"Roland, hurry up or your breakfast's going to get cold!"
In one of the apartments in the outer district, a young boy heard his mother calling from the kitchen.
"I'm coming, Mom!" Roland shouted back as he finished getting dressed. He pulled on his best work shirt and adjusted the belt on his thick canvas trousers, patched in more than one place.
He glanced down at the belt, making sure none of its pouches were torn.
After slipping on his worn shoes, he hurried out of his room and headed for the kitchen.
His mother gave him a brief nod as she straightened her faded blouse and simple skirt, then bent to put on her shoes.
"Remember to lock the door when you leave," she said.
Roland nodded without much enthusiasm, spooning down his oatmeal. He heard those same words every day, whenever his mother left for work.
Seeing him, she smiled faintly, ran her fingers through his hair to smooth it down, and turned toward the door.
Roland looked up at her.
"Have a good day!" he said, his mouth still full of oatmeal.
That made her smile again. Without turning back, she replied, "You too. Have a good day, my son."
Then she left the apartment, leaving Roland alone.
Considering how much my mom and dad earn, we don't have to worry about food.
And since I'm working too, we can put a little aside for hard times, and sometimes even afford better clothes.
Roland thought it over while mentally reviewing his family's finances.
In a world full of monsters, mages, and aristocrats, life for ordinary people was harsh. Most struggled just to earn enough to eat, let alone buy warm clothing or anything resembling luxury tools or items.
"Mr. Klein called it a 'financial cushion,' if I remember right," Roland muttered to himself, recalling the term the merchant had taught him.
He finished his oatmeal, headed out, locked the door, slipped the key into one of the belt pouches, and set off toward the commercial district, where Mr. Klein's shop was located.
As he walked through the outer district, Roland passed hundreds of people, most of them refugees from destroyed villages.
Nearly everyone living there was poor, burdened with a tragic past.
In this world, villages being slaughtered by monsters that escaped dungeon gates was an everyday occurrence. Those who survived by some miracle became refugees, forced to flee to cities ruled by noble houses just to stay alive.
He passed workshops, warehouses, shabby inns, and cheap lodgings, until at last he reached the commercial district.
Compared to the outer district, it was bursting with life, market halls packed with people and merchants shouting over one another as they tried to sell their goods.
"Fresh meat from the lower pastures! Still warm, I swear it by the gods!"
"Potions! Healing potions! One sip and you'll stand again, two and you'll forget the pain!"
"Cheap blades! Don't ask where the steel came from, ask if it cuts!"
"Bread! Hot bread! Sourdough, not moldy like the neighbor's!"
"Protective amulets! Genuine! If you die, you wore it wrong!"
"Monster hides! Freshly skinned! Still reeks of blood!"
"Lodging! A roof over your head and a door with a bolt! Rats are small, they don't bite!"
"Hey, you kid!"
Roland looked toward a man pointing straight at him.
"Yeah, you! Want a lucky talisman? Only works today!"
Roland just smiled and walked on without a word.
A lucky talisman. Seriously, do you think I'm a child who'd believe that nonsense?
He knew full well that "lucky talismans" were almost always fakes, sold to the ignorant or the desperate.
Seeing he'd been ignored, the man didn't react at all and immediately started scanning the crowd for another young-looking potential buyer.
From time to time, guards passed through the commercial district, iron armor clanking softly, swords sheathed at their sides.
They were employed by noble houses or adventurer guilds, tasked with keeping order in the streets.
That was another key difference between the commercial district and the outer district. It made the former far safer, with far fewer "incidents."
Eventually, Roland stopped in front of a shop marked by a sign depicting a strange stone pierced by a sword.
He stepped inside.
Rows of shelves filled the shop, covered in oddly shaped stones of many colors.
Roland closed the door behind him. A small bell above the frame chimed softly.
The smell of metal, dust, old leather, and something else, faintly metallic, was familiar to him.
His eyes went instinctively to the shelves.
Small stones lay in wooden crates lined with cloth.
