After getting dressed and climbing out of bed, Brock, the merchant, stretched lazily as he always did.
Then, following his morning routine, he walked over to open the front door of his shop.
He was already over a hundred years old. As a low-ranked class-holder, he still had a decent number of years left—not quite on death's doorstep yet—but after decades of living in comfort, his physical condition had started to decline. He was far from his prime and had gradually developed a variety of age-related ailments.
While lowering the wooden shutter, he grumbled under his breath, "Damn brats… always showing up late. I oughta dock their pay…"
Of course, he knew that if he deducted even a little more from their wages, they'd all quit on him. He didn't actually have the leeway to follow through.
But that didn't stop him from running his mouth. Complaining didn't cost a thing.
When the door was halfway open, Brock suddenly felt resistance, as if something was blocking it from the other side.
"What, someone dumped junk at my door again?"
With that in mind, he leaned forward with a mix of annoyance and confusion to take a look.
And there they were—three golden-red eyes staring back at him, calm and unblinking.
In that instant, a wave of raw terror swept through him.
Every hair on his body stood up, and even his heart skipped a beat.
He nearly dropped dead on the spot.
It took him a while to snap out of his instinctive shock and get a good look at the face in front of him—Orsaga.
From any angle, the guy didn't look human. If anything, he gave off the aura of a high-ranking magical beast in humanoid form.
'Those vertical pupils, almost snake-like…'
'A dragonkin?' Brock guessed inwardly.
He wasn't sure. But what he did know was that anyone who could nearly scare him to death with just a glance wasn't someone he could afford to mess with.
Instantly, cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead, making his whole body feel clammy and uncomfortable.
Within a single second, the irritated expression he had just moments ago—due to the door being blocked—vanished. It was replaced by the most sycophantic, bootlicking smile he could muster. Rubbing his hands together, he bent forward slightly and asked in the most obsequious tone possible, "S-Sir, is there something you need? Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"
Orsaga, who had been reclining lazily at the shop entrance while casually snacking, paused in slight confusion.
He hadn't done anything—not even a psychic suggestion. He'd even turned off his passive mind-polluting aura. So this sudden display of groveling completely threw him off.
He had no idea that the shop owner had already mentally labeled him as some kind of top-tier magical beast.
After a moment's thought, Orsaga considered a possibility and rubbed his chin, thinking: 'Could it be that wind direwolf really worked? Is my protagonist halo finally kicking in? Bootlickers coming to me on their own now?'
Meanwhile, Brock, facing Orsaga's direct and expressionless stare, was growing increasingly uneasy.
'Did I offend him somehow?' he worried.
Soon enough, Orsaga gave up on trying to understand it all. After casually glancing into the shop's interior, he asked, "What kind of stuff do you sell here?"
With a smile plastered on his face, Brock quickly answered, "We specialize in long-distance travel gear—canteens, compasses, tents, and the like. If there's anything you need, I can give it to you free of charge!"
Having regained some composure, Brock was no longer paralyzed by fear. Realizing that Orsaga didn't seem intent on killing him, the merchant's natural instincts kicked in—and profit became his top priority again.
From his appearance and aura alone, Brock could tell that this man wasn't just any ordinary traveler—human or not, he was definitely someone important.
And with a rare opportunity like this right in front of him, of course he was going to shamelessly try to curry favor.
After all, a little bootlicking never hurt anyone. What if it actually worked?
Orsaga didn't really get what was going through Brock's mind, but seeing him fawn all over him, he decided to go along with it and give the guy some face.
Leisurely getting to his feet, he said, "Forget giving it for free—I'm not short on money. Just get me detailed maps of all the nearby countries."
If you're going behind enemy lines, geography is key. That way, when things inevitably go sideways, it's easier to run.
Generally speaking, if someone gave him face, he'd usually return the favor. Only occasionally did he respond with equal-opportunity violence.
Hearing that, Brock's already flattering smile grew even wider. He quickly gestured for Orsaga to come inside. "Of course, of course! Please, have a seat while I fetch them from the warehouse!"
Unlike the modern world, where maps were mass-produced and easily available, maps in this world were rare and valuable. Most were hand-drawn and could cost a commoner several months' wages.
Due to the difficulty of long-distance travel—most of which required riding mounts—ordinary people rarely needed such detailed charts. When they did, it was usually some crude sketch they made themselves.
For someone like Orsaga to casually ask for detailed maps of multiple countries in one go… this was no small request.
It was a big deal. A single order like that could be worth a month's worth of regular business.
For Brock, who had just scored a win with his very first attempt at bootlicking, it was deeply encouraging.
It only strengthened his resolve to commit fully to his new role as a professional suck-up.
———
After being seated, Orsaga remained relaxed, letting Brock run off to the back of the shop.
Perhaps because of his luxurious clothing and commanding presence, Brock had no qualms about leaving him alone at the front. He didn't worry for a second that Orsaga might walk off with something.
When Brock's employees finally showed up, they found Orsaga lounging casually by himself, sitting with the ease and authority of someone who owned the place. His posture, his gaze—it was so commanding that they all paused for a moment, unsure if they'd stepped into the wrong store.
But Orsaga paid no attention to their confused stares.
He sat there, completely at ease, unaffected by their presence. If anything, they were the ones who started to feel uneasy.
That was the difference between someone with real power and someone without.
Orsaga's confidence came from his strength.
With the Unholy Wraith Body, even if his identity was exposed, as long as a literal god didn't descend from the heavens to smite him, he couldn't be killed. Not even the entire city working together could finish him off. At most, they'd manage to seal him temporarily.
So he could afford to be bold, stir up trouble, and do whatever he wanted—even in enemy territory—without bothering to keep a low profile.
The commoners, on the other hand, had no extraordinary powers to speak of, and thus went about everything cautiously, always watching their step.
Several minutes later, Brock returned from the warehouse, his arms full of rolled-up goods, looking absolutely thrilled.
Unlike Earth maps, which were usually printed on paper, maps in this world were made with durability in mind. Most were crafted from magical beast hides, giving them a thick, heavy texture.
Bundled in Brock's arms, they looked a bit like scrolls or bamboo slips.
He laid them out on the table and respectfully said to Orsaga, "Please, take a look."
Orsaga just shook his head and said indifferently, "No need."
With a snap of his fingers, the scrolls on the table vanished into his personal storage space.
In their place appeared a small pile of gold coins.
The moment Brock saw how much gold had been left behind, he nearly had a stroke. He trembled with excitement. "Th-this is way too much! A tenth of this would more than cover it!"
Waving a hand casually, Orsaga stood up and said, "It's fine. Consider it a tip."
After all, the money had been looted off dead bodies. Free goods, free conscience.
At that moment, the aura of wealth rolling off him was so strong that Brock and his employees could barely breathe.
Still, seeing Orsaga getting ready to leave, Brock sprang into action and said quickly, "L-let me walk you out!"
But Orsaga just waved him off and strolled out on his own without a second glance.
Watching the man's back disappear into the street, Brock couldn't help but think to himself:
'If only I could live as freely as he does…'
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T/N:
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