The shop Klein entered was different from most of the ones he'd passed earlier. Valemar overflowed with wealth, but not everyone knew how to present it with restraint and order, without noise or gaudy excess. Here, from the very threshold, it was clear that someone knew exactly what they were doing,and exactly who they were selling to.
The interior was spacious and tall, with stone pillars supporting the ceiling and wide shelves where goods were arranged by category rather than by whatever had arrived first. In trade, that was always the first sign of someone thinking long-term instead of chasing quick profit. There were fabrics,expensive, but not absurdly so,crates of metals and alchemical components, and even secured display cases holding low- and mid-tier artifacts, clearly meant for merchants and craftsmen rather than adventurers.
Behind the counter stood a young man, neatly dressed, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was bent over a ledger, writing quickly. When Klein approached, the man looked up at once and slipped into a practiced, polite expression.
"What can I help you with?" he asked, closing the ledger and setting the pen aside.
Klein glanced around the shop one more time, as if confirming he'd come to the right place, then replied calmly, without preamble.
"I'd like to speak with the owner."
The young man let out a faint sigh,barely noticeable, but obvious to anyone paying attention,and placed his hands on the counter.
"If this is about business, I handle all clients," he said. "My father has retired and no longer meets with partners."
Klein nodded, as though he'd expected exactly that.
"I understand," he replied. "Even so, I'd prefer to speak with him personally."
A flicker of irritation crossed the young man's face. He'd clearly had this conversation dozens of times, and every client who insisted on speaking to "the real decision-maker" was just another waste of time.
"If you need assistance, I can provide it," he added, more firmly now. "All business decisions go through me."
Klein didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his coat and produced a trade guild card,well kept, clean, clearly marked with the Dungeon Faction insignia. He placed it on the counter where the young man could see it clearly.
"Please give this to your father," Klein said evenly. "I think he'll be interested in talking."
The young man looked at the card without much enthusiasm,but it took only a second for his expression to change. The guild seal and faction marking weren't things one encountered by accident, especially not together.
He picked up the card, turned it once, then again, as if making sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, and finally looked back at Klein with a new level of caution.
"Please wait a moment," he said at last, the irritation gone.
He turned and headed toward the back, glancing over his shoulder as if trying to match Klein's face to a memory that stubbornly refused to surface. Then he disappeared through the door, calling out loudly for his father. Even if he didn't yet know exactly who this calm merchant was, instinct told him this was not a meeting to ignore.
The old man came out from the back before the young man had even finished closing the door. He was loud, rough, his face twisted with irritation, his hands shaking more from anger than age. He launched straight into a tirade that was clearly a continuation of whatever argument they'd been having moments earlier.
"What the hell are you dragging me out here for at my age?" he snapped, not even looking up yet. "You think I've got nothing better to do than save your business because you can't handle a customer properly again? Or am I supposed to stand behind the counter until I die while you're still learning how to calculate margins,"
Only then did he look up.
For a split second, his brow furrowed, as if what he was seeing didn't quite line up with what his eyes told him. Then his gaze dropped,to the cane in Klein's hand, to the way he stood there calmly, completely unmoved by the shouting. All the anger in the old man's voice collided with sudden disbelief.
"…damn," he said more slowly. "Klein? Is that really you?"
Klein smiled faintly, the same calm, tired smile he'd worn for years, and nodded as if they'd met yesterday rather than after a long absence.
"I see nothing's changed," he said. "That fiery temper of yours still outruns your sense, Paul."
The old man stared at him in silence for a moment, then suddenly spun on his son with renewed energy.
"And what the hell were you waiting for?" he roared. "Why didn't you call me the moment someone like this walked into the shop, instead of making him stand there like some random peddler?!"
The young man only sighed quietly, clearly resigned to an outburst he knew all too well, and said nothing. He knew any response would only make it worse.
Klein raised a hand slightly.
"Leave him alone," he said calmly. "He did exactly what he should have, not knowing who I was."
Paul snorted, but the tension visibly drained from his shoulders.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "You always defend them."
Then he looked back at Klein and jerked his hand toward the interior.
"Come on," he said. "We're not talking about this at the counter."
They went upstairs, climbing solid stairs deeper into the building, until they reached a spacious, richly furnished room. Heavy furniture, thick rugs, and shelves packed with books made it clear the owner not only earned well, but had long since stopped pretending at modesty.
They'd barely sat down when a servant peeked into the room. Paul didn't even look at her, just barked an order.
"Bring food," he said. "And the best tea we have. And hurry."
The woman bowed silently and vanished, and Paul leaned forward across from Klein, wearing that familiar, combative grin that revealed more curiosity than warmth.
"Alright," he said. "What the hell made you come back to this city?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"I figured you'd decided to rot peacefully down south, dying between crates in that backwater of yours."
Klein just smiled to himself, lifting the cup and slowly turning it in his hand as if checking its warmth before answering. There was no need in him to justify himself or defend his choices.
"Nothing's changed," he said at last, calmly. "I still believe that, in old age, the quiet of the south and your own shop are worth more than crowds, shouting, and constantly counting who's trying to cheat you today or stab you in the back."
Paul snorted, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head up as if staring at the ceiling,though he was really talking to his memories more than the man across from him.
"I still don't get it," he said irritably. "You had everything here. You were one of the biggest merchants in the city, high up in the guild, one of the three commanders of the Dungeon Faction. And then ten years ago, you stood up from the table, said you were done, handed over ninety percent of your wealth to the guild, and vanished like you were sick of the world."
He looked at Klein with disbelief that carried more emotion than accusation.
"I still think it was a stupid move," he added. "No sane person does something like that."
At that moment, the servant returned, setting a plate of warm flatbreads and a teapot on the table. Paul waved her off as if her presence were nothing more than a minor interruption, while Klein gave her a small nod of thanks before she left, closing the door behind her.
Klein took one of the flatbreads, broke off a piece, and only then replied,calmly, unhurried, sipping his tea.
"Money and wealth are convenient," he said. "But with age, they weigh less and less,especially when you stop counting how much gold you have and start counting how many people you still have with you."
He looked up at Paul.
"Family became more important to me," he said quietly. "Or rather… what was left of it."
Silence fell for a moment, broken only after a pause when Klein continued.
"And you know perfectly well what the trade guild's situation looked like back then," he added. "The noble houses' attack was real. Assets were disappearing, contracts were being torn up, influence was shrinking by the day. Giving up my wealth and stepping away was the only way the guild survived that period at all."
Paul's fists clenched on the armrests, his face hardening instantly at the mention of the noble houses. That anger had never truly left him.
"Damn nobles," he snarled, exploding suddenly. "Always the same. Arrogance, violence, the belief that the world belongs to them just because they were born with the right name."
He cursed under his breath, shaking his head, then finally let out a heavy breath and slumped back in his chair. When he looked at Klein again, there was a wide, almost defiant grin on his face.
"But you know what?" he said, with clear satisfaction. "Their time is slowly coming to an end."
Klein raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly. That tone didn't match Paul's usual complaints.
"What do you mean?" he asked calmly.
Paul leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, as if he were about to say something that would change a world