Year 5 of the Era After the Hero's Death (A.E.) Northern Lands The Fortress City of Rohguri
The sunlight today was generous, wrapping the world in a warm, drowsy embrace.
The streets of Rohguri hummed with the rhythmic pulse of a city in its prime. Vendors leaned over their stalls, pitching their wares to passersby with practiced, melodic enthusiasm. Amidst the usual trade, one could often spot glints of metal from small magic items or the weathered leather of various grimoires. In this age, magic—once a rare and terrifying art—had begun to settle into the hands of the common folk.
Even on the city's grandest architecture, magical ornaments shimmered under the sun, a quiet tribute to the legacy of the Great Mage Flamme. The world she had dreamt of, where "magic is for everyone," was no longer a distant hope; it was blooming into a reality.
While it couldn't quite rival the sheer, cold opulence of Eisberg, the Imperial Capital of the Central Lands, Rohguri remained one of the most vibrant jewels of the North.
Garlan navigated the crowd with a burlap sack slung over his shoulder, humming a tuneless little melody that was constantly interrupted by the laughter of children darting past him. As he reached the center of the city, his pace slowed. He cast a long, lingering look at the statue of Himmel the Hero standing tall in the plaza, chest out and sword held high.
Garlan was a transmigrator. A sudden, quiet death in another life had deposited him into this world of high fantasy. But the memories he inherited were far from peaceful; he discovered he was a "Shadow Warrior"—an operative of the Empire—living undercover as "Garlan the Pharmacist."
The Shadow Warriors were a specialized unit formed during the Unified Empire era to neutralize mages. Born without names and stripped of identities, they were scattered across the lands, weaving themselves into the fabric of ordinary life while waiting for the order to strike.
Not lurking within the Empire's borders, but sent all the way to the Northern Lands? Strange...
But the distance had been his salvation. Over the years, the organization seemed to have forgotten him. The target he was originally meant to monitor had passed away long ago, leaving Garlan effectively "unemployed." Only the commander who had assigned him knew of his true mission, and since his records were destroyed before he left the capital, Garlan suspected that commander had likely died on some forgotten battlefield.
"Actually, that's not so bad," he murmured to himself.
The life of a Shadow Warrior was written in blood and silence. If he were called back now, he'd likely be sent to the front lines to die for a crown he felt no loyalty to. A quiet life among herbs and tinctures was a far better fate.
He finally pulled his gaze away from the statue. Given the year, he thought, maybe I'll actually get to see the Hero who defeated the Demon King in person one day.
Stepping through the noise of the main thoroughfare, he followed his memory into a narrow, sun-starved alley. The air here was different—thick with the scent of damp stone and a peculiar, lingering floral perfume.
Garlan pushed open an old wooden door. It gave a sharp, piercing protest. Creeeeeak.
The interior was a disaster zone. Cabinets were left swinging open, the main table was buried under a drift of scrolls and glass vials filled with vibrant, swirling liquids, and empty wine bottles lay like fallen soldiers on the floor. The candlelight shuddered as the door opened, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
"Locke, couldn't you at least try to tidy up? One of these days you're going to knock a bottle of wine into my medicinal herbs," Garlan said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He watched a short man stumble out of the back room, looking every bit the victim of a long night.
"Heh, it's not like you just met me today, boy. Besides, I've never messed up an order of yours, have I?" Locke replied with a sly, toothy grin. His face was a flushed beet-red, and he radiated the sour scent of a heavy hangover.
He shuffled over to a massive cabinet and reached into a hidden compartment. He pulled out a finely carved wooden box and eased the lid open. A few wisps of cold mist curled out, revealing a vibrant purple flower nestled in the center.
"The Purple Moon Dragon Grass you wanted. Arrived the night before last. Keeping it from wilting took a hell of a lot of work." Locke grumbled, his pout suggesting he expected a bit of extra gratitude.
The box was clearly enchanted; Garlan could feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of mana from the wood. This rare herb only grew on the most treacherous cliffs and usually lost its potency within four hours of being picked. To keep it alive this long was no small feat of preservation.
Locke was a legendary figure in the Northern underground trade, and Garlan relied on him to source the rare ingredients that kept his "pharmacist" cover convincing. Over time, he had truly grown to enjoy the quietude of the craft.
"I get the hint. Including the deposit, let's call it four Strahl silver coins. Fair?"
