The hamlet's yard was a churn of dust and cautious footsteps, the air thick with the scent of tilled earth and nervous sweat. The midday sun hung heavy, its light slicing through the thatched roofs, casting jagged shadows across the dirt. Villagers pressed close, their eyes darting over the tarp the girls had spread like a battle flag on the ground.
Adults lingered at the edges, their hands tight on sickles and hoes, suspicion carved into their weathered faces. Teenagers hovered closer, their rebellion a quiet spark, eyes glinting with curiosity but wary enough to keep their distance. Children, fearless and small, darted between legs, their laughter sharp as they tugged at skirts and pointed at the strangers' wares.
Amber, Megan, and Monica worked with a rhythm born of necessity, their hands swift as they laid out their goods on the tarp. Amber's thrifted clothes spilled across the fabric like a merchant's fever dream—linen tunics, wool cloaks, cotton dresses, all dyed in earthy hues that screamed medieval but whispered Made in China. No zippers, no plastic buttons, just the kind of natural fibers that could pass in a world where polyester was a myth.
Megan's tools gleamed beside them, Home Depot's finest—hammers, axes, saws, their brand names sanded off, their steel alien in its precision. Monica's knives lay in neat rows, their blades catching the sun like a predator's teeth—OTFs, daggers, machetes, each a promise of blood or survival.
Alice stood back, her merchant's tunic crisp, the Kimber's weight a cold anchor in her pocket. Her pens and pencils stayed in the saddlebags—too niche for a hamlet where literacy was a luxury, not a necessity. Norinbel's markets would be her stage, where ink and parchment might fetch a Mard or two. For now, she watched, her eyes scanning the crowd, her mind turning over their plan like a stone smoothed by a river's current.
Amber stepped forward, her cloak swishing with theatrical flair, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. "Alright, people, step right up! I got drip for everyone—men, women, kids, doesn't matter. Prices are fair, but my patience ain't infinite, so don't test me. These are fresh off the boat, one-of-a-kind, and I don't know when I'm getting more. Buy now or cry yourself to sleep later."
The villagers stirred, drawn by her confidence, her words a strange mix of modern hustle and medieval promise. Women edged closer, their fingers brushing Amber's tunics, testing the weave of linen and wool. The clothes were a marvel—stitches tight, dyes rich, no frayed edges or patched holes like the rags they wore. Knee-length dresses for quiet nights, ankle-length for the fields, shawls and cloaks for the chill of dawn. Men lingered over dark brown trousers, their hands hesitant, knowing their wives' needs came first. Teenagers, bold but broke, eyed the boots, their leather a mystery that whispered wealth.
A woman in her thirties, her face lined with years of sun and toil, held up a green tunic, her voice cautious but curious. "Pardon, lass, whence came these garments?"
Amber, juggling seven conversations, didn't miss a beat. "Got 'em in bulk from a supplier far off. Top quality, no questions needed." Her tone was smooth, deflecting like Monica had said—omit, don't lie.
Another woman, an infant slung across her chest, lifted a dark brown dress, its hem brushing the tarp. "Be this washable in the river, merchant?"
Amber's grin was sharp, her eyes flicking to the woman. "Hell yeah, it's river-ready. Next?"
A young adult, her dark gray dress draped over her arm like a trophy, stepped forward. "How many Mards for this?"
Amber's laugh was internal, her mind clocking the nightgown she'd snagged for ten dollars at a Queens thrift shop. "Three Mards. White ones are four, darker ones two. Pick the dark ones, and I'm judging you, just saying."
A cluster of teenagers, their hands stuffed with brown linen shorts, shuffled closer. "How much for these?" one asked, his voice cracking with youth.
"Two Mards each," Amber said, leaning in, her voice dropping like she was letting them in on a secret. "Grab five pairs, and I'll cut it to eight Mards total. Deal?"
A huntress, her bow slung across her back, held up a pair of boots, her eyes narrowing. "What leather be these, merchant?"
Amber's smirk was pure Gen Z, dodging the truth with ease. "Leather, but not the kind you're thinking. Trust me, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Only got a few pairs—those, those, and that one. Wrong size? Tough luck, that's life."
A wife and her teenage daughter, dresses piled on their arms, approached, their faces hopeful. "Five dresses for twenty Mards?" the mother asked, her voice tentative.
Amber shook her head, her grin unrelenting. "Nah, twenty-three Mards or no deal. Shipping ain't cheap, lady."
A woman in her forties, clutching a bright red dress, stepped up. "And this one, lass?"
"Simple duster," Amber said, barely glancing at it. "Two Mards. Grab three, I'll knock a Mard off."
A young newlywed, her cheeks flushed, held up a sheer chemise, her voice soft. "This, merchant?"
Amber's eyes gleamed, sensing a sale. "Fine chemise, four Mards. Your man's gonna lose his mind, trust."
The crowd swelled, villagers pressing closer, their voices a low hum of excitement and skepticism. Women compared dresses, holding them against each other, measuring lengths with practiced hands. Some marveled at the stitching, tight and even, others at the dyes, vibrant despite their "natural" origins. Men, resigned to their wives' priorities, watched with quiet disappointment, their own clothes threadbare but ignored. Children darted underfoot, tugging at cloaks, their giggles a sharp contrast to the adults' wary bartering.
Megan and Monica worked their own corners of the tarp, their goods drawing a different crowd—hunters, carpenters, farmers, their hands rough from years of labor. Megan's tools gleamed under the sun, their steel a silent boast of modernity. Monica's knives, from OTFs to machetes, lay like a predator's arsenal, their edges sharp enough to split a hair.
