Chapter 92
Written by Bayzo Albion
I clenched my fists, each option tugging at different desires.
*Take the black,* urged one inner voice. *Indestructible, eternal service in fights.*
*No, the silver,* countered another. *Always clean—irresistible to eyes that matter.*
*And this one...* I eyed the adaptive set. *Practical, economical. But so... ordinary.*
My head spun, the weight of choice heavy after my forest trials. Gold burned a hole in my pouch, but squandering it felt reckless.
"Well?" The tailor licked his lips, eager. "Decide, boy. Folks would kill for these."
I gritted my teeth. "The growing one," I said at last. "I'm still young. Buying new every year is foolish. Better one that lasts."
Something inside cracked—pride, vanity perhaps—but relief flooded in its wake.
"Smart choice," he nodded approvingly. "Wiser than I expected."
He handed it over, and as I slipped into the shirt and pants, the fabric shifted seamlessly, molding to my frame like a second skin. I rolled my shoulders; it moved with me, enhancing rather than hindering.
Glancing in the mirror, I saw not a battered urchin, but someone transformed—taller in stature, steadier in gaze, a hint more mature.
I smirked. *Well, world... at least now I've got pants.*
I counted out ten gold coins, stacking them on the counter with a satisfying clink that made the tailor's eyes gleam like a thief's treasure.
"Generous," he murmured, sweeping them up reverently. "Most haggle, but you... no. I like that. Come back anytime, Baltazar. You've got spirit."
"Likewise," I replied with a wry grin. "You're as round as a barrel, but honest. A rare breed."
He bellowed a laugh, and we shook hands—not as merchant and buyer, but with a spark of camaraderie.
With my new cloak draped over my shoulders and a lightness in my step, I ventured back into the streets. The city thrummed with life: aromas of sizzling meat, fresh-baked flatbreads, and spiced wine wafting from every corner. My stomach betrayed me then, rumbling thunderously enough to draw amused glances from nearby folk.
I halted before a lively tavern, its doors spilling laughter, clinking mugs, and mouthwatering scents. Visions danced in my mind: juicy steak melting on my tongue, warm wine igniting a fire in my belly.
But as my hand brushed the pouch's weight, sobriety crashed in. This gold wasn't earned through triumph or prowess—just blind luck and a brush with death. Splurging on feasts? Indulgent folly.
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head, and moved on. Spotting a modest stall where an elderly woman hawked loaves, I bought a simple hunk of bread for mere coppers. At a nearby well, I drew a mug of cool water.
Perching on a stone ledge, I tore into the bread. It was dry, plain, the water chilling my throat without fanfare. No pleasure in it, just sustenance. Yet a quiet calm settled over me.
*I need to learn this,* I told myself. *Gold isn't a toy—it's opportunity. I won't let it vanish on a whim, like grease on a skillet.*
I finished the meager meal, sated if not satisfied. For now, it was enough.
With the dry bread settling like a stone in my stomach and the chill of well water still lingering on my lips, I pressed onward through the city's winding streets. The next priority was crystal clear: a weapon. In this unforgiving world, without one, you weren't a person—you were prey, just warm meat waiting for the inevitable carve-up.
The armory greeted me with the sharp clang of metal on metal and the oily tang of polished steel hanging thick in the air. Walls groaned under the weight of massive swords, broad and imposing like tools forged for giants. Heavy axes and war hammers loomed nearby, their heads gleaming with a promise of devastation, capable of splitting a house in two with a single swing.
I stepped closer, drawn by instinct, and reached for one of the swords. The hilt fit snugly in my palm, a comforting grip of leather-wrapped wood. But the blade itself... I strained, muscles burning, sweat beading on my forehead, yet I could barely lift it past my waist. My arms trembled under the strain, and with a resounding thud, the sword dropped back onto its stand.
"Hah!" The armorer bellowed a laugh, a burly giant of a man with arms like tree trunks and a beard streaked with soot. "That hunk of iron'd sooner crush a rabbit under its weight than let you swing it proper!"
