Chapter 23: Coin Talks
It was early, maybe mid-morning, but the sun felt like it was trying to cook my skull from the inside out. My head was still ringing from last night's drink-fest, and whatever they put in that ale, pretty sure it could double as paint thinner. But I had a plan. No training today. No ki-enhancing sprints or rooftop sword swings. I was going to let my liver fight its own battle while I played the merchant game.
I had a small sack tied to my belt, full of the loot I'd taken from the goblins: those colored orbs, scraps of armor, mismatched swords, and whatever else I managed to drag out of that hellhole. Truth was, I had no clue what most of it was worth. I'd guessed a thousand to maybe two thousand Pele last night, but that was a shot in the dark. I still had no real handle on this world's economy.
So, after a quick breakfast in the inn's tavern, more bread and broth than actual food, I followed the directions the innkeeper had given me. Said the place was on the southern end of the merchant district. "You can't miss it," he'd said, with that creepy tall frame and a voice that cracked like a stressed violin string. "The one with the green roof and brass dragon sign."
I passed through the ever-busy streets of Torak. Merchants were out in force again, yelling their lungs out about miracle fabrics and anti-theft satchels. A kid bumped into me, snatched nothing, though he tried and ran off. People barely gave him a glance. Normal behavior here, apparently. I kept walking, sticking to the wider lanes and checking every rooftop for that green tile and brass dragon.
After ten minutes, there it was. A two-story building with a distinct green tile roof and a polished brass sign shaped like a dragon wrapped around a coin. Nice touch. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The place was quiet, posh even. Warm wooden floors, plush red rugs, and glass display cases lined with rare-looking trinkets. A chandelier overhead flickered gently with enchanted flames. Not torches, flames floating mid-air, in lazy spirals. The kind of place that screamed money.
Behind the main counter stood a short, round man wearing a velvet vest with gold embroidery. His hair was slicked back like he was auditioning for a villain role in a stage play, and he had tiny glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up from a thick ledger as I approached.
"Good morning," he said, his voice smooth and suspiciously friendly. "New face. Adventurer, are we?"
"Something like that," I replied, dropping the sack onto the counter with a heavy thunk. "I've got some things I need appraised. Goblin gear. Orbs. Weapons. Armor."
The man's expression twitched a little at the word goblin, but he nodded and motioned me to wait as he untied the sack. His gloved hands moved with the kind of grace that suggested years of handling other people's valuables.
He picked up one of the colored orbs first, a red one and held it under a hanging crystal that shimmered with a dull blue glow. The light intensified, then dimmed. The orb pulsed faintly in response.
"Mana cores," he murmured. "From goblin mages, I'd wager. Low-tier. Common fire affinity. They fetch a decent price in bulk, used for alchemical reactions or low-grade enchantments."
He continued down the list. Blue orbs: frost affinity. Green ones: wind. Each had its own worth, but none were wildly valuable individually. Still, I had a decent haul. Then he moved onto the weapons.
"These swords are... crude. Goblin-forged. Not bad, considering their origin, but not refined either. You'll get a better price if you sell to blacksmiths who refurbish for bulk militia contracts."
The armor didn't impress him either. "Serviceable. Goblin guards' plate. Minimal enchantments, if any. Likely iron composite. Reforgable."
After about fifteen minutes of poking, prodding, glowing stones, and murmured notes to himself, he finally looked back up at me with a merchant's smile. The kind that said, I'm about to lowball the hell out of you, and you'll thank me for it.
"Altogether," he began, steepling his fingers like a proper bastard, "you're looking at a total appraisal value of roughly 2,000 Pele. I can offer 2,100. Bulk deduction and all."
I raised an eyebrow. "2,100? That's your best offer?"
"Considering the source material, yes. And I'm including the convenience of same-day liquidation. Of course, you're welcome to take the items individually to other buyers and gamble for better rates."
I considered it. Not a bad deal, really. I'd expected less. He was probably lowballing me, but I wasn't exactly in a position to haul goblin gear across Torak looking for bidding wars.
"Fine," I said, "but throw in some information. You know any good bookstores or libraries in the city?"
He smiled wider now. "A reader? My, how rare. Yes, of course. 'Astrelion's Archive' is the best in Torak, three stories tall, magically categorized, and they even allow the public into the first two floors. You'll find it north of the central plaza, just past the old cathedral."
I nodded. "Deal." I took the 2,100 Pele in notes and coin, mostly notes and stuffed it into my satchel.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, returning to his ledger as if I'd never existed.
I stepped back out onto the street, the pouch a little heavier and my mood significantly improved.
Now… time to buy something proper. Supplies. Maybe a change of clothes that didn't scream cave-hobo. Then… Astrelion's Archive.
There were things I needed to know. Lots of them. And it was time to stop being the idiot foreigner who kept asking what Pele were.
