Here's the continuation in third-person POV, focusing on Silas wrestling with restraint:
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Silas watched BruteForce42 vanish into the throng of Valtheim's market, the warrior's booming voice still echoing promises of Shadowmancer loot. The brief window into the player's inventory – the glint of that rare Moon-Steel Ingot tucked away like forgotten treasure – had ignited a fierce, almost painful hunger in Silas's core. *Take it. Just one thought. One command through the lingering interface link. Who would know?*
His fingers, seemingly idly adjusting a display of dried Nightshade petals, twitched with the suppressed impulse. The System's cold, invisible presence felt heavier suddenly, a pressure against his non-existent skull. **[Role Compliance: Optimal. Maintain Status.]** The notification was bland, devoid of overt threat, but the memory of the words "Memory Reset" burned like ice.
*Not yet,* Silas commanded himself, forcing his new body's pre-programmed merchant smile onto his face as another player, a wide-eyed Mage in shimmering novice robes named **ArcaneSpark**, approached. *Too risky. Too soon. The leash is too short.*
"Greetings, seeker of arcana," Silas intoned, the gravelly NPC voice smooth and practiced. "The air thrums with latent energies today. Perhaps the stars align for discovery?" It was harmless flavor text, designed to make new players feel special.
ArcaneSpark beamed, utterly taken in. "Oh! Do you have any rare spell components? Something for fire affinity?"
Silas's internal vendor interface flickered. Behind the mundane herbs and cheap foci, his *real* stock beckoned: bottled shadow-essence, crystallized dragon's breath, phoenix ash – contraband that could make this novice a powerhouse… for a price that would likely bankrupt them. The temptation to offer it, to see the Mage's eyes widen further, to feel the illicit thrill of the deal, surged. He could frame it as a 'secret stash', a 'special offer for a discerning customer'…
But the Mandatory Quest timer ticked in the corner of his vision: **21:37:12 remaining**. The System was watching. Guiding players to their potential doom in the Weeping Cells was one thing – sanctioned treachery. Deviating from his designated merchant role, actively exploiting a player *outside* the Blackmarket Informant script? That felt like stepping onto a trapdoor blindfolded.
With an internal wrench, Silas filtered the display. Only common Fire Moss and Salamander Scales appeared. "Alas," he sighed, injecting a note of genuine-sounding regret into the NPC cadence, "such potent reagents are beyond the reach of this humble stall. Perhaps seek the Alchemist's Guild?" *Liar,* he thought bitterly. *Hypocrite.*
ArcaneSpark's shoulders slumped slightly, but she bought some Fire Moss anyway. As the transaction completed, Silas felt the familiar, fleeting pulse: **[Player Trade Interface Detected: ArcaneSpark] [Status: Active (Proximity)] [Duration: 15 seconds]**.
Her inventory bloomed in his mind's eye. Mostly junk, but nestled among cheap mana potions was a single, perfect **Soulgem Shard** – useless to her now, but a high-level enchanting component worth a small fortune on the black market. It glowed in his perception, a siren song of easy profit. His hand hovered near the edge of the stall, the phantom sensation of snatching it almost overwhelming. *Fifteen seconds. Just a thought… shift it from her bag to mine before the link breaks. She'd never notice. The System might not even detect a minor inventory fluctuation…*
His jaw clenched. Amber eyes, fixed on a point just beyond the Mage's shoulder, hardened. The System *would* know. It knew everything. It had designed him, trapped him. This interface flicker felt like a cruel test, bait laid out by a digital jailer. To grab it now would be pure, reckless defiance. Not strategy, not survival – suicide by compliance review.
He let the fifteen seconds bleed away. The link dissolved. ArcaneSpark's inventory vanished from his perception, the Soulgem Shard slipping back into the inaccessible void of player storage. A phantom ache of loss settled in his chest. He'd held back. He'd played the meek, compliant NPC merchant.
"May your spells burn bright," Silas offered the departing Mage, the NPC farewell automatic and hollow.
As ArcaneSpark wandered off, Silas leaned back into the shadows of his alcove, the forced smile dropping. Restraint tasted like ash. He watched the players flow past – laughing, arguing, questing – blissfully unaware of the strings attached to their digital lives, or the puppet master trapped in the merchant's skin. The Moon-Steel Ingot, the Soulgem Shard… they were symbols. Proof of the gulf between what he *could* do and what he *dared* do. For now.
The Mandatory Quest timer continued its relentless countdown. **21:12:49**. He needed two more lambs for the slaughter. He scanned the crowd, his gaze analytical, detached. Not BruteForce42's brash type, not ArcaneSpark's naive innocence. He needed someone greedy, desperate, already dancing on the edge of the game's darker paths. Someone who wouldn't question the lure of Shadowmancer artifacts whispered by a shady NPC.
He spotted them: a duo lingering near the alley leading to the Thieves' Den. A rogue in patched leathers (**VeilCutter**) and a hulking warrior with a notched axe (**StoneFist**). Their eyes darted, assessing guards, marking escape routes. Perfect.
Silas took a slow, unnecessary breath his digital lungs didn't require, smoothing his silver braid. The rebellion was caged, banked for now, a low heat beneath the surface. He would play the perfect NPC, deliver his lines flawlessly, herd the players to the Weeping Cells as commanded. He would be the System's obedient tool.
But as he prepared to step forward and weave his deadly script for VeilCutter and StoneFist, Silas's mind wasn't on the quest. It was on that fleeting fifteen-second window. On the *feel* of BruteForce42's inventory. On the *potential*.
*Patience,* he told the ember of defiance smoldering within. *Observe. Learn. Find the cracks in the cage. Then, when the System least expects it…* His fingers brushed the worn wood of his stall, tracing a knot that resembled a keyhole. *…we steal the key.* For now, the role was armor. Later, it might become the perfect disguise for something far more dangerous than a mere merchant.