The rotation continued. The air in the small room grew denser with every exchange. One man offered a basilisk fang for a shadow mineral; another traded a short-range teleportation scroll for information on a mana vein in Eastern Europe. Ethan watched in silence, feeling the weight of his economic "poverty." His nine hundred million, which in the outside world could buy mansions and fleets of cars, was mere pocket change here used to balance the scales.
Finally, the turn reached a very old woman sitting two seats to Ethan's left. Her face was etched with deep wrinkles and her hands trembled slightly, but her eyes held a harrowing urgency.
"I need a healing potion. It must be at least Grade 2," said the old woman, her voice cracking with desperation. "I am prepared to negotiate any price. Money, assets, favors... anything."