Megan raised her voice, cutting through the chatter. "Yo, check it—hammers, axes, saws, chisels, even measuring tapes. Imported from way the hell out there. Quality's unreal, you won't be disappointed."
Men knelt, their hands testing the weight of hammers, the balance of axes. A broad-shouldered farmer lifted a claw hammer, comparing it to his own, its iron pitted with rust. "What steel be this, lass?" he asked, his voice thick with Isekai's archaic lilt.
"Alloy steel," Megan said, her grin cocky. "Not your weak-ass mild steel. Built for hardness, fights corrosion like a champ."
Another man, his brow furrowed, leaned in. "Corro-what, now?"
Monica, adjusting her farmer's hat, jumped in. "Means it don't rust easy."
"Invulnerable to rust?" the man pressed, his eyes wide.
Monica snorted, her patience thin. "Ain't no such thing. Every metal rusts eventually. This just holds out longer—way longer."
"Where'd ye find such metal?" another asked, his tone awed. "Feels like magic metal."
"It's not magic," Monica said, her voice sharp, her eyes twitching with the effort not to snap. "Just better forging. Our steel's got more carbon—durability's up, edge retention's up, ductility's up. Harder to forge, but worth it."
A carpenter, his hands scarred from years of chisels, lifted a sledgehammer, testing its weight. "Bigger than ours," he said, swinging it lightly. "Heavier, too."
Megan nodded, her tool belt clinking. "That's for smashing walls, busting stone, whatever needs a hard knock. Five Mards."
He tapped the head, his fingers tracing the steel. "Denser, aye."
Another man grabbed the sledgehammer, swinging it with a grunt. "Ye speak true. This'd break stone and timber alike."
Megan grinned, sensing a sale. "Doing woodworking? Check these." She held up modern wedges, their steel gleaming. "Your iron and wood wedges are cute, but these'll drop a tree faster than you can blink. Three Mards each."
A hunter, his tunic stained with earth, picked up a felling axe, its weight familiar but heavier. "Fine axe," he said, testing the balance. "How much?"
"Five Mards," Megan said, her tone firm.
He snorted, his beard twitching. "Paid three in Norinbel for mine."
"Then go back to Norinbel," Megan shot back, her grin unrelenting. "Your axe'll be a stick in a month. This one? Built to last."
Another man, puzzled, held up a folding hand saw, its blade tucked into the handle. "What be this contraption?"
Megan took it, flicking the button to extend the blade with a snap. "Your average saw, but better. Way better. Three Mards."
He ran a finger along the teeth, skeptical. "Smaller than mine. Will it hold?"
"Bet your ass it will," Megan said, her eyes glinting. "Tougher than your grandad's war stories."
A farmer lifted a black, snail-shaped object, his brow furrowed. "What in the gods' names be this?"
Megan pulled the ribbon, the measuring tape snapping out, numbers stark against the steel. "Measuring tape. No more guessing lengths with your arms. One inch is one nail, one foot's your foot—or your forearm, depending. Precise as hell. Two Mards."
Across the tarp, Monica's knives drew a smaller but sharper crowd—hunters and woodsmen, their eyes gleaming with the promise of steel. A man held up an Extrema Ratio Arditi, its blade a sleek threat. "Terrific dagger," he said, his voice low, reverent.
"N690 steel," Monica said, her tone clipped, professional. "Top-grade. These are for killing, not just hunting. Humans, bears, deer—if it bleeds, this'll skin it."
"Combat daggers?" the man asked, his brow lifting. "We be hunters, lass."
Monica shrugged, her braid swinging. "Don't care who buys. Money talks, I listen. Tactical knives like these? Rogues, thieves, assassins love 'em. Knights and warriors keep 'em as backup. Your call."
Another man, his hands rough from felling trees, lifted a TOPS Bestia, its blade heavy, brutal. "How much for this?"
"Bestia?" Monica's grin was sharp. "Normally a fortune, but since you're our first stop, let's say twenty-five Mards."
"Twenty-five?" he sputtered, his eyes wide. "Twice what town smiths charge!"
"That's 'cause it's 1095 steel," Monica said, her voice hard. "Not your shitty, soft iron. This'll survive anything—hunting, killing, whatever your woods throw at you."
He grumbled, his pouch heavy but hesitant. "Could buy two knives for that."
"Then buy two shitty ones," Monica snapped, her patience fraying. "Knives are life or death. I'd pick the best, not the cheapest. Bears got claws; you got two arms and five liters of blood. Do the math."
Another man lifted a TOPS Cuma Kage, its blade long and sleek. "And this?"
"Same maker, twenty-seven Mards," Monica said. "Longer, better handle, but not much different. Still a beast."
A hunter, younger, held an OTF knife, his fingers tracing the handle. "What be this, lass? 'Tis small."
Monica took it, flicking the switch with a practiced snap, the blade shooting out and back. "Out-the-front knife. Blade's in the handle. Forward to deploy, back to store. Small, easy to carry—pocket, necklace, whatever. Razor-sharp, deploys fast. Point it wrong, you'll bleed out in a minute."
The man mimicked her, flicking the switch, his eyes wide. "Gods, 'tis swift."
"Twelve Mards," Monica said, her grin generous but firm. "First-customer deal."
The men whispered among themselves, their pouches light, Nomence's fourteen-Mard daily wage a chain around their choices. They weighed their needs—hammers for building, knives for hunting, clothes for their families. Slowly, they opened their pouches, coins clinking as they bought what they could afford, their faces grim but resigned.