I gritted my teeth, a surge of hot anger bubbling up from my gut—a stark reminder of my frailty, my smallness in a world built for the mighty. But I swallowed it down, letting it cool into calculated resolve. *Strength won't come overnight. I need something I can wield now, not later.*
Circling the counter, I scanned the displays. Swords, axes, spears—all too cumbersome, too demanding for my slender frame. Even the combat bows looked unwieldy; my weak arms would snap like twigs trying to draw the string.
It was in a shadowed corner that I spotted them: a case of knives, gleaming under the flickering lantern light. My eyes locked on a pair that stood out—twins in form, but each with its own aura of power.
The first had a blade as black as midnight, smooth and reflective like a dark mirror, etched with a faint rune on the guard. "This one never dulls," the armorer explained, his voice dropping to a reverent hush. "Not from bone, not from stone, not even dragon scales. Eternal edge, boy."
The second mirrored it in shape, but its metal seemed alive—matte and dense, with a subtle blue sheen that shifted in the light like breathing waves. "Unbreakable," he continued. "Parry a sword strike, hammer it into rock—it won't bend or shatter."
I picked them up, one in each hand. They were a touch oversized for my palms, fingers straining to wrap fully around the hilts, but that very heft lent them substance. Too large for a child's toy, yet perfectly suited for real work. True weapons.
"These are enchanted," the armorer said, eyeing me skeptically, as if questioning whether I deserved to even touch them. "They'll outlast your lifetime. But the price... it's not for the faint of wallet."
"How much?" I asked, bracing for the blow.
"Thirty gold. For the pair."
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. The math flashed in my mind: enough for half a year of comfortable city living, or a full year of feasts and wine. But then the forest rushed back—the terror of fleeing empty-handed, armed only with a stick and desperation. Survival wasn't a luxury; it was non-negotiable.
I nodded. "I'll take them."
The pouch lightened with a condemning jingle as thirty coins vanished into his callused palm—nearly a third of my hard-won fortune gone in an instant.
I fastened the sheaths to my belt, the knives settling with a satisfying weight against my hips. A bit heavy, perhaps, but that pull grounded me. Now, I had a fighting chance. Real power at my side.
Glancing up at the armorer, I murmured, "Better to spend and live than hoard and die."
He grinned, clapping me on the shoulder with enough force to nearly buckle my knees. "Now those are a warrior's words."
Stepping out of the armory, the cool street air hit me, but it was the subtle clink of steel against scabbard with each stride that truly registered. The knives were oversized, their rhythm a constant reminder of my new edge. I traced a finger along one hilt, feeling the cool metal hum under my touch. *Now I have weapons. Now I have options. But the stakes just got higher.*
Despite the dent in my pouch, a grin crept across my face unbidden.
I wandered the streets a while longer, the knives' soft chime a steady companion, bolstering my confidence. Yet something nagged at me—an incomplete feeling, like a puzzle missing its final piece.
My gaze snagged on a shop of household wares, its windows aglow with copper kettles, pots, pans, and skillets that caught the sunlight like burnished treasure. I halted, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
*There it is. The ultimate survival tool.*
I pushed inside, the bell tinkling cheerfully. A squat, bald merchant with a round, flushed face bustled forward, eyes lighting up at a potential sale.
"What can I do for you, sir? A kettle? Mug? Set of bowls?"
"A skillet," I replied, dead serious. "But not just any. Something special."
He squinted, then nodded with a knowing gleam. With flourish, he retrieved a black iron skillet from the wall, its handle etched with a glowing rune that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.
"Enchanted with the 'Unburnable Shield,'" he proclaimed. "No matter how hot the flames, your food won't scorch or stick. Leave it unattended? No problem. And cleaning? Wait a minute, and the grime slides right off on its own."
I hefted it, feeling the solid balance, the reassuring weight. I gave it a shake, envisioning sizzling rabbit meat, the aromas rising in savory waves. Then, in a flash, I pictured swinging it like a shield, deflecting blows in a desperate fight. It would strap perfectly to my back.
"How much?" I asked.
"Only four gold," he said, beaming. "A steal for such a rare artifact."
I paused, weighing it. The knives at thirty had been essential. But a skillet for four? Logical? Practical?
Screw it. A good skillet was sacred.
I slapped the coins on the counter. He wrapped it carefully, but I unwound the cloth immediately, slinging it over my shoulder and securing it with a strap like a makeshift shield.