The first few weeks after my awakening blurred into a rhythm of survival and scavenging. I learned the dungeon's pulse—the way slime trails glistened under torchlight, how goblin packs chattered in guttural tongues that now felt strangely familiar, the distant thunder of collapsing tunnels signaling a floor shift. My hobgoblin body was strong, tireless compared to the frail shell I'd left behind on Earth. No more IV drips, no more morphine haze. Just hunger, caution, and the ever-present blue glow of my status board.
I claimed a small alcove on the first sub-level as my base. It was a dead-end chamber with a natural spring trickling from the wall—clean water was worth more than gold down here—and enough flat stone to serve as a counter. Using stones I'd hauled and monster hides I'd cured (crudely, but effectively), I built a rudimentary stall. A sign scratched into rock with a dagger tip read simply:
AKIRA'S EMPORIUM – FAIR TRADE OR NO TRADE
My Item Box was a miracle. Anything I touched vanished into void storage, weightless and organized by thought. Herbs, bones, rusty weapons, glowing crystals—I appraised everything.
Appraisal (Lv. 2 now):
Mana Crystal (Low Grade) – Contains trace mana. Sell for 20–30 copper to mages.
Dire Rat Pelt – Tough but smelly. Craft material. 8 copper.
Goblin Ear – Proof of kill for surface bounties. 5 silver each (adventurers pay premium).
I started small. A lone scout stumbled in one evening, bleeding from a slime burn. He froze when he saw me.
"Easy," I said, hands up. My voice still sounded rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Not here to fight. Healing salve—made from moonwort and slime gel. Stops burn pain in seconds. Fifteen copper or equivalent trade."
He stared, sword half-drawn. "A... talking hobgoblin merchant?"
"Reincarnated soul. Long story. You dying or shopping?"
He bought the salve. Then a stamina potion I'd brewed (basic recipe from past-life game knowledge). Word trickled out like water through cracks.
By the end of the first month, my alcove had become a checkpoint. Adventurers learned: the green-skinned merchant didn't attack unless provoked, prices were fair (sometimes suspiciously so), and he never lied about item quality. My Barter Tongue skill made negotiations smooth; people left feeling they'd won, even when I pocketed a tidy margin.
Then came the day everything changed.
A tremor shook the entire floor—deep, bone-rattling. Dust rained from the ceiling. My Dungeon Affinity pinged urgently: Floor shift imminent. New passage opening to Sub-level 2. Increased monster density detected.
I grabbed my makeshift spear (a sharpened stalactite hafted to a goblin femur) and ran toward the new tunnel before it sealed. Curiosity? Greed? Both.
The new passage opened into a massive cavern lit by bioluminescent fungi. In the center stood a ruined stone archway—ancient, carved with faded runes. Around it, monsters swarmed: armored skeletons, shadow wolves, even a juvenile basilisk coiled around a pillar.
But what caught my eye wasn't the monsters.
It was the people.
A mixed party—five adventurers—fought desperately in the archway's shadow. A warrior in dented plate, an elf with a broken bow, two mages chanting barriers, and a young human woman in white robes clutching a cracked staff. Cleric. She was cornered, healing spells flickering weakly as a pack of dire rats closed in.
I didn't think. I acted.
Inventory Summon!
A stack of iron caltrops appeared at my feet—I'd scavenged them days ago. I kicked them forward. Rats screeched as spikes pierced paws. The cleric looked up, eyes wide.
"Get behind the arch!" I bellowed.
She hesitated only a second before sprinting. I followed, hurling firebombs (alchemical mixes of oil and mana shards) to cover our retreat. The warrior glanced back, nodded once—gratitude or acknowledgment—and the party fell back with us.
We reached a natural choke point. I slammed down a portable barrier I'd unlocked at Level 7: Merchant's Ward – a translucent blue wall that lasted thirty seconds but blocked physical attacks.
The monsters hammered against it. We caught our breath.
The cleric—Elara, she introduced herself—stared at me like I was a puzzle.
"You're... helping us? Why?"
"Business," I said with a shrug. "Dead customers don't buy potions. Also, you looked like you needed it."
The warrior, Garrick, laughed hoarsely. "A hobgoblin with morals. Never thought I'd see the day."
They traded what they could: coins, a few low-grade mana stones, even a spare cloak. In return, I gave them my best stock—healing salves, antidotes, a stamina draught each. Elara lingered after the others moved to scout ahead.
"You shouldn't be down here alone," she said quietly. "The surface guilds are hunting 'anomalous monsters.' A talking hobgoblin would fetch a high bounty."