Amber's stock vanished fastest, her tarp nearly bare as women and girls snatched up dresses, tunics, and cloaks. The men, left with nothing, hid their disappointment, their wives' and children's needs outweighing their own. Megan and Monica sold steadily—hammers, wedges, two Bestias, one Kage, and two OTFs, the heavier blades left for Norinbel's richer markets. The villagers dispersed, their arms full, their pouches lighter, their chatter fading into the hum of the fields.
Amber counted her Mards, her grin triumphant as she waved the pouch under Lulu's nose. "One-thirty-six, one-thirty-seven, one-thirty-eight, one-thirty-nine, one-forty! One-forty fucking Mards, Lu. Smell that? That's money."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her voice dry as bone. "Congrats, you invented the 'Sold Out' sign in Isekai. Big whoop."
Amber's laugh was sharp, her cloak swishing. "Keep this up, and I'm retiring early—way earlier than your Wall Street ass thought. This haul's millions, probably."
Lulu rolled her eyes, leaning against Creedmoor's flank. "You cleared out a thrift shop in Queens. What's your point? Medieval drip isn't exactly a daily restock."
"I'll buy more, sell more," Amber shot back, her grin unrelenting. "It's called outsourcing, bitch."
Alice, folding the tarp with Megan, snorted. "Sounds like my Amazon days. Where do we even get medieval shit?"
Amber's eyes gleamed, her mind already racing. "Duh, websites. Half a dozen sell medieval and fantasy gear for LARPing and cosplays. Haven't bought yet, but I'm vibing with the idea. Or we go straight to China."
Monica, securing a knife in her belt, raised a brow. "Made in China, literal edition. Not to be that asshole, but really? China?"
Amber spun on her, her voice fierce. "Come the fuck on, Mon. This ain't 2010. I'd portal to any country for what I want. You seen the news?"
Alice's voice was calm but firm. "Tariffs."
Megan, tossing a hammer into her saddlebag, nodded. "Always tariffs. What else is new?"
Amber's hands waved, dramatic as ever. "I'm not paying DHL $450 to ship boots from Spain. That orange dude ain't my president, period."
Alice nodded, her merchant's mask slipping into a grin. "Amber's extra, but she's right. If we can portal anywhere, we go to the source. Guangzhou, Shenzhen—straight to the factories."
Monica's jaw tightened, her Texas pride bristling. "You sure about Chinese sweatshops, Al? Quantity's one thing, but we're merchants. Quality matters."
Amber's laugh was a blade. "Everything you know about China's a myth, cowgirl. They've been the backbone of, like, everything for a decade. Imports? China. Exports? China. Megan's shop parts? China, bitch. Clinging to the American Dream? I pity your soul and any kids you pop out."
Megan chuckled, her hands greasy from a chisel. "She's not wrong. BYD's been dropping EVs that make Teslas look like golf carts."
Lulu's voice was sharp, analytical. "Statistically, Asia's our best bet. Lower costs, higher margins. Isekai in hanfus or kimonos might raise eyebrows given the middle European backdrop, but the math checks out. Why pay for 'Made in USA' when the numbers don't lie?"
Monica's eyes flicked to Alice, her voice low. "Al?"
Alice's gaze was steady, her mind made up. "It's a no-brainer, Mon. Tunics for $15, swords for $100. We'd save—"
"Sixty to seventy-five percent, conservatively," Lulu cut in, her glasses glinting. "Chinese manufacturers prefer bulk. Better margins, less hassle."
Amber nodded, her grin smug. "Pay a guy six bucks an hour to churn out shirts from the same mold. Done."
Lulu's lips twitched, annoyed. "You're trying to be funny, but that's probably real."
Megan tossed another tool into her bag, her voice thoughtful. "Mon, American doesn't mean best. I've seen Toyotas outlast 'vettes by decades."
Alice's voice cut through, final. "Jokes aside, this is a financial slam dunk. We'd be stupid not to."
Monica sighed, her hat tilting back. "Fine. I'll live with it."
The girls finished packing, their unsold goods tucked into saddlebags. Monica led Grendel and Creedmoor to a patch of grass near the river, their hooves sinking into the soft earth as they grazed, the water's gurgle a quiet backdrop. The hamlet's hum faded, the villagers gone, their coins now in the girls' pouches. The air was heavy with the scent of success and the weight of what came next—Norinbel, its markets, its dangers, all waiting like a storm on the horizon.
The hamlet's yard was quiet now, the dust settling like a sigh after the frenzy of trade. The tarp lay folded, the unsold goods—mostly Monica's heavier blades and Megan's specialty tools—tucked back into the saddlebags with a clink of steel and leather. Grendel and Creedmoor grazed lazily by the river, their tails swishing, the soft gurgle of water blending with the distant hum of villagers returning to their fields. The air carried the sharp tang of grass and the faint musk of horse, a world untouched by asphalt or exhaust, but heavy with the weight of what the girls had just learned and earned.
Lulu sat cross-legged on the ground, her scholar's robe pooling around her, a small pile of Mards glinting in her lap as she counted with surgical precision. Her glasses caught the midday sun, her voice dry as she tallied the haul. "Ninety-three Mards for Megan, one-twenty-six for Monica. Add Amber's one-forty, and we're at three-fifty-nine Mards total. Amber's got the leaderboard, and fuck, I hate saying that. Someone, please, sell more and knock her off the throne."
