Dante gotten too used to how things worked in the previous world—where he simply met up with heroes, stayed in the backline, and didn't worry much about economy or materials.
He'd forgotten how different—and dangerous—ignorance could be in a new land.
But he couldn't let that show. So he crossed his arms and said dryly, "Is that really important?"
The troll granny gave Dante a long, amused look. "Depends on if you want folks chasing you down thinking you're some kind of Berry Whisperer. Still . . . I like you. Got guts, showing this off without knowing what it's worth."
She leaned over the counter with a grin full of tusks. "I'll make you a deal. Just this one Grassberry and I'll give you class-A accommodations for a week. Warm bed, private room, free meals three times a day, hot baths, and no questions asked."
Dante raised an eyebrow. "For just one?"
The innkeeper chuckled. "If you've got more, I'll take 'em. But yes. Just one."
Dante agreed.
He had dozens—of these things back in his pouch. Some of them even hit Level 10 and SSS+ after he fused them repeatedly.
If one Level 5 was worth a luxury suite . . . then at this rate, he could probably buy a castle just by selling snacks.
"Deal," Dante said, shaking her enormous hand.
A warm bed, free meals, and class-A accommodations—all for handing over a single berry he had dozens of.
And just like that, he was officially the luckiest "traveler" in Purpleleaf for finding a rare Grassberry.
He was lucky the inn wasn't crowded—just a handful of travelers and a bunch of gentle-natured sprite farmers who couldn't care less about rare items.
They weren't the type to ask questions. As long as their vegetables grew and their soil stayed rich, they were happy. Peace, farming, and morning dew—that was their entire vibe.
Inside his room, Dante finally took a proper bath. The water was hot, steam gently rising from the wooden tub and filling the air with the faint scent of lavender and something oddly citrusy—probably sprite-made.
He leaned back with a long sigh, arms draped over the rim of the tub.
It's been a while, he thought. Too long, actually.
The grime of travel washed away, but as he let himself relax, a familiar sensation made him tense. A warm pulse buzzed from his chest.
He frowned and looked down.
The Hero's Mark—faint, carved just above his chest—was glowing softly, the golden light rippling under his skin like sunlight through water. It was gentle, but unmistakable.
Another hero was near.
Dante groaned and rubbed the mark with his palm, as if he could dim the glow by sheer will.
He leaned back again, head tipping over the edge of the tub.
The mark only reacted when a fellow hero was nearby . . . though "nearby" could mean anything from the next room to several hundred kilometers away. The damn thing was never specific. And frankly, he didn't care.
Whoever it was, they were someone else's problem.
No one would recognize him anyway. He hadn't been one of the shining champions on the frontlines, clashing swords with Demon Lords or giving grand speeches about justice and fate.
He was the guy in the back, crafting potions, reinforcing armor, and quietly making sure the idiots on the front didn't die too fast.
Half of the hero army didn't even know his name. If anyone remembered him at all, it'd probably be for making the bestmanabread in the eastern camp.
And that's exactly how I like it, he thought.
He stretched, one leg flopping over the tub's edge. "I'm not doing that again," he mumbled.
No more marching under royal banners. No more saving kingdoms. No more tragic backstories or cursed swords.
This time, he was going to live a quiet life. Maybe start a business. Sell high-level berries to confused old innkeepers and become obscenely rich. Grow vegetables. Raise chickens. Fuse a goat with a thunder crystal just to see what happens.
Anything but be a hero again.