The sun was high, pouring through the cracks of the bunker door when Tom finally returned. His coat was dusty, his hair a mess, his steps dragging like he'd wrestled the whole desert itself.
Grace was the first to notice, her eyes lighting up with relief.
"You're back," she said, stepping forward with a faint smile.
Vera was quieter, standing near the doorway with crossed arms. He gave a small nod, but the tension in his shoulders eased. "You took your time."
Tom only chuckled under his breath, brushing sand from his sleeves. "Had a little walk."
Grace shook her head, but her lips curved into a smile. "Go inside. You look like you'll collapse if I ask a single question."
He didn't argue. Tom slipped past them into the bunker, the air cooler inside. He found his way to the wash basin, splashed water across his face, letting the grit of the forest and storm run down the drain.
He just stood there, staring at his reflection, muttering something to himself that neither Grace nor Vera could hear.
By the time he sat at the table, the food was waiting. Simple bread, a stew, a fruit Grace had brought back from her own quest. Tom didn't hesitate. He dug in, quiet but steady, like a man who'd been starving for days.
The steam fogged his tired face, but he didn't care. Food tasted different when you came back alive from a fight.
Grace sat across from him, resting her chin on her palm, watching like she'd been waiting for the right moment. Finally, she spoke.
"We were thinking," she said softly, "to hold a small party this afternoon. Nothing big, just… for everyone. You know, people need something bright."
Tom chewed, raised an eyebrow, and reached for another spoonful. "Party, huh? Out here?" He gave a lopsided smile. "What are we celebrating. Sandstorms not killing us?"
Grace chuckled, shaking her head. "Celebrating survival, maybe. Also, I've already cooked." Her tone carried a little pride. "I managed to get some desert vegetables from a personal quest. They'll go well with the meat we still have."
Tom leaned back slightly, a crumb caught on his lip. "You cooked while I was gone? Now that explains the smell. Thought my stomach was just playing tricks."
Grace's eyes softened. "I even tried making cactus fry. Heard it's famous in these lands."
That made Tom pause mid-bite. He slowly set his spoon down. "Cactus fry? You mean… spiky cactus turned into food?"
"Yes," Grace said, her smile widening at his disbelief. "Once you clean them right, fry them with spices, it's delicious."
Tom tapped the table with two fingers, mock serious. "If I die today, it won't be from monsters, but from eating fried cactus."
Grace rolled her eyes but laughed, and the weight in the air lifted.
At the far corner of the room, Vera sat silently with his trident across his lap.
He ran a careful cloth along the metal, eyes narrowed, inspecting every inch as if one scratch could spell the end of the world. He hadn't said a word since Tom came in, but his presence was loud enough.
Tom glanced at him, smirking between mouthfuls. "You know, Vera, I did return it without a single mark. Shouldn't I get a medal for that?"
Vera didn't look up. "I'll decide after I check the tip," he murmured, his tone calm but sharp.
Grace gave Tom a little look that said "don't start." But Tom only grinned wider, leaning toward her. "See? That's his way of saying he missed me."
Grace shook her head, but she was smiling now. The bunker smelled of food and faint oil from Vera's cloth.
Tom stretched his arms wide, stepping outside the bunker. The noon heat was heavy, but the sun felt good on his skin after days of sweat and dust.
He lay back on a flat stone, eyes half-closed, letting the warmth sink into his bones.
"Feels almost like a reward," he muttered. His voice carried lazily in the still air.
A faint shimmer appeared in front of him, the system shop. Tom squinted at the floating screen. Rows of items scrolled past, but his face stayed flat.
"[ Shop: Current Rank — Uptie 1: Novice ]," the system noted in neat text.
Tom rubbed his temple. "Novice… yeah, thanks for reminding me."
He tapped through the list. Dull daggers, worn boots, a couple of minor potions that looked as useful as wet cloth. Prices were cheap, but so was the quality. Even with his balance, nothing stood out.
He exhaled, tilting his head back toward the sun. "Great. I fight monsters that spit fire, survive getting tossed like a rag, and this is what I get in return. A poor man's market."
The shop flickered shut. His balance meant nothing if there was no place to spend it right.
Tom's gaze slid across the desert horizon. "I need to find a proper market soon," he thought. "Somewhere hunters with more than scraps trade. Otherwise… I'll stay stuck here."
The wind brushed his hair as he closed his eyes again, letting the thought rest heavy in his chest.
A faint jingling sound followed metal plates brushing against one another. They turned on one another. Tom kept sleeping on the floor.
A young man stood there as if he had stepped straight from a painting. The Sentinel Robe, coloured of dried blood draped over him, long pink hair flowing down his back, a cut carved through his left eyebrow.
His face was beautiful but not kind. His presence had no strangeness, like a blade unsheathed.
"I deal in weapons, armors… and other rarities," he said, his voice calm, too calm. "But not for free."
Vera stood first, his hand brushing the hilt of his trident. His eyes were cold. "We don't welcome strangers. Especially ones walking into our walls uninvited."
The Merchant's lips curved, but his eyes did not smile. "Hospitality isn't my expectation. Profit is." He lowered a small iron box on the table. After it opened the screen popped up.
[ 4x Lores available for Sell ]
"I also deal in Lores. Four, to be exact."
Vera stiffened. He almost scoffed, but his instincts betrayed him. The man wasn't lying.
"Lores aren't trinkets you just trade," Vera said, his voice carrying an edge. "They're curses in disguise. The last one nearly split this world apart. Why should I believe you hold even one?"
The Merchant leaned forward, his tone sharper now. "Because men die for less. Tell me, dear. What's the difference between a Lore and a weapon? A blade cuts flesh. A Lore cuts the soul. Both spill blood. The only choice is whether you hold the handle… or the edge."
Grace silently sitting there, shifted uncomfortably. The shadows of his words seemed to crawl across the walls.
Vera's jaw tightened. "You think power alone builds empires? You think collecting these stories makes you untouchable?"
Merchant's gaze dropped, his voice soft but brutal. "No. Power builds graves. I have walked across battlefields where children clutched the corpses of their mothers until their nails fell off. I've watched rulers beg for air as their own armies drowned them in rivers of their lies. That's what Lores do. They don't save, they reveal the truth, missing pieces about the world tagging the thing called 'Curse' on you. They show what you really are when the mask rots away."
The bunker was silent. Even the fire's crackle sounded nervous.
Finally, the merchant spoke, his robe falling neatly back into place. "I am Rosario Enrico. I sell truths dressed as weapons. Take them, and you may carve the world… or let it carve you. As a waterfall pouring down the cliff, I gotta say, why do folks keep throwing coins at me? I'm wet enough without your loose change!"
Vera didn't answer. His eyes flicked to the screen again, the weight of temptation pressing against the iron lid was not normal.