Megan, slinging her tool belt over her shoulder, grinned despite the bronze. "Ninety-three? Rough start, but I'll take it. Next round's mine."
Amber, leaning against Grendel's flank, waved her pouch of coins like a trophy, her cloak swishing with smug flair. "Can't believe you cheated, Mon. Play fair, you shady bitch."
Monica, adjusting her farmer's hat, shot her a look sharp enough to cut. "Not my fault you're slinging thirty-dollar thrift hauls. My knives? Four hundred a pop. I'm playing in the big leagues, princess."
Megan glanced at Alice, her hands greasy from packing her tools. "What about Al's pens and office shit?"
Alice, standing by Creedmoor, her merchant's tunic crisp despite the dust, shook her head. "This hamlet's got no scholars or scribes. Pens are too niche here. Norinbel's got the academics—my stuff'll move there."
Monica's grin was all teeth, her eyes glinting with violence. "More killers in the city, too. Means more daggers sold. I'm ready to clean house."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Whatever you say, Patrick Bateman."
Alice's patience frayed, her voice cutting through like a whip. "Enough. We're taking ten minutes to breathe, then we're out."
The girls fell silent, the tension easing as they spread out, stretching their legs, the weight of their haul and the road ahead settling into their bones. The river's murmur was a quiet anchor, the grassland stretching wide under a sky too vast, too clean, for their New York nerves.
An old man approached, his steps slow but steady, his tunic patched and faded, his face carved with decades of labor. His eyes, sharp despite his age, swept over the girls, lingering on their merchant disguises. "Be ye lasses bound for Norinbel?" he asked, his voice rough, steeped in Isekai's archaic lilt.
Alice nodded, her hand brushing the Kimber in her pocket, a reflex. "Aye, sir. After a short rest."
He leaned on his staff, his gaze heavy with warning. "Take care, lass. Nomence cities be free, but folk don't warm to outsiders. Trouble follows strangers like a shadow."
Monica snorted, her braid swinging as she crossed her arms. "No shit. Last time we were there, we almost got jacked."
The man's brow lifted, surprised but curious. "Were ye, now? Ye five seem hale."
Monica's grin was a blade, her Texas edge bleeding through. "'Cause we sent one to meet his maker. Problem solved."
Megan laughed, her tool belt clinking as she shifted. "Bitch, you sliced their tendons with a kukri. They ain't walking, let alone waking up, healthcare or not. They fucked for life."
Monica's eyes gleamed, unrepentant. "And my violence saved your asses. A thank you wouldn't kill you."
Alice sighed, her merchant's mask slipping. "It was… an accident, sir. Sort of. Getting mugged doesn't exactly scream self-defense here, but we got out before the guards cared. Lucky break."
The man nodded, his face grim. "As expected. Norinbel's vast—seventy million souls, not seventy million jobs. Empty bellies breed desperate hands."
Amber's laugh was sharp, her cloak swishing as she leaned forward. "Wait till you hear about our hometown."
Alice shot her a look, her voice low. "Zip it, Ambs."
The man's eyes narrowed, but he pressed on, his tone heavy. "Guards don't care for reasons. They're the region's muscle—patrols, defense, law. To them, ye be storms brewin'. Draw too much attention, and some folk vanish."
Megan's brow furrowed, her hands on her hips. "Vanish? Like, kidnapped?"
"Aye," the man said, his voice dropping. "Nomence needs no papers to come or go—its strength and its curse. Slave traders slip through as easy as merchants. Those who vanish? Likely breakin' their backs in mines far off."
Amber's nose wrinkled, her voice dripping with disgust. "Eww, y'all are straight-up barbaric."
The man's gaze softened, curious. "Ye hail from a land where slavery's banned, then?"
Megan snorted, her mechanic's grit surfacing. "New York? You'd be shocked, pal. Everyone's a slave there, just without the label."
Lulu's eyes flashed, her voice sharp. "Meg!"
Megan shrugged, unapologetic. "What? I didn't say the full name. He won't know shit about NY."
Alice's voice was steady, probing. "How often does this kidnapping happen?"
"Like rain," the man said, his tone flat. "Most slaves die in their first year. Replacements are constant. Some fight back—few see the next dawn."
Alice's brow furrowed, her mind turning. "Fight back? The traffickers don't have protections?"
"Most are just thugs with chains and collars," he said. "Shackles, whips, the usual. Only the worst—meaning the best—use magic vows."
Monica's eyes narrowed, her voice low, dangerous. "Magic can force someone to stay?"
The man nodded, his face grim. "Magic's the mightiest force. Anything's possible with the right spell."
Alice leaned forward, her voice careful. "How long do these vows last?"
"For a lifetime," he said. "Slaves bound to a master's vow are tied till the master dies."
Alice's stomach twisted. "Their whole life?"
Monica's jaw clenched, her rage barely leashed. "What happens if the master's dead? You said lifetime. Death comes for everyone, right?"
The man's eyes flickered, wary of her intensity. "Slaves are freed. But most get rebound to the master's kin."
Monica's grin was feral, her voice a growl. "So I'd have to wipe out a whole family?"
"Aye," the man said, hesitant, sensing the storm in her. "I suppose."
"Cool," Monica said, her tone too calm. "Thanks for the heads-up, gramps."
The man shuffled off, his staff tapping the dirt, leaving the girls in a silence thick with tension. Alice's eyes locked on Monica, her voice sharp. "Don't even think about it."
Monica's hands raised, her grin unconvincing. "I'm not. Just curious, no cap."
