Chapter 102
Written by Bayzo Albion
Another day I wandered the forest, weighing my options, stretching out my "quest" to avoid suspicion. But futility caught up quickly. Staying here meant danger—monsters catching my scent, adventurers crossing my path, my tracks becoming invitations for trouble.
I paused by a fallen tree and slipped off the bracelet, holding it in my palm. Cool, unassuming—yet packed with artifacts, weapons, and those priceless mushrooms. A fortune that could get me killed in an instant.
I swallowed and pulled out the magical bag—simple, black, silver-stitched, indistinguishable from any other.
"This is safer," I muttered, justifying it to myself.
Carefully, I extracted my haul from the bracelet's void. First, the steel breastplate, gleaming with intricate engravings. Then the master's helm and ornate bracers. Followed by the crystal-embellished belt and the waterproof dark cloak. Top-tier gear, each piece a small fortune from my conquests.
Glancing around—the forest held its breath—I swiftly stowed them in the bag. It swallowed the load without complaint.
Now, if anyone peeked inside, they'd see valuable equipment, but nothing hinting at the bracelet's bottomless depths.
With that, I turned back toward the city, moving swiftly, almost at a jog. Every delayed moment felt like tempting fate.
Upon reaching the gates, I headed straight for the forge—not the guild, where they'd skim half the value in fees. I needed an honest appraisal first.
The smithy assaulted my senses with roaring heat and the acrid tang of molten metal. At the anvil stood the owner: a burly, bald man with a ruddy face scarred by burns, his massive arms corded from years of hammering. He nodded curtly, not pausing his rhythm, but when I hefted the bag and dumped the first set of armor onto the counter, his indifference shattered. He set down his hammer, wiped sweat from his brow, and arched a bushy eyebrow.
"Marks," he grunted, tracing a stubby finger over faint seals on the breastplate. His voice was gravelly, smoked by forge fumes. "Battle spoils?"
"Something like that," I replied vaguely.
He shifted focus to the craftsmanship, lifting the helm and rapping it with a knuckle, listening to the resonant ping. He inspected edges, sniffed a gauntlet like a hound on a scent—detecting metal's purity and lingering traces of blood.
Finally, he set it down and met my eyes. "For a full set like this... pristine, no dents or cracks... two thousand five hundred gold. No less."
I nodded, masking my relief. It was a generous valuation; he'd recognized the quality.
"Then it's off to the guild," I said, repacking the gear.
He snorted and returned to his work, but his lingering gaze as I left spoke volumes: he coveted that armor already.
Back at the guild, the doors creaked open, and conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned, faces a mosaic of respect and caution. I wasn't the green kid anymore—I was the survivor of the unspeakable, marked by the Forest Queen's grace.
The registrar spotted me and flashed a smile—not her usual frosty one, but warm, almost relieved.
"I'm oddly glad you didn't complete it," she said, tilting her head. "You're clean, no rot stench, no scratches or bruises. I thought you'd pull off another miracle... but I'm relieved you're safe."
Her words stung, igniting a spark of irritation I couldn't quite place. Frowning, I unslung the bag, unbuckled it, and shook it out.
Two full sets of elite adventurer armor clattered onto the counter with a resonant thud. Runes flickered in the torchlight, gilded patterns catching the eye, eliciting a gasp from the crowd.
"I was going to show just one," I said, locking eyes with her. "But your words... they pissed me off." I flipped a hidden flap and dumped another ornate breastplate, masterfully wrought.
Silence descended, thick and expectant. Breaths held.
Her smile vanished, replaced by deferential coolness. "Sir, I'm pleased you've returned from the quest alive and... unscathed." She curtsied lightly. "May I ask how you bested the monster of Dawn Gorge?"
I paused, feeling the weight of countless stares, then replied with measured arrogance: "That beast isn't felled by brute force. Its magic is a trap for the dim-witted. Anyone, even the weakest, could handle it... if they bothered to think first."
My words echoed through the hall. Pride flickered briefly in my chest—then horror. I knew all too well from my past life where hubris led.
