"I'll take a whole crate of this!"
"Is that mare's milk? Give me two jugs of that too!"
The Americans in their suspenders bustled through the marketplace, stocking up on supplies. Most had the backing of wealthy syndicates, though a few were lone prospectors—men relying purely on their own courage and luck.
But compared to the well-equipped, well-staffed teams, the fate of most solo treasure hunters was rarely a pleasant one.
No matter the place, only a handful ever struck it rich in the end.
Especially here, amid Egypt's endless sea of yellow sand, prospectors had more to fear than just the unforgiving desert. They had to watch their backs—not just against nature, but against the greed of their fellow treasure seekers.
Money stirs the heart like nothing else.
And out here, beyond the reach of law and morality, finding a treasure wasn't always a blessing—it could just as easily mark the beginning of tragedy.
Of course, a bit of danger was hardly enough to quell the feverish desire of those who dreamed of getting rich overnight.
Egypt—this land had always carried an air of ancient mystery. Everyone knew that beneath the rolling dunes lay the buried tombs and riches of pharaohs long dead.
To the treasure hunters, those weren't just relics—they were fortunes. If one could unearth a pharaoh's treasures, they could leap overnight into the ranks of the world's wealthiest, living a life of luxury and envy that others could only dream of.
Even teams working for major corporations had incentive; if they managed to locate the "993rd Pharaoh's" treasure, the syndicates would reward them handsomely with generous dividends.
Throughout these years of war, countless adventurers had relied on their so-called bravery and recklessness to scour the world for priceless artifacts.
And Egypt's sands…
They had already yielded several treasures that had shocked the world. That was why so many explorers and fortune seekers continued to flood into this place, year after year.
"The perfect example of people willing to risk their lives for money," Herman muttered to himself.
Having just scanned the memories of many around him, he already understood the situation here clearly.
These treasure hunters, fueled by dreams of a better life, dove headfirst into the desert, hoping to wrest victory and riches from the sands themselves. But for most, their journey ended buried beneath the same desert they sought to conquer.
Only a few ever returned with both their lives and their fortunes intact.
Out of ten thousand well-prepared men, even among those who found nothing, only a small handful ever managed to walk out of the desert alive.
The desert's cruelty could only be understood by those who had faced it. Every treasure gained was paid for with the bones of countless companions who never made it back.
The desert devours life without judgment. It doesn't care how skilled a survivor you are. Even the greatest survival expert is nothing before its endless sands.
Did these people not know how dangerous it was?
They knew.
They knew perfectly well.
But in the face of immeasurable wealth, even understanding the risks couldn't stop them. They still came, one after another, abandoning the safety of civilization to wager their lives on the chance to win fortune from Egypt's deserts.
Everyone believed they would be the one to make it.
That's human nature.
Offer a 10% profit, and people will eagerly trade.
At 20%, they become restless.
At 50%, they'll take real risks.
At 100%, many are willing to trample every law of man.
And at 300%, they'll face the gallows without hesitation.
The profits from desert treasure hunting far exceeded three hundred percent.
It was enough to drive anyone mad—because the life that awaited after finding a treasure was simply too tempting.
A single gamble could turn a bicycle into a castle.
With stakes like that, it was no wonder these reckless souls threw their lives into the sands, chasing a dream that glittered just beyond reach.
"My camel's the best there is—it can find fresh water in the desert all on its own! Interested? Two thousand dollars!" A merchant eagerly tried to pitch his goods to Herman.
"Save it for someone who needs it."
Herman brushed him off and kept walking.
Still, with every few steps, another vendor tried to sell him something.
Though his features clearly marked him as an Easterner, his clean, high-quality casual clothes made him stand out among the locals—and to them, that meant one thing: easy money.
Forget the camel.
Even the cheapest food here was being sold at prices dozens of times higher than it was worth.
The adventurers knew they were being overcharged, of course. But compared to the fortune they hoped to unearth, the expense was nothing more than spare change.
All they really wanted was convenience—and the goodwill of the locals. Letting the townsfolk earn a little extra was a small price to pay to keep trouble away.
No one here was naïve. Everyone had their own kind of calculation.
Herman strolled along the dusty market street.
He wasn't just wandering aimlessly—he wanted to see if there was a specific reason he'd appeared here after entering this universe.
Maybe that "voice" that had called to him was somewhere nearby. It wasn't impossible.
So, while he appeared to be simply window-shopping, he was quietly observing.
The street itself, the architecture, even the snippets of conversation drifting through the air—all of it carried a sense of another era, an old-world charm that stirred a bit of curiosity in him.
"I'll take ten pounds of apples!"
A suspenders-wearing adventurer shouted at a fruit vendor.
"Damn this weather! The wind's insane today! Guess I'll have to delay entering the desert again!" another adventurer complained loudly at a neighboring stall.