Amber's laugh was sharp, cutting through. "Anyone who says no cap in the year 2025 is one hundred percent capping."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her voice cold, all business. "Monica, we don't meddle in local shit. We stay in our lane, mind our own fucking business."
Alice nodded, her tone firm. "She's right. We don't know how they'll react if we stir the pot."
Monica's eyes flashed, her Texas fire rising. "So you're cool with a twelve-year-old elf kid mining fifteen hours a day?"
Alice's voice was tight, her patience fraying. "I didn't say that."
Monica leaned closer, her voice low, accusing. "Al, you worked for fucking Amazon. You, of all people, should be anti-slavery."
Amber's grin was vicious. "We're not Lincoln, you fifty-IQ whore."
Alice's hand shot up, her voice sharp. "Lu, back me up."
Lulu's tone was analytical, her glasses glinting. "If we want to fuck with slavery, we do it smart. Start with the economy—change the game from the ground up."
Monica's laugh was bitter, her eyes wild. "Or, hear me out—a homemade mortar. Bean canisters, ammonium nitrate, nitroglycerin, some gasoline. Megan can whip it up, easy."
Megan's hands flew up, her voice incredulous. "Are you fucking insane? I'm not building a bomb for your murder fetish."
Alice's patience snapped, her voice a blade. "Enough, Mon. Calm the fuck down. We don't burn someone else's house down. This world's got magic—probably gods watching our every move. Your murder kink's gonna get us all killed."
Monica's jaw tightened, her voice low. "So I just sit back and watch kids get chained up?"
"Yes," Alice said, her tone final, unyielding.
Monica's eyes burned, her Texas roots bleeding through. "Al, I'm from Blackland. I know what missing means across the border. It's never just missing."
Alice's voice softened, but her resolve didn't waver. "I get it, Mon. I do. But we're in deep water we don't understand. When the time's right, I'll let you loose. Not now."
Lulu nodded, her voice sharp. "Listen to her. We're nobodies here. It won't be long before some noble demands protection money. When that happens, go wild. Until then, chill the fuck out. Be wise."
Alice's eyes flicked to the group, her merchant's mask back in place. "For now, we're merchants. Nothing more, nothing less. Mon, sell your knives. I'll sling pens to medieval nerds. We'll sort this shit out later."
Monica's gaze swept over them, her lips tight. "Some leader you are, Bromine." The last name was a jab, rare and sharp, her anger a live wire.
Alice's fist clenched, her knuckles white, but she swallowed her rage, letting it die in her chest. She sighed, the fight draining out of her. "Let's just move."
Monica gathered Grendel and Creedmoor, her hands rough but gentle on their reins, the horses snorting as they sensed her mood. Alice climbed onto Creedmoor, her tunic shifting, the Kimber's weight a quiet reminder. Lulu slid behind her, her scholar's robe bunching, her grip tight on Alice's waist. Amber swung onto Grendel, her cloak billowing with dramatic flair. Megan and Monica stayed on foot, their boots kicking up dust, their eyes scanning the horizon.
Alice glanced at the group, her voice steady. "Next stop, Norinbel. Everyone ready?"
Amber's grin was electric, her hands waving. "Born ready, bitch."
Megan adjusted her tool belt, her smirk cocky. "Bet your ass I am."
Lulu's voice was calm, analytical. "Time to gather more intel."
Alice's eyes flicked to Monica, her tone cautious. "Mon?"
Monica side-eyed her, her voice cold. "Just sell your fucking pens, Bromine. Wall Street needs her report done. Let's go."
Alice muttered, "Jesus," her patience worn thin.
They moved out, the horses' hooves thudding on the dirt road, Megan and Monica's steps steady beside them. Amber, unable to resist, broke into a sing-song chant, her voice bright and mocking. "In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there's nothing you can't do—"
Monica's glare could've melted steel. "Shut. The. Fuck. Up."
Amber's grin widened, undeterred. "These streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you—"
Megan and Lulu, chuckling, joined in, their voices ragged but gleeful. "New York, New York, New York!"
Monica's head tilted back, her voice a growl. "Lord Jesus, take me now."
Alice sighed, her eyes on the road ahead, Norinbel's distant walls a faint smudge against the sky. "I'm surrounded by idiots."
The grassland stretched before them, its green sea unbroken, the dirt road winding toward a city that promised wealth and danger in equal measure. The girls' laughter faded, their banter a thin shield against the weight of what waited—markets to conquer, guards to dodge, and a world where freedom was a lie for too many.
The Five Petals Gang strode into Norinbel like they owned the place, but the city hit them like a punch they didn't see coming. It was their second time here, and the vibe clung to them like a bad Tinder date—dirt roads churned to mud, the stench of shit and sweat thick enough to choke, and a crowd so dense it felt like every soul on Isekai was jammed into one chaotic hive. Buildings of stone and timber leaned over the streets, their thatched roofs sagging like tired shoulders, while hawkers screamed over the clatter of carts and the bleat of goats. It was Central Park on a festival day, but medieval, raw, and reeking of desperation. Actual desperation, not the PG-13 Madara kind of desperation.
The girls moved together, Grendel and Creedmoor's hooves thudding, saddlebags heavy with wares. Alice led, her merchant's tunic crisp, the Kimber's weight a cold comfort in her pocket. Amber's cloak flared with every step, her eyes scanning for profit. Lulu, perched behind Alice, adjusted her glasses, her scholar's robe hiding the Beretta's deadly curve. Megan's tool belt clinked, her craftsperson's grin masking the Mossberg strapped to her back. Monica, in her farmer's getup, walked with a predator's swagger, her hat tilted low, the duffle of knives a silent threat.
