slung over one shoulder.
She glanced at his table, slowed, and read the sign.
Her lip twitched, then she kept walking.
A pair of sword-bearing twins passed next, laughing about something loud enough to cover their nerves. One of them threw him a glance.
"Trader class?" he asked.
Frank nodded once.
The other twin snorted. "You selling tea or hope?"
They kept walking.
Frank didn't answer. He stayed still, eyes scanning each group one by one: movement, posture, where the packs were heavy, who looked tired already, and who kept glancing at their belts—checking their potion count.
A tank in heavy mail—maybe thirty, with a beard down to his collar—stood in line near the front. He looked solid but kept favoring his left leg, limping slightly every few minutes. The guy's belt had one mana flask and no recovery potions.
Frank adjusted a vial so it caught the sun better.
Nothing.
An archer passed, slowed, and looked right at the potions.
He paused, then kept walking.
A third group—maybe new—lingered near his table but didn't speak. The leader, a girl with two daggers and a cracked pauldron, pulled her group forward without a word.
Frank exhaled.
Not loudly. Not angrily. Just controlled.
He picked up a vial and held it in his palm, letting the glow hit his skin naturally. It wasn't flashy or showy, but it looked… right. Like something made to work.
Behind him, the city faded into a haze of metal and heat. Before him, the dungeon loomed with lazy pressure, its entrance humming just loud enough to be felt in his ribs.
Frank stared at the gate.
"Just one," he murmured. "One good customer… that's all I need."