He was wrapped up from head to toe like a mummy, goggles strapped tightly over his eyes. Clearly, he couldn't stand the desert wind and sand.
He wasn't alone—most of the Americans here were dressed the same way.
The desert sun and sand were brutal on the skin; even locals wore coarse linen wraps that covered most of their faces. When the sandstorms came, they would wrap their entire heads tightly in thick cloth.
If even the locals needed that much protection, outsiders had it far worse. Skincare creams and oils were among the hottest commodities around.
"Holy hell! Check that guy out—he's not even wearing any protection!"
One adventurer stared wide-eyed the moment he spotted Herman.
"Heh, must be a rookie treasure hunter," another snickered. "He'll find out soon enough what it feels like when your skin starts cracking like dry leather."
The two chuckled, assuming Herman was just another clueless newcomer—one who didn't know the first thing about surviving the desert. After all, not everyone here was American. There were treasure hunters from all over the world.
The Americans just happened to be the most numerous. The British weren't far behind—unsurprising, really, since both nations were infamously known as… well, professional thieves.
"I bet the guy won't last long. He'll die in the desert. Two hundred bucks says so."
"I'm not betting on that," the other said with a smirk. "Why not spend that money on some fun instead? You've got no idea what the women here will do for a hundred bucks."
The grin on his face said enough, and his friend's imagination clearly ran wild.
"In that case, you'd better take me to see for myself."
The first adventurer swallowed hard, and the two exchanged a knowing look—a silent laugh only men would understand—before walking off together.
They had no intention of warning Herman. What good was a good deed out here, anyway, where gold was the only thing that mattered?
Besides, who would ever warn a competitor?
Everyone was here for the same goal—the treasures buried beneath the desert. And for people consumed by greed, it was only natural to hope the others would drop dead before they ever got the chance.
The pair's conversation hadn't escaped Herman's notice.
They didn't care to warn him. And he certainly had no interest in acknowledging them.
In the end, most adventurers shared the same fate—death.
He could already see it on them.
Thanks to the authority granted by his [Lord of the Dead] identity, Herman could clearly make out the black lines of doom etched across their foreheads.
One would die tonight, probably in a woman's arms. The other would meet his end tomorrow, buried in the desert sand.
There was no reason to warn men already marked for death.
"The wind really is strong today," he murmured.
He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on.
Not that he needed them.
He didn't require skin protection or shielding from the elements. This level of environment was far from harsh for him.
Even a vacuum was perfectly livable for a Sky Father–level being—let alone a little dry sand and wind.
He wore the sunglasses for one simple reason.
They made him look good.
"This place looks perfectly normal… nothing out of the ordinary at all."
Herman walked through the bustling market, scanning everything with quiet curiosity.
He'd only wanted to take a look around—to see if there was anything unusual about this place. After all, the moment he entered this universe, he had appeared right here.
Maybe the voice that had called to him came from this very market. It wasn't impossible. Otherwise, why would he have appeared here of all places, instead of somewhere else?
At the very least, this might be a weak point in the fabric of the universe.
Herman's will had already spread out to cover the entire town, but his mental sweep hadn't revealed anything unusual.
"If something can reach across universes to call out to me," he thought to himself, "it must be something extraordinary. It might not even be something that willpower alone can detect."
He mused over the thought as he strolled along the street, moving with the unhurried ease of someone simply out for a walk.
But then—
He encountered something so absurdly cliché that he almost laughed.
A scrawny, monkey-like man suddenly and deliberately stumbled toward him, pretending to bump into him.
From the shallow thoughts flickering in the man's mind, Herman immediately learned what he was dealing with—an experienced pickpocket. The man had noticed Herman walking alone and decided he was the perfect mark.
"That's not a very good idea…"
Just as the man was about to make contact, Herman activated his telekinesis. The thief froze in place mid-motion, completely immobilized.
Herman watched him with narrowed eyes, a faint, amused smile forming on his lips—a smile that made the would-be thief's blood run cold.
"L-Let me go! Damn it, what is this?! Sorcery? Witchcraft?!"
The scrawny thief shouted in terror, struggling helplessly.
But no one around them noticed a thing.
To minimize any potential impact on history, Herman had subtly tampered with the nearby onlookers' thoughts.
"Seems I really did find the right universe after all."
He looked at the terrified man and couldn't help but smile.
He recognized him immediately.
Which meant his hunch was right—he hadn't entered the wrong universe. The only issue was that the time wasn't right.
After all, aside from the Marvel universe influenced by his [All-Seeing Eye], it was impossible for there to be another version of it where characters who didn't belong in Marvel's timeline appeared.
Yes—
The skinny, monkey-like man frozen before him…
Herman knew exactly who he was.
A man who absolutely shouldn't exist in the Marvel world.