The quiet turned tomb-like. Someone nearby choked on their stew, coughing, but no laughter followed.
In that moment, I sensed the shift: the guild no longer saw me as a boy or a hero. Now, I was something else—a potential threat, unpredictable and untouchable.
The registrar summoned her assistants—two young clerks clad in drab gray tunics, their faces pale and unassuming. Without a word, they hefted the armors, avoiding my gaze as if even glancing at me might invite misfortune. They gestured for me to follow, leading me down a long, dimly lit corridor that descended into the guild's cool underbelly. The stone steps echoed hollowly under our boots, and the flickering torches sputtered, casting elongated shadows that danced like specters along the damp walls.
I caught one of the assistants stealing a furtive glance at my bag before quickly averting his eyes. Even these lowly scribes sensed it: the items I'd brought weren't ordinary spoils—they carried the weight of death and forgotten battles.
At last, we passed through a low arched doorway into a chamber that reeked of aged parchment, musty dust, and a sharp, acrid tang of lingering magic. This was the lower archives, a sanctum rarely graced by novices like me, where the guild's deepest secrets and valuations were conducted away from prying eyes.
Behind a cluttered desk sat the master appraiser, an elderly man hunched over like a withered tree, his face gaunt and sharp, skin stretched taut over prominent bones. Perched on his nose were thick spectacles, their lenses glowing with a faint blue hue that shimmered with every subtle movement.
He looked up at me, offering a curt nod before bending over the armors. His fingers, slender and knobby like twisted branches, moved with the precision of a seasoned surgeon, tracing the intricate runes etched into the metal.
"Hmm. Fine craftsmanship," he muttered, his voice a dry rasp as he brushed a hand over the engravings on the breastplate. "Ancient seals. See how the dust of ages has seeped in deep."
I watched in silence, my breath steady but my mind racing.
He produced a silver quill, touching its tip to the first seal while murmuring incantations—low, drawn-out words that flowed like a melody without rhythm, ancient and arcane. The seal quivered, then faded slowly, not with a flash but a gentle dimming, like candles guttering in a breeze.
One by one, the marks on the armors extinguished. With each vanishing glyph, a subtle tension released in the air, and I felt a surge in my chest—these pieces were becoming truly mine, unbound from their cursed histories.
"All clear," he declared at last, removing his glasses and polishing them with the hem of his cloak. "Legally yours. The previous owners are listed as deceased, missing, or outlaws. Dispose of them as you see fit."
"Thank you," I breathed, the words escaping in a rush.
He waved it off, but his gaze lingered on me a moment longer, piercing and knowing. "Remember this, boy. Try selling gear with active seals from the living, and they'll burn you along with it. No one will stand in your defense."
I nodded, his calm tone sending a chill down my spine, each syllable a veiled warning that resonated like a tolling bell.
The old man opened a hefty leather-bound ledger and began scratching notes with deliberate strokes, unhurried as if time itself bent to his will. Meanwhile, the assistants carted the armors to an adjacent alcove where evaluators awaited. After what felt like an eternity, one clerk returned, handing me a slip of parchment.
"Payment due: seven thousand gold coins."
My fingers trembled for the first time in ages as I took the receipt. Seven thousand—a fortune beyond the wildest dreams of most adventurers, enough to buy estates, influence, or oblivion.
A hefty sack of gold thudded onto the table before me, the coins clinking dully within. The metallic scent wafted up—sharp, coppery, intoxicating—like the promise of power itself.
I hoisted the bag with both hands. It was ponderously heavy, a burden even for a grown man, let alone my child's frame. My arms strained, muscles protesting, but I held firm, refusing to show any sign of weakness in this den of opportunists.
Without hesitation, I shoved the entire sum into my magical satchel. From the outside, it barely shifted, resuming its innocuous appearance as if swallowing a king's ransom were commonplace.
*Now I'm truly rich,* I thought, staring at the bag, a mix of exhilaration and dread coiling in my gut.
But joy was tempered by caution. Wealth thrives in silence.
"I'd earned a fortune so easily that it felt like luck might abandon me any moment… or maybe not?"