Chapter 9: Blades in the Market Shadows
Whispers slithered through Ylmare's back alleys.
They spoke of a merchant without a face, who sold tools of unimaginable power. Of a man who could summon wonders without casting spells. Of healing kits that needed no magic, food that never spoiled, and lights that shone without flame or mana.
But not everyone whispered in awe.
Some whispered in fear.
Some whispered… in hatred.
And some acted.
—
It began with a fire.
Not a raging inferno — just a small, controlled blaze at the back of Baret's forge. The outer shed went up in smoke, burning crates filled with Farhan's non-stick cookware and his next batch of adjustable wrenches.
No one was hurt.
But the message was clear.
"They're escalating," Baret growled, rubbing ash from his blackened beard. "No more warnings. No more inspections. Just fire."
Farhan stood in the ruins of the shed, arms crossed and jaw tight. Garron silently checked for tracks, moving like a ghost through the soot.
"This wasn't an accident," he said after a moment. "They poured accelerant, came in through the alley."
"Anyone see them?" Farhan asked.
Garron shook his head. "They're smart. Professionals."
Baret cursed. "I'm no coward, but I won't risk the rest of my shop. If they want war—"
"No," Farhan interrupted. "We don't fight with fire."
Baret frowned. "Then what do we do?"
Farhan knelt beside a partially melted toolkit. He picked up a singed pair of needle-nose pliers, then stood.
"We burn them a different way," he said coldly. "With truth."
—
That night, Farhan activated his phone's camera function and began recording.
He stood in the small workshop under Denel's apothecary — a safehouse none of the guild knew existed.
The camera was propped up by a stack of enchanted bricks. Farhan stood in front of a table covered with goods from Earth.
"This message," he began, "is for the people of Ylmare — artisans, laborers, apprentices, and dreamers alike."
He held up a box of simple utility knives.
"This is not magic. This is craftsmanship — from another world, yes, but one built by ordinary hands. The same kind of hands that shape steel in your forges. The same hands that knead your bread and harvest your herbs."
He pointed directly at the camera.
"They tell you I'm a threat. That I seek to destroy your traditions, steal your coins, and disrupt your lives."
He held up a bottle of antiseptic.
"What I offer is safety."
Then a pack of solar-powered flashlights.
"What I offer is light."
Finally, a bag of rice.
"What I offer is freedom — from scarcity, from monopoly, from the stranglehold of the guilds who claim to protect you."
He stepped back, gaze calm.
"I am Farhan Rahman. And I come not to rule, but to trade."
He pressed a button. The video uploaded to the magical network Denel had created with the help of Velistra's contacts — a pseudo-broadcast system that spread messages through enchanted sigils across public message boards, tavern mirrors, and projection scrolls.
Within hours… Ylmare had seen his face.
—
The backlash was immediate.
The Guild of Craftsmen called an emergency assembly.
They called the video "manipulative," "dangerous," and "foreign propaganda."
But the people? They had questions.
Why were the guilds banning better tools?
Why was healing so expensive?
And who decided which innovations were allowed?
—
The very next day, Farhan's underground sales tripled.
The wind was shifting.
But the guild was not done.
—
Late one night, Garron woke Farhan with a sharp shake.
"Get up. They're coming."
Farhan blinked. "Who—?"
"Mercs. Not city guards. Hired blades."
In the alley below, torchlight flickered and muffled voices rose. Heavy boots scraped the cobblestones.
Farhan grabbed his backpack — already packed with key items — and his phone. Garron handed him a short dagger.
"Back door?"
"Too risky. They've covered the exits. We go roof to roof."
Farhan hesitated.
"Do it," Garron ordered.
They scrambled onto the roof tiles, Garron moving swiftly while Farhan did his best to keep up. He cursed silently — he wasn't a fighter. Not like this.
"Where's Denel?" Farhan panted.
"Hiding in the tunnels," Garron said. "Velistra sent word — she's moving the cache."
"Baret?"
"Still guarding the forge."
A crossbow bolt thunked into the roof beside Farhan. He flinched and nearly lost his footing.
"Faster!"
They vaulted to the next rooftop.
Below, mercenaries spread out, searching.
Then—
"There! On the roofs!"
A bolt whistled past Farhan's shoulder.
Garron turned, hurled a throwing knife down into the alley, and ducked. "Keep moving!"
—
By dawn, they reached the outskirts of the city.
Hidden beneath a goat barn, Farhan finally collapsed into straw, panting and sore.
"They're hunting me now."
"Yes," Garron said. "But you survived."
Farhan nodded slowly.
And then… he smiled.
"Time to go on the offensive."
—
Within the week, Velistra made her move.
Using her noble connections, she sponsored a public exhibition — a trade fair featuring "non-magical innovations" from across the kingdom.
Under this guise, Farhan's tools and products were presented legally — with noble backing.
The exhibition drew thousands.
Farmers from nearby villages came for the solar lanterns.
Healers begged for antiseptic kits.
And craftsmen?
They stared in awe at the tools. Some laughed. Some wept.
And many… defected.
Former guild apprentices came to Farhan in secret.
"I want to learn," they said. "I want to help."
—
The Guild of Craftsmen declared the exhibition a "travesty."
But the public had seen the truth.
The tide… had turned.
—
Farhan stood at the top of a small stone tower near Ylmare's south gate. Behind him, the sun was setting.
Garron leaned against the wall.
"You've stirred the pot," the guard said.
"Not just stirred," Farhan replied. "I've shattered it."
"What now?"
Farhan stared out across the land.
"Now… we expand."