I didn't walk far before I ducked into a quiet alleyway just off the main street. The kind with crates stacked at odd angles, some broken barrel staves, and that general pee smell you get in cities with too many people and not enough decency.
I leaned against the stone wall, unfastened my pouch, and took a full inventory. Time to be sure.
One gold coin. The last one I had from when I arrived in this world. Simple, unmarked on one side, but the other had the unmistakable crest, the one the guards recognized.
Seventeen copper coins from the same set. Smooth. No stamp. They felt heavier than the ones I'd just gotten.
Then I pulled out the notes I'd received from the shopkeeper. Two rectangular slips of stiff parchment-like paper that shimmered faintly when I tilted them against the sunlight. Magic. Of course. Probably anti-forgery enchantments or currency authentication spells. Or whatever they called it here.
One note had a stern-looking guy with a crown and a beard so sharp it could've been used as a weapon. Probably a king or an emperor or someone equally self-important. The other had a woman—regal, but the way her eyes stared at you made you feel like you owed her money.
Both notes were labeled with bold, stylized lettering: 1,000 PELE.
I ran a quick tally.
2,100 from the sale (2 notes and 100 copper coins)
1 gold left (worth 1,000 Pele)
17 copper original coins
That brought my usable total to 3,117 Pele.
It was weirdly satisfying to know I wasn't broke for once.
I had a budget now. A real damn budget. And I was already planning to blow a big chunk of it.
Goal:
A proper weapon
A few healing potions
Keep at least 1,500 Pele for emergencies, food, and lodging
Tomorrow, training begins. No more half-assing this.
I re-secured the pouch, adjusted my belt, and stepped back onto the bustling street.
I wandered for maybe twenty minutes. Past all kinds of shops, tailors, magical curiosities, enchanted jewelry stores I couldn't even walk into without guards giving me the stink eye. Then I spotted it.
"MIREL'S EDGE" the name carved into a signboard shaped like a curved longsword. The store had reinforced glass windows, magical, definitely and displayed blades on metal mounts inside.
The front door creaked open with the heavy ring of a chime.
Inside, it smelled of oil, steel, and pride. The walls were lined with weapon racks, longswords, broadswords, sabers, daggers, polearms. Some simple. Some ornate. Some with glowing runes I couldn't begin to understand.
Behind the counter stood a broad-shouldered woman, middle-aged maybe, hair tied back into a long braid. Her arms were bigger than mine, and I'm not ashamed to admit that.
"Need something sharp or just browsing?" she asked, her voice low but sharp as glass.
"Bit of both," I said. "Looking for a one-handed sword. Preferably balanced. Something a bit... precise."
She smirked. "You got a style already?"
"Working on it."
She gestured toward a rack near the center. "Start there. That's our one-handers. Entry to mid-range."
I walked over, trying my best to look like I knew what I was doing. I picked one up, a short longsword, maybe 32 inches. Steel was clean. No enchantments that I could see, but the balance felt... off. I turned it over, checked the tang, and muttered some nonsense about full tangs and weight distribution I remembered from YouTube videos back home. The shopkeeper watched me but said nothing. Probably amused.
I tried three more. The third one was decent. Slightly curved, double-edged, black leather grip with a flat pommel. Didn't have a name etched into it like Dux, but it had the right weight. Didn't feel like I was swinging a club.
"How much for this one?" I asked, holding it up.
"That's solid blacksteel. Not enchanted, but holds an edge better than most. Comes with sheath. 1,200 Pele."
I winced. "It's a nice sword, don't get me wrong, but I know blades. There's no enchantments, the guard's a little loose, and the balance is a bit front-heavy."
She raised an eyebrow.
"1,000," I said flatly.
She crossed her arms. "1,050. And I throw in a basic sharpening kit."
Deal. We shook on it. She wrapped the sword in cloth, slid it into a scabbard, and handed me the kit.
That left me with just over 2,067 Pele.
I stepped out, new sword strapped to my belt. Still no Dux, but not bad. Not bad at all.
Now… healing potions.
I asked a passing merchant where I might find some and got pointed two streets down, past a bakery and some old shrine.
The shop was smaller, a little cramped, and smelled like wet flowers and vinegar. Inside, bottles lined the walls, red, blue, green, some swirling, some fizzing. The shopkeeper looked like an old wizard that failed his beard-growing quest but still kept the attitude.
"Three standard healing potions," I said, cutting straight to it.
He didn't speak, just grabbed three red vials and held out his hand.
"Price?"
"300 Pele. A hundred each. Standard mix. Heals external and minor internal. Works faster if you're already resting."
I handed over the notes.
Total remaining: 1,767 Pele.
Weapon? Check.
Healing potions? Check.
I could've kept shopping, but no. I had another stop. I needed to find out more about the world. The laws, the geography, the mana… hell, even the damn calendar. I was tired of playing clueless.
Next stop: Astrelion's Archive.
If they let me in, maybe I could finally stop pretending like I knew what I was doing.