Chapter 8: The Guild Strikes Back
The bell above Farhan's stall rang softly as the first customer arrived. It was early — the morning sun barely kissed the edges of the wooden stalls in the Ylmare market square. Farhan had already set up his display: clean water bottles, solar lanterns, and neatly packaged basic medical kits.
But he wasn't smiling today.
Not after the note he'd found wedged into his inventory chest that morning:
"Foreign tools breed chaos. Leave, or be broken." – Guild of Craftsmen.
Garron stood behind the stall, arms crossed and eyes scanning the crowd. His short sword rested within easy reach. He'd read the note too, and his jaw had tightened with unspoken fury.
Farhan adjusted a display of cooking utensils — silicone spatulas and non-stick pans — trying to act normal.
"Today's going to be a long one," he murmured.
Garron snorted. "They won't attack in public."
"No," Farhan said. "But they'll make sure the public turns against me."
As if on cue, a group of older guild workers passed the stall and made a loud show of avoiding it.
"Dangerous tools," one muttered. "Exploded in my neighbor's house."
"Bad magic," another said. "Unlicensed."
"They're cursed," whispered a third, making a warding gesture with his fingers.
A few passersby frowned and stepped away from Farhan's booth, uncertainty in their eyes.
Farhan sighed.
The smear campaign had begun.
---
By noon, the crowd was sparse.
His regulars still came — the seamstress who bought sewing scissors, the baker who'd fallen in love with his heat-resistant gloves, and even Denel's daughter, who picked up two more solar lanterns for a nearby orphanage.
But new customers hesitated.
They looked over their shoulders. Listened to the rumors.
And slowly… walked away.
"Public pressure," Farhan muttered under his breath. "Classic tactic."
Garron nudged him. "Look."
Across the square, three men in formal robes stood talking to a city guard. Their outfits bore the mark of the Guild of Craftsmen — a hammer crossed with a chisel. They pointed at Farhan's stall.
Then the guard nodded… and started walking their way.
Farhan's heart sank slightly, but he kept his posture calm.
The guard stopped in front of the stall and cleared his throat.
"Merchant Farhan, correct?"
"I am."
"I've been instructed to perform an inspection."
"On what grounds?"
"New trade ordinance. Section 12: Unregistered magical items and foreign goods."
Farhan's brow twitched. "None of these are magical."
The guard shrugged. "Still need to check."
He began rifling through Farhan's goods. He picked up the rice thresher, turned over the folding wheelbarrow, opened a medical kit and inspected the instructions.
"These aren't local," he said.
"They're not illegal," Farhan replied.
The guard straightened, then reached into his belt and pulled out a sealed parchment.
"This is a formal notice. Effective immediately, you are prohibited from selling any item until reviewed and certified by the Artisan's Evaluation Board."
Farhan took the scroll. "That could take weeks."
"Or months," the guard said grimly. "Have a nice day."
And just like that, the guard walked off.
Farhan stood frozen for a moment.
Then slowly, he sat down behind the stall, letting out a long breath.
"That's it then," Garron said. "They've shut you down."
"No," Farhan whispered. "They've pushed me into phase two."
---
Later that evening, in a small rented workshop near the edge of Ylmare, Farhan met with Denel, Velistra Rhaine, and two others: a quiet weaponsmith named Baret and a candle-maker named Mili.
They sat around a table strewn with product samples — a wind-up flashlight, packets of instant rice, a compact camping stove, and a rugged Bluetooth speaker.
"Your stall's done for," Baret said bluntly. "They'll stall your certification forever."
"Exactly," Farhan replied. "So we go underground."
Denel raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"We start the Riverline Cooperative," Farhan said. "Not a store — a distribution ring. I sell to you wholesale. You spread it across the city — through your own networks."
Mili blinked. "That's… a direct violation of guild law."
"So is overcharging or hoarding mana stones," Velistra said with a smirk. "And yet they do it."
"We don't have their numbers," Baret warned.
"No," Farhan agreed. "But I have something they don't."
He held up his phone.
"With this, I can acquire anything we need. Things they can't copy. I can undercut them, out-innovate them, and now — thanks to this ban — play the role of the outlawed hero."
Velistra smiled. "You're making them the villains of their own tale."
Farhan nodded.
"They want war? I'll give them something worse: competition."
---
The next day, the black market of Ylmare hummed with new activity.
Mili's candles now came with tiny waterproof lighters. Denel's herbal shop sold bandages sealed in sterile pouches. Baret's forge began offering heat-resistant gloves and auto-clamping pliers.
And under it all… Farhan's influence spread like wildfire.
Without a stall, he became a myth. The ghost merchant. The outworld supplier. The man who sold sunlight, healing, and food that never spoiled.
The Guild of Craftsmen tried to crack down — but his allies weren't easy to corner.
And Farhan? He stayed two steps ahead.
---
One evening, as he sat atop the roof of his inn, Farhan sipped a mug of warm cider and stared at the stars.
Garron sat beside him, polishing a dagger.
"You really think this will work?" Garron asked.
"It already is," Farhan replied. "The guild can't stop progress forever. They're scared."
"Of your tools?"
"No," Farhan said softly. "Of the idea behind them. That knowledge and power don't have to belong to a chosen few. That even a baker or a blacksmith can hold something divine in their hands."
He leaned back against the tiles, the cold wind brushing past.
"They thought shutting down my stall would end me. But I'm not a stall. I'm a system. I'm… inevitable."
Garron gave him a sidelong look.
"You sound like a villain."
Farhan laughed.
"Maybe to them, I am."