As they pushed deeper from the city gate, a guard in chainmail waved them over, his gauntleted hand pointing to a separate line snaking toward a checkpoint. Merchants with wagons, peddlers with sacks, and travelers with nothing but dust on their boots stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces a mix of boredom and dread.
Amber's brow arched, her voice sharp. "What the fuck's this about?"
Alice's eyes flicked to the guard, her Amazon instincts kicking in. "They're herding us for a shakedown."
Amber's hands flew to her hips, her cloak swishing. "A shakedown? We didn't get checked last time we rolled through."
Lulu leaned forward, her voice dry as a spreadsheet. "They clocked our merchant drip, you lingerie-talking dumbass. Merchants and migrants aren't the same class here."
Monica's grin was a blade, her hand itching for her kukri. "Just say the word, Al. I'll make these fuckers disappear."
Alice rolled her eyes, her patience already fraying. "No, you're not killing anyone. We do what they want, keep it chill."
The line crawled, the girls hemmed in by the press of bodies and the stink of unwashed wool. Guards tore through wagons ahead, flipping lids, poking sacks, their questions a relentless drone—wares, stay duration, Guild ties, origins, taxes. Alice recognized the game from her Amazon days—factories, warehouses, security checkpoints, same bullshit, different century. No iPads, no QR scanners, just more swords and suspicious glares.
Merchants in the line eyed the girls like wolves circling a campfire. Five young women, no wagons, just horses and bags? Too pretty, too green. Whispers slithered through the crowd, sharp and predatory.
"Look at 'em. Horses, sacks, no cart. Small-time amateurs."
"They'll be lucky to sell a single rag in Norinbel."
"Independents, no Guild. We can bleed 'em dry for protection money."
Alice's eyes darted left to right, her mind spinning escape routes—portals, alleys, the riverbank a mile back. "Monica," she muttered, her voice low, "how many people you clocking?"
Monica's head turned slow, her eyes scanning like a sniper's scope. "Eleven on the wall, armed with crossbows. Six behind us, hands on hilts. Thirteen fanning out to our right and left, mixed weapons. Two assholes by that wagon at one o'clock, probably hiding blades. Four in the guard towers, seven and five o'clock, crossbows ready. And three dozen fat fucks with bellies bigger than a Silicon Valley tech bro's ego. Don't look."
Alice's hand brushed the Kimber, her voice steady. "Emergency scenario—how many can you drop in two seconds?"
Monica's grin was feral, her voice a low growl. "Four, maybe five if they're lined up like ducks. Towers are a problem—too high, too armored."
Lulu's glasses glinted, her tone sharp. "What about our shotguns?"
Monica shook her head. "Two at most, but 12-gauge booms like a fucking cannon. That'll draw every guard in a mile, and we're screwed. Also range's bitch, you'd be lucky to even kill anyone past thirty yards with yours. Al's shotty got more range but less movement."
Alice's jaw tightened. "Plus, if we start blasting, our faces are on wanted posters by sundown."
Monica's eyes gleamed, unrepentant. "Then we commit. Kill 'em all or don't bother."
Lulu's voice was ice. "Obviously, don't kill, you psycho."
Amber's laugh was sharp, her cloak swishing. "Y'all are stressing, but I'm portalling back to Queens if this goes south."
Megan snorted, her tool belt clinking. "Sounds like skill issue. Pussy."
Amber spun on her, her voice a hiss. "Sorry, cylinder-block-brain, not all of us are built for your grease-monkey chaos."
Megan's grin widened. "Ain't no easy way to do this, princess. Suck it up."
Alice's patience snapped, her voice a blade. "Cut it, both of you."
Lulu leaned closer, her voice low. "Al, what's the play?"
Alice's eyes narrowed, her mind racing. "We keep our cover tight. God knows what bullshit's waiting down the road."
Monica's grin was wicked. "Tempting fate, Bromine?"
Alice's tone was dry. "Time'll tell, Smith. Time'll tell."
Monica leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "If you wanna stay lowkey, we need a scapegoat. Someone else to take the heat."
Megan's brow furrowed, her hands on her hips. "What the fuck does that mean?"
Monica's eyes glinted, her Texas drawl thick. "We're new blood. Our rep's worth less than a fart in a windstorm. Trouble's coming—either some big-shot merchant flexing or—"
Lulu cut in, her voice sharp. "—or you starting it, like always."
Monica ignored her, pressing on. "Point is, don't throw the first punch. Provoke, rile 'em up, then swing like it's the apocalypse."
Amber's hands flew up, exasperated. "Speak English, you unhinged cowgirl."
Monica's grin widened. "Gaslight, you idiot."
Megan's laugh was rough. "Gaslight? How do we trick thugs into swinging first?"
Monica's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Easy. Thugs or merchants'll come for protection money today, bet on it. Tell 'em we're broke. They ask why? Say we don't deal with fat idiots who look like San Francisco rejects with no Dunkin' and zero math skills beyond counting their toes. They'll lose their shit, trust me."
The line shuffled forward, and it was their turn. Two guards flanked Grendel and Creedmoor, their hands diving into saddlebags and burlap sacks, poking through clothes, tools, and knives. A third guard, sweat beading on his brow, approached with a crumpled paper and a quill, ink dripping like he'd never held one before. His voice was coarse, his professionalism hanging by a thread. "State yer names and purpose, lasses."
