The bell above the door chimed softly as Trafalgar and Garrika stepped into Augusto's shop. The air was thick with a metallic tang, sharp and almost sweet. Dust shimmered faintly in the light of mana lamps, a purple haze clinging to the corners like smoke.
The source was impossible to miss. Stacks of raw Mythril gleamed along the walls, veins of deep violet running through each chunk, streaked with lighter lavender as if mana itself had been frozen inside. The ore pulsed faintly, catching the eye with every shift of light.
Trafalgar's gaze lingered only for a moment. 'Good. Still here, exactly where I expected him to leave it.'
He had forced the mercenaries—those who had once tried to slit his throat—to dig the mineral out with their own hands. He had stored it here temporarily, in Augusto's shop, while he dealt with Andrew von Mariven.