It was a steep price. They had agreed on three, but Garlan knew Locke was fishing for a bonus for the extra effort. Garlan didn't mind. The Strahl silver was the most stable currency for a reason, and even at this price, finding Purple Moon Dragon Grass of this quality was nearly impossible. For a pharmacist, a slight drop in herb quality was the difference between a cure and a failure.
"I knew you were a sharp one! Doing business with smart people is always a pleasure," Locke chuckled, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the coins.
He took the four gleaming silvers from Garlan's hand and bit them with his wine-stained teeth to check their purity.
"Pleasure doing business with you~"
"Ugh, that's vile... keep the coins, I don't even want to touch them now," Garlan said with a look of genuine disgust, still holding his nose. "I won't be needing anything else for a while. I'll be in touch."
He carefully tucked the box into his sack and turned to leave.
"Wait! Garlan!"
Locke's eyes darted around, his expression suddenly shifting as if he'd just remembered a secret he wasn't sure he should share.
"What is it?"
"Actually... a group of underground mercenaries dropped off some 'heavy cargo' yesterday. I thought you might have an interest... but keep this quiet. It's got nothing to do with me personally."
Garlan's interest was piqued. Locke was an old fox who had seen everything from the gray markets to information brokerage. If he was calling something "heavy cargo," it wasn't just another rare herb.
"Show me."
Garlan set his bag down and followed Locke into a concealed room at the back of the shop. The space was packed with rare curios and magic artifacts that would have made a minor noble weep with envy.
"'Magic to stop mosquitoes from biting you'... is this the 'heavy cargo'?" Garlan joked, spotting a strange grimoire on a shelf. "Because honestly, that's actually pretty useful."
It was exactly the kind of whimsical "folk magic" that the Great Mage Flamme had encouraged, and the kind of thing someone like Frieren would spend years hunting for.
"In here," Locke said, ignoring the joke.
He pushed open a final door into a small, dim chamber. The only light came from a single, sputtering oil lamp.
There was a bed, and sitting upon it was a blonde girl. Her long, tapered ears made her heritage instantly clear. An Elf.
She looked up as they entered, her eyes hollow and drained of light. While her face was untouched, her arms and legs—visible beneath a thin, white chemise—were mottled with dark bruises. Garlan recognized the marks of blunt force trauma immediately. Her limbs were wrapped in layers of rough bandages, and the gauze at her ankle was stained dark with blood. An arrow wound.
"Did you do this to her?" Garlan's voice went cold.
"Hey! I told you, it wasn't me! Those mercenaries dumped her on me in that state. They probably realized they couldn't find a buyer out in the open and decided to hand me the 'hot potato' before things got messy. I'm the one who patched her up!"
Garlan didn't respond, his stomach turning at the thought of the hunters. Human trafficking was a capital crime in almost every nation, yet here it was, happening in the shadows of the borderlands.
"Her tribe was wiped out by demons. She's the only one who made it out," Locke explained, a rare flicker of pity crossing his face. "The mercenaries found her in the Northern Forests and got greedy."
Locke looked at Garlan, his expression suddenly darkening into something eerie and unreadable. "I called you because I'm not a charity, Garlan. I don't have the time to nurse an Elf. Besides, I've heard Elf organs are priceless in certain alchemical circles... Tell you what, ten silver coins, and she's yours."
At the word "organs," the girl's eyes widened with a sudden, sharp terror. Her legs began to tremble, and she looked at Garlan with a gaze so desperate it felt like a physical weight.
Garlan stared at Locke, revulsion boiling under his skin. He knew Locke was a rogue, but he hadn't expected him to sink this low. Garlan was no saint—he was an assassin—but he had never killed anyone who wasn't on a list, and he certainly wasn't a butcher.
"Just kidding."
Seeing Garlan's reaction, Locke's grimace broke into a loud, boisterous laugh. His face changed so fast it was jarring.
"I just figured you were a 'good' guy. If you take her, at least she won't end up in a ditch." He clapped Garlan on the shoulder like a lifelong friend.
"...Five silver coins," Garlan said flatly, holding up five fingers.
"Hey, hey! You can't lowball me like that!"
"Six. Final offer. It's more than enough, and we both know you'll never find another buyer who won't bring the city guard down on your head."
Locke had likely only paid five silver coins to get the mercenaries off his back. He sighed, rubbing his temples.
"...I'm starting to hate doing business with you." Locke waved his hand in defeat. "Fine. Take her."
"Pleasure doing business," Garlan said, though his eyes didn't leave the girl.