Chapter 64: The First Venture
The next day.
At the temporary headquarters of the Sunflower Merchant Guild, the air was thick with the scent of simmering meat broth and the heavy tension of uncertainty. A massive pot hung over a fire in the center of the courtyard, steam billowing into the morning air.
Every individual vendor who had signed Hans's "contract" had arrived. Grog, the apple vendor, was the first on the scene. He didn't sit; he stood in the center of the courtyard with his arms crossed, scrutinizing every new arrival with a skeptical glare.
Blacksmiths, carpenters, herbalists—the new "members" of the guild appeared one by one. No one spoke. They exchanged glances that communicated a shared sense of dread.
The cabin door creaked open, and Hans stepped out. Every pair of eyes in the courtyard locked onto him instantly.
"Swindler!" Grog's voice echoed against the stone walls.
Hans walked toward the crowd, his expression as unreadable as a ledger. "Grog, tell me. At your apple stall, how many apples do you sell on a good day?"
Grog hadn't expected a market analysis. He faltered for a second. "On a good day? Maybe thirty or forty. On a bad day... barely ten."
"And how many do you harvest from the trees daily?" Hans pressed.
"Over two hundred."
"And the rest?"
"They rot. Or I sell them for a pittance to the Aegis Legion to feed their livestock."
"So," Hans said, his voice level, "your actual daily income is restricted to the value of those few dozen apples. Is that correct?"
Grog fell silent, his scowl deepening. The logic was irrefutable.
Hans scanned the faces of the crowd. "It's the same for all of you. The hoes the blacksmith forges, the stools the carpenter builds, the herbs the apothecary gathers—you successfully sell less than half of what you produce. The other half isn't inventory. It's a loss."
Hans's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a hammer striking an anvil.
"Now, I am here to help you. I will sell that 'loss' for you, and I will sell it for a price higher than you've ever seen. Is it not fair, then, that I take a commission for the half I manage to move?"
A burly blacksmith in the back barked, "Talk is cheap! Why should we trust a man whose only weapon is his tongue?"
Hans raised a finger, pointing toward the heavily fortified barracks of the Punishment Legion in the distance.
"You don't have to trust me. Trust them. Our agreements are filed and certified with the Imperial Logistics Bureau. If I deceive you, the Skeleton Knights will come for my head. If I succeed, you'll have coin in your pockets that you couldn't have imagined in your wildest dreams. You have nothing to lose. The worst-case scenario is that you return to your stalls and watch your life's work turn to mold."
The crowd lapsed into a pensive silence. The logic was sound, but the lingering unease remained. Hans clapped his hands, shattering the quiet.
"Now, to work. I need materials. I need things that will make our goods... special."
Hans turned to a carpenter who had remained silent. "I need wooden boxes. Small ones, exactly the size of a single apple. The wood must be polished smooth—no nails. On the lid, I want the sunflower emblem engraved."
He turned to the blacksmith. "I need clasps. Tiny, elegant metal latches to lock the boxes. Shape them like leaves. I want them to make a crisp, satisfying click when they close."
Finally, he looked at the herbalist. "I need fragrance. Nothing heavy—something clean and refreshing. Place it inside the boxes. I want the customer to catch a scent of spring the moment they lift the lid."
The three men looked at each other, bewildered. Grog finally asked, "What's the point? It's just an apple. Why go through all this trouble?"
"Grog," Hans said, picking up an apple and tossing it idly in the air, "people aren't buying fruit. They're buying a Sentiment. And a sentiment can be sold for a hundred times the price of a snack."
Hans addressed the rest of the group. "Any small trinkets you can't sell—a carved bird, a pouch of spice, a handmade cord—put them in as 'gifts.' It makes the buyer feel like they've won a great victory in the trade."
The courtyard was still. These concepts were foreign to them, but the vision Hans described began to take form in their minds.
"I... I'll start on the boxes," the carpenter muttered, turning toward his workshop.
"Me too!" the blacksmith added.
Grog stood there, watching Hans's back. His expression was a mess of conflict. Maybe... just maybe, this is the chance.
Three Days Later.
A flatbed wagon, packed with goods, rolled out of the gates of Iron Fortress. There were no piles of loose apples—only rows of meticulously stacked, elegant wooden boxes.
Miguel and the children of Sunflower House stood by the roadside to see him off. "Hans-nii! Come back soon!" they screamed with all their might.
Hans looked back and gave them a confident wave.
The carriage rolled onto the Great Road. Hans's destination was Silvermoon City, a human settlement not far from Leaf City. He couldn't go back to his old haunts yet; a new beginning required a fresh stage.
Normally, a lone man with a wagon of valuables traveling through the monster-infested wilds would be considered a suicide run. But Hans didn't look nervous. He knew he wasn't alone.
Before departure, Lord Greed had summoned him. The Vampire hadn't said much, but he had assigned Hans three Shadow Guards. Powerful Tier 3 Skeleton Assassins were currently lurking in his very shadow. Hans couldn't feel them, but knowing they were there provided an absolute sense of security.
Suddenly, the carriage slowed and ground to a halt. Hans pulled the reins, squinting ahead. A large fallen tree blocked the road. From the thickets on either side, two figures emerged.
On the left: a massive brute with a two-handed axe slung over his shoulder.
On the right: a scrawny man twirling a jagged dagger.
Bandits.
The large bandit leveled his axe at Hans. "Lotta guts traveling alone, kid," he boomed. He slammed the axe head into the dirt. "State your name. I don't kill nameless trash."
Hans sat on the driver's seat, his expression flat. "I'm nobody from Iron Fortress."
The big bandit blinked, genuinely confused. The scrawny one leaned in and whispered, "Boss... I think he's making fun of you."
The big bandit's face turned a violent shade of red. He felt his professional dignity being insulted. He roared at his partner, "Show him what happens to 'nobodies'!"
The scrawny bandit let out a greasy, malicious grin and stepped forward. He ran his tongue along the edge of his blade, his eyes fixed on Hans's throat. The dagger reflected a sickly green light under the sun.
"You should've apologized, kid," the scrawny one hissed. "This blade is coated in a venom that—"
He stopped. His face underwent a rapid, terrifying transformation. He clutched his throat, his eyes bulging as they turned bloodshot. A heartbeat later, he collapsed into the dirt, stiff as a board.
The big bandit, who had just been about to warn him not to lick the poisoned blade, stared at his subordinate's corpse. He began frantically searching his pockets for an antidote.
Hans saw the opening and let out a smirk. "My turn!"
He whipped out a dagger of his own and lunged forward with heroic intent. Unfortunately, being a non-combatant, he was promptly kicked in the chest by the bandit and sent tumbling back into the dirt.
The big bandit growled, raising his axe to finish the job. He never noticed the shadows shifting behind him.
Inside Hans's shadow, the three Shadow Guards were currently engaged in a heated telepathic debate:
"Did you see how the Safety Officer looked at us earlier? We need to find a better way to slack off without getting caught."
"Agreed. Maybe if we hide inside a hollow log..."
One of the Shadow Guards stepped out of the shadow, bored. Before the big bandit could even register the movement, the undead assassin had already ended him.
The Shadow Guard melted back into Hans's shadow, resuming the discussion: "As I was saying, if we use a displacement charm, we can probably nap for at least two hours..."
Hans scrambled up, dusting off his suit. He looked at the two corpses and adjusted his collar. "Good talk."
He urged the horses forward, maneuvering the wagon around the fallen tree. The road to Silvermoon City was open.
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