I grinned, showing sharp teeth. "Good thing I can't leave. Dungeon rules."
Her eyes softened. "That's... a curse, isn't it?"
"Call it a feature. Infinite customers, no rent."
She laughed—a small, surprised sound. "You're strange, Akira."
"Coming from a cleric hiding from her own guild? Pot, kettle."
Her smile faded. "They wanted me to... perform miracles on command. For coin. When I refused, they branded me a heretic."
I nodded. "Sounds familiar. Different world, same chains."
We talked longer than intended. She told me about the surface: sprawling kingdoms, floating academies, dragons that blotted out the sun. I told her fragments of Earth—cars, hospitals, a boy who never left his bed. She listened without pity, just quiet understanding.
When the party returned, they had news: the archway was a sealed gate to Sub-level 3, but the key—a glowing orb—was embedded in the basilisk's forehead.
They asked for help.
I could have said no. Safer to retreat, sell them gear from afar. But something stirred—maybe the old gamer in me, maybe the part that had always wanted to do something.
"I'll front-line," I said. "But I get first pick of loot. And you spread the word: Akira's Emporium just expanded."
They agreed.
The fight was brutal.
The basilisk lunged, petrifying gaze sweeping. I dodged behind pillars, using Agility I'd grinded to 18. Garrick tanked hits, shield cracking. Mages hurled ice lances. Elara kept us alive, her healing light brighter now that she fought for herself.
I waited for an opening. When the beast reared, exposing its head, I activated Inventory Summon at max speed—pulling a weighted net I'd crafted from spider silk and iron weights. It tangled the jaws.
"Now!" I yelled.
Garrick charged, driving his sword into the weak spot. The orb shattered free. The basilisk collapsed, dissolving into motes.
Level Up! Level 12.
New skill unlocked: Core Bargain – Temporarily negotiate with dungeon entities for buffs.
We claimed the gate. But instead of opening it fully, I placed a hand on the arch.
Dungeon Affinity surged. The runes glowed green—my color now.
"I can stabilize it," I said. "Make this a safe zone. Trading post. Rest area. No monster spawns inside."
The party stared.
"You can... control parts of the dungeon?" Elara whispered.
"Merchant perks."
Over the next weeks, the alcove grew.
Adventurers poured in after word spread: "Safe hub on Sub-2. Hobgoblin merchant sells god-tier consumables. Cleric in white robes heals for cheap."
I expanded the stall into a full bazaar. Stone counters multiplied. I summoned hanging lanterns (mana-infused crystals). Shelves of potions, weapons, armor pieces I'd appraised and sometimes enchanted with basic runes learned from mage customers.
Elara stayed.
Not as a customer— as a partner. She healed my wounds after tough barters turned violent (some adventurers still tried to rob me). In return, I protected her from guild trackers who occasionally slipped in. We built a small back room: cot, spring water basin, shelves for her holy texts.
One night, after closing shop (a glowing sign now read CLOSED – Come Back When You're Richer), we sat by the spring.
"Why stay?" I asked. "You could leave with any party."
She looked at the water's reflection. "Because here, I choose who I heal. And... you're the first person who never asked me to prove my faith."
I snorted. "Faith's overrated. Results matter."
She elbowed me gently. "Cynic."
"Realist."
Silence stretched comfortably.
Then the dungeon trembled again—deeper this time. My status pinged:
Warning: Sub-level 4 core awakening. Hostile intent detected toward anomaly (you).
Monsters would come. Stronger. Faster. Aimed at me.
I stood. "Time to level the playing field."
Elara rose beside me. "Together?"
I extended a clawed hand. "Business partners. Equal split on profits."
She took it. Her hand was warm against green skin.
"Deal."
The next morning, I opened shop with new stock: basilisk-scale shields, petrification antidotes brewed overnight, even a few Merchant's Ward scrolls for customers to use.
Lines formed before the lanterns fully brightened.
A rogue grinned as he bought a stealth potion. "Heard you're building an empire down here, greenie."
I smirked. "Empire? Nah. Just the best damn shop this side of the surface."
As he left, Elara leaned on the counter. "You know they'll keep coming. The core. The guilds. Everyone."
"Let them," I said, appraising a new customer's sword. "I've got infinite storage, a partner who can heal anything short of death, and twenty-three years of pent-up spite."
She laughed. "Welcome to the big leagues, merchant."
Outside the safe zone, howls echoed—closer now.
I cracked my knuckles.
Time to turn this prison into my kingdom.
One sale at a time.