Alice stepped up, her merchant's mask flawless. "Traveling merchants from a far-off land."
The guard scribbled, his quill scratching. "How long ye stayin' in Norinbel?"
"Two to four days," Alice said, her voice steady.
The guard's eyes narrowed, scanning their group. "Any o' ye wield magic?"
Alice tilted her head, deflecting. "Depends—what counts as magic here?"
"Basic energy tricks," he said, impatient. "Strength, speed, summonin' familiars, castin' spells. Ye know, lady."
Lulu, unable to resist, leaned forward, her sarcasm thick. "I can count numbers crazy fast and accurate. That count?"
Alice shot her a look. "Not magic."
The guard snorted, unimpressed. "That's arithmetic, lass. Fancy for here, but no magic."
Amber's grin was smug. "I can tell good fabric from trash in like two seconds."
"Every seamstress can," the guard said, rolling his eyes.
Megan shrugged, her tool belt clinking. "I build, fix, create shit. That magic?"
"Artificer work," he said, waving a hand. "Not magic."
Monica leaned in, her grin dangerous. "I can kick your ass seventy-eight different ways."
The guard's brow lifted, amused. "Another fighter, eh? We got plenty o' yer kind, girlie."
Alice sighed, her voice dry. "I've got shipping and routing knowledge. That's it."
The guard scribbled, muttering. "No magic users, then. Weapons?"
Lulu's eyes narrowed, her tone sharp. "Is that necessary?"
"I got a job, lass," he snapped. "Don't stall me."
Alice's voice was calm, deflecting. "Knives, mostly. Our primary defense."
"Mhmm, typical," he said, his eyes catching the wrapped Benelli barrel poking from Alice's collar. "And that thing on yer back?"
Alice's pulse spiked, but her face stayed neutral. "Another weapon."
The guard's brow furrowed. "What's it do?"
Monica cut in, her grin wicked. "Can't tell ya, my man. We'd have to kill everyone here."
Amber's laugh was sharp, her cloak swishing. "There goes our PR. Fucked 'cause this bitch can't shut up."
Lulu muttered, "Lord, have mercy."
The guard's eyes widened, his hand twitching toward his sword. "A cursed weapon?"
Monica leaned into it, her voice low. "...Yeeeaaah. Cursed."
"Cursed weapons are allowed in Nomence," he said, wary. "But if folk die, ye're responsible. Clear?"
Alice nodded, her voice smooth. "Crystal, sir. We won't use 'em."
She yanked Monica aside, her whisper a hiss. "Are you fucking insane? You almost got us searched up the ass. What's wrong with you?"
Monica's grin didn't falter. "You wanna explain gunpowder to these medieval dipshits?"
"There's other ways to dodge questions," Alice snapped.
Monica's eyes rolled. "I don't see you trying."
Alice's voice dropped, lethal. "From now on, I handle shit. You shut the fuck up and only throw punches when I say. Got it?"
Monica's jaw tightened, her sigh heavy. "Fuck you."
Alice grabbed her, wrapping an arm around her head, her voice a growl. "I'm gonna invent a new lobotomy with a stapler if you don't chill. I'm the leader, Smith. My first rule? Keep your shit together, or I'll shove that kukri where the sun don't shine. Understand?"
Monica's eyes burned, but she nodded. "Fine."
The guard gestured at their bags. "These all yer wares?"
Alice nodded. "Yeah."
"Check 'em," he barked to his men.
A second guard rummaged through the saddlebags, pulling out a tin of Faber-Castell colored pencils, the logo glinting in the sun. "Knives, big and small. Some… knife handles? And these—small sticks, papers, black liquid in smooth containers."
The first guard grabbed a pencil, puzzled. "Scribblin' tools?"
Alice's voice was smooth, practiced. "Writing apparatus."
"No ink groove," the second guard muttered, squinting. "How's it work?"
"Don't need ink," Alice said. "Processed burned lumber."
"Like charcoal?" the first guard asked.
"Close, but not quite," Alice said, dodging.
The guard shrugged, scribbling on his paper. "Not my field. Scholarly nonsense."
The second guard held up an SOG Pentagon dagger, its blade gleaming. "Captain, look at this."
The guards clustered, passing the dagger hand to hand, their eyes wide. The steel was too light, too balanced, the edge sharp enough to shave a whisper. Modern metallurgy was a fucking alien in this world, and they knew it.
"Light as a feather," the captain said, nicking his thumb, a bead of blood welling. "And sharp as a demon's claw."
The second guard nodded, awed. "Never seen a blade this fine."
Monica's grin was smug. "Got plenty more where that came from."
The captain's face hardened. "Fine as dwarven work. That means extra tax."
Lulu's glasses flashed, her voice sharp. "Extra tax? For what?"
Megan's hands flew to her hips. "These ain't dwarven, you clown."
Alice's tone was calm, deflecting. "Sir, these are human-made. Can we skip the tax?"
The captain shook his head, his voice firm. "Rules are rules. Superior goods get a one-tenth tariff on top o' the base price."
Monica's eyes blazed, her voice a snarl. "So we pay more 'cause our shit's better?"
"That's Nomence law," the captain said, unmoved. "Every merchant knows it."
Monica leaned forward, her hat tilting. "I wanna see your fucking rulebook—"
Alice's hand shot out, grabbing her arm. "Stop. Not now."
Lulu stepped in, her voice smooth, persuasive. "Sir, we're new here. Last time, we were just visitors, not merchants. No one mentioned trade rules. Surely you can cut us a break?"
