Minutes later,
Michael stood before a brass mirror, hardly recognizing himself.
The rabbit woman had dressed him in a fitted linen shirt the color of charcoal, its sleeves rolled to the elbows and laced with leather cords. His trousers were sturdy wool, tucked into knee-high boots softened with oil. A belt hung at his hips, its buckle embossed with a wolf's head.
Now, he truly looked like one of the locals.
The rabbit woman clapped her paws. "Much better. Though…" She tilted her head. "You're still missing something."
She rummaged in a box behind the counter and took out a narrow scarf of deep indigo cloth, embroidered with fine silver thread. Then, she looped it loosely around his neck and adjusted the knot.
"Now perfect," she said with satisfaction.
Michael glanced at the mirror again. Although he felt like he was doing some medieval cosplay, he still smiled.
At that moment, a message popped up from the System:
[Host, you have successfully acquired local clothing. You have taken one step forward. Now, to legally do business here, you must obtain a Trade License from the Town Hall.]
"Hm… so, before I can start a business here, I'll need a proper permit first. Like Earth."
Just then, the rabbit woman held out a small pouch wrapped in cloth toward him.
"Here's your money," she said, her voice as lively as before.
"Remember—if you ever come across more clothes like these, make sure to bring them to my shop."
Michael took the pouch in hand. Opening it, he found a few silver and copper coins inside.
At once, faint blue text appeared before his eyes—
[Appraise (Basic) Activated → Total amount: 5 Silver, 150 Copper]
[Streetwise Instinct (F): No signs of deceit.]
Michael nodded.
(Good. She paid exactly as agreed.)
He slipped the pouch into his pocket and said,
"Oh, I will. For the right price. And… could you tell me which way the Town Hall is?"
The rabbit woman's long ears twitched. She touched her chin, thoughtful for a moment, then smiled brightly.
"Yes, you'll find it right at the center of the city. Just head straight down this road and, after a short walk, you'll see a huge building. That's the Town Hall."
Michael thanked her and stepped outside.
Following her directions, he walked straight along the road.
Now that he wore the same clothes as the locals, no one looked at him with curious eyes anymore.
Gradually, the surroundings began to change. The plain wooden and stone houses faded away, replaced by tall buildings of stone and brick. He even saw several armored guards patrolling.
Perhaps this was the town's elite district.
After a short while, Michael came to a halt. Before him stretched a busy street, with horse-drawn carriages and wooden wagons rushing in every direction. The whole scene was chaotic.
Though there were no horns blaring and no traffic signals, the sight still reminded him of traffic back on Earth.
Since this was a medieval city, naturally there were no real safety measures for crossing the street.
People crossed in their own ways. No fear in their eyes—some simply stepped forward, raising a hand to signal the oncoming carriages. Though the drivers scowled, they would tug the reins, slowing the horses just enough for the pedestrians to hurry across.
Michael watched as a man raised his hand, made eye contact with a driver, then dashed across in a flash. Here, courage and body language were the only guarantees for safe crossing.
Taking a deep breath, Michael thought, (Alright, I'll have to do the same as them.)
He scanned the area. A carriage slowed its pace, its driver casting an annoyed look at him. Michael raised his hand, signaling, then quickly stepped forward, crossing the street in haste.
On the other side stood the Town Hall, surrounded by walls.
Michael passed through the gate. The guards stationed there didn't stop him.
The building was far larger than the rest, with a completely different architecture. Towering stone pillars, intricate carvings, and a reddish roof upon which blue, white, and green flags fluttered in the breeze.
Beside the building stretched a wide garden—stone benches, rows of trees, and a spacious open ground where hundreds could easily gather. Michael guessed this was where public announcements were made, or perhaps trials were held.
He stepped into the main building of the Town Hall.
Though it was the city's Town Hall, there was hardly a crowd inside.
The hall was vast. Long rows of wooden tables were set, each occupied by clerks. Ink, quills, parchment scrolls, seals, and wax stamps were arranged neatly before them.
Michael noticed—these clerks carried an air of solemnity, as if they knew that with a few strokes of their pen, they could decide someone's fate.
The problem was, Michael had no idea whom he was supposed to approach. There were no signboards, no "Information" desk. Every table looked the same.
He walked up to one clerk and asked,
"Excuse me, could you tell me where I can apply for a Trade License?"
The clerk paused his writing, looked up at him. Tired eyes, a trace of irritation in his tone. He spoke curtly,
"Over there."
He lifted a hand and gestured toward a table on the left.
Michael thanked him and walked over.
The man at the left-hand table looked utterly disinterested in his work. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed, as though ready to doze off.
The moment Michael addressed him, the man suddenly opened his eyes, irritation flashing across his face. His voice was stern, heavy—
"What do you want?"
Michael looked at him for a moment and almost chuckled to himself. Though this was another world, it resembled Earth in far too many ways.
"I'm a trader," Michael said evenly. "I'd like permission to sell my goods here."
That earned him a sharper look. The clerk squinted, gaze narrowing like he was trying to peel away Michael's skin and read what was underneath.
"You're not from this town, are you? You don't look it."
Michael replied in a calm voice,
"No, I'm from outside. But I'm an honest trader. I'll pay taxes, follow the rules."
The clerk made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. He shifted in his chair, reached down, and hauled up a thick ledger bound in wood and iron. The cover was carved with heavy letters: Town Hall Official Trade Registration Book.
He flipped it open.
"According to the law—you must write down your name, place of origin, the goods you'll be selling, and your pledge to obey the tax code. If you're not a citizen of this town, you'll need at least two local witnesses to vouch for you. They must confirm you're no thief or brigand, but truly here to trade."
He tapped a page, then added, almost lazily:
"As a low class trader, the registration fee is eight copper. Pay that now. You will also need some additional documents—receipts for selling goods in other cities, travel permits."
Michael shook his head. "I don't have any of that. I came from very far away. Lost everything on the way."
That got him silence. The clerk stared hard, suspicion written across his face, though he kept his tone just this side of insulting.
"Then your case is stricter. No papers, no license. That's the law. Understand?"
Michael didn't argue. Instead, he set a small pouch on the table. The faint clink of coins was enough to shift the mood.
The clerk's eyes flickered—just for a second—but Michael caught it. Hunger. The real language of the world. Michael's biggest weapon.
The man snatched the pouch, weighed it in his palm, and gave a grudging nod. Immediately his tone changed.
"Hm… very well. Your name?"
"Michael Gutmann."
Quill scratched against the ledger.
"For now, I can only give you a two-week temporary business permit. If no complaints are filed against you in that time, you may apply for an extension."
Michael nodded. "That's fair."
The clerk pressed a stamp onto a parchment; it glowed faintly for a second, then he handed it over.
"You're now officially registered. Keep this with you at all times—the guards will ask to see it. And remember… this approval lasts only as long as you stay in the good graces of the town."
Michael took the parchment, a faint smile curling his lips.
"Of course. I understand. Thank you for this."
"Good. In a few minutes a guard will escort you to your assigned stall."