The captain's eyes narrowed. "Ye with a Trading Guild?"
Lulu blinked. "Trading Guild?"
"That's a no," he said, scribbling. "No Guild, no exemptions."
Amber's voice was sharp, her cloak swishing. "We're independent, unbound by your dumbass guilds. Shouldn't that mean less tax?"
The captain's laugh was dry. "Nomence ain't that kind of free, lass. Pay the fee and tax, or ye don't enter."
Alice's voice was steady, cutting through. "What's the total?"
The captain counted, his fingers slow, adding pebbles for tens like math was a foreign language. After six pebbles, he nodded. "Sixty-five Mards."
Amber's jaw dropped, her voice a screech. "Sixty-five fucking Mards?!"
Alice shot her a look. "Cool it, Amber."
Amber muttered, "Sorry."
Alice nodded to Lulu. "Pay the man."
Lulu hesitated, her left hand gripping the Beretta behind her back, her eyes flicking to Alice. A nod from Alice steadied her, and she opened the pouch, stacking coins on the gate's chest, each clink a small surrender. Sixty-five Mards later, the captain waved them through. "Clear! Enjoy Norinbel."
They barely made ten steps past the gate when a pack of men closed in, their eyes glinting like vultures spotting carrion. Greasy tunics, scarred hands, and smirks that screamed trouble.
"Hey, girls. New in town?" one said, his voice slick.
"Playin' merchants, are we?" another sneered, eyeing their bags.
"We could protect ye," a third said, his grin predatory. "For a price."
Monica sighed, her hand twitching toward her knife. "Why don't y'all just fuck off? We don't need your shitty protection."
The first man laughed, stepping closer. "Big words, tiny girl."
Another leered, his breath sour. "Last brothel I hit had girls like you five."
"Hand over some coins," the third growled, "or things get ugly."
He reached for Lulu, his fingers brushing her robe. Monica moved like lightning, grabbing his wrist and twisting it back, her voice a low growl. "I'm being nice here. Fuck off before my Texan side starts talking."
The man yanked free, grabbing Monica's collar and shoving her. "What're you gonna do, bitch?"
Alice glanced at a guard nearby, her voice casual but sharp. "Yo, is self-defense violence illegal in the city?"
The guard, leaning on his spear, shrugged. "No blades drawn, no magic cast. Fists and kicks are fine. But I'd just pay 'em if I were ye."
Lulu's voice was dry. "That's financially irresponsible. No wonder you're all retards on this side of the timeline."
Alice's grin was tight. "Thanks for the clarification. Monica, just this once—fuck 'em up."
Monica's eyes lit up, her grin pure chaos. "Say less, boss."
She twisted the man's arm, her movements fluid, brutal, a scissors takedown dropping him to the dirt. A quick twist snapped his forearm, bone cracking like dry wood. She topped it with a stomp to his jaw, blood spraying as his teeth crunched. The crowd gasped, stepping back.
Amber's voice was a screech. "NERD! Stop tryna cosplay Black Widow!"
Monica flipped her off, her grin wild. "Let's see your moves, Trish Stratus."
The second man swung, his fists clumsy. Monica danced aside, feinting left, then right, before slamming her boot into his groin. He doubled over, gasping, as a third man rushed her. She slid low, tackling his legs, then drove her heel into his balls, his scream echoing off the stone walls. With a wicked smile, she grabbed both men by their tunics, yanking them into a double DDT. Their heads hit the dirt with a sickening crack, foreheads splitting, blood pooling like spilled wine. This wasn't WWE theatrics—this was Dirty Deeds with real dirt, real deed, real pain.
Lulu's voice was sharp, exasperated. "Showoff."
Monica dusted her hands, her grin unrepentant. "You're welcome, princess."
Lulu's glasses flashed, her tone icy. "This is our second time in Norinbel, and you're already racking up an assault-and-battery rap sheet."
Monica's laugh was a bark. "Boo hoo, Lu. Wanna pay these thugs your cut? Be my guest. At least Bromine made the right call."
Lulu's voice rose, her patience gone. "We're merchants, you idiot. We don't beat customers to a pulp if we wanna make bank. That's Merchant 101."
Monica stepped closer, her eyes blazing. "I've been protecting your asses since we landed here. We all got our lanes—mine's violence. Why can't you trust me to do my thing?"
Lulu's hands flew up. "Alice, knock some sense into her."
Monica spun on Alice, her voice sharp. "No, Al—knock some actual wisdom into her."
The guard, annoyed, raised his spear. "Ladies, keep yer squabbles private. This is public ground."
Alice's voice was tired, her patience a frayed thread. "Lu, Mon, shut it. We're scouting a stall spot. I'm done with this cat-and-mouse bullshit." She glanced at the guard, nodding at the groaning men. "What about these clowns?"
The guard shrugged, unbothered. "Leave 'em. They'll wake up… eventually."
Lulu adjusted her glasses, her tone all business. "While we're here, where's the Adventurer's Guild?"
The guard pointed down the street. "Straight ahead, building on the left. Bunch o' roughnecks outside. Ye can't miss it."
Alice nodded, her voice firm. "Thanks. You four—follow me and zip your damn pieholes. Jesus Christ."
The girls moved off, the horses' hooves clopping, Monica and Megan's boots kicking up dust. The city swallowed them, its chaos a living thing—merchants haggling, guards barking, and the ever-present threat of trouble lurking like a blade in the dark. Their cover was intact, but the weight of Norinbel's eyes was heavy, and the girls knew the real hustle was just beginning.