Each was different. Some dull, others faintly glowing as if lit from within. Their colors ranged from dirty gray to greenish and brown, all the way to pale blue.
They were magical beast cores, mostly low-grade, though a few mid-grade ones were stored separately in crates reinforced with metal fittings.
Behind the counter stood Mr. Klein.
An older man with graying hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that always looked as though they were calculating something.
"You're three minutes late," he said calmly, without raising his voice.
Roland froze for a moment.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Klein," he replied quickly, unbuckling his belt with its pouches and carefully placing it on the counter. "The line for bread was longer than usual."
The merchant looked up, studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"Write it down as an observation. Not an excuse."
Roland nodded. Without another word, he reached for the ledger beneath the counter. It was heavy, its leather cover worn smooth by years of use.
He opened it to the page marked with a ribbon, dipped his quill into the ink, and recorded his arrival.
Despite coming from poverty, thanks to Mr. Klein's help Roland had gained access to books. Through them, he'd learned basic reading and arithmetic, essential skills for anyone working in trade.
Mr. Klein watched him briefly, then turned toward the back room door.
"Today we start in the storeroom," he said. "House Halven sent a new shipment."
At the name, Roland straightened immediately.
The Halvens were one of the noble houses ruling the city, wealthy, influential, with ties reaching all the way to the capital.
Roland knew well enough that they were not people you wanted to cross.
"They brought it back from a dungeon expedition three days ago," Mr. Klein continued. "The adventurers' guild handled transport, but the selling, as usual,falls to me."
Roland nodded.
Noble houses rarely sold anything themselves. They left the tedious, troublesome work to people like Mr. Klein.
Moments later, they entered the storeroom, where the air was noticeably cooler than in the shop proper.
Crates were stacked neatly along the walls, each marked with a simple chalk symbol. Roland knelt by the first and inspected the seal.
Once he confirmed there were no scratches or damage, he lifted the lid and looked inside.
Several thick canvas bags lay packed tightly together. Each had a small metal tag sewn onto it, engraved with a number and the symbol of House Halven, simple, but carefully made to prevent easy forgery.
Roland picked up the first bag and slowly loosened the string, just as Mr. Klein had taught him. Opening it too quickly could spill fragments or dust onto the floor, forcing a full recount.
He poured the contents onto a wooden tray.
The cores were small, most about the size of walnuts, some slightly larger. Their shapes were irregular, their colors ranging from dirty gray to faint green, marking them as low-level monster cores. Not especially dangerous creatures, but common and plentiful in dungeons.
Roland picked one up, rolling it between his fingers, checking for cracks or sharp edges that would indicate damage during extraction or combat.
The core was cool and surprisingly heavy for its size.
He gently shook it, bringing it close to his ear, just as he always did.
No sound.
A good sign.
He noted that the first bag matched the description and moved on.
The second bag immediately raised suspicion.
Not because it was lighter, but because the canvas was slightly scorched in one spot, suggesting someone had tried to clean the cores with magic, without proper tools or knowledge, risking damage.
Once opened, his suspicions were confirmed.
Several cores had uneven surfaces. One was cracked nearly in half, still barely holding together, as though something inside was struggling to bind it.
Roland frowned and lifted the damaged core, studying it closely.
The light within was dimmer than the rest, unstable, as if it might go out at any moment.
"Mr. Klein," he called, raising his voice just enough to be heard.
The merchant approached slowly, leaning on his cane. He examined the core without hurry, as if judging not only the object, but also what it revealed about the people who delivered it.
"Poor extraction," he said at last. "Or someone struck the core during the fight."
Roland nodded.
"Mark it as damaged," Mr. Klein added. "It's still usable for simple tools or weapons, but not for infrastructure."
Roland recorded everything carefully. He knew how important that distinction was, cores used to power the city had to be stable. Even a minor flaw could cause failures or accidents, for which Mr. Klein would be held responsible.
The next crate bore a different symbol, indicating higher-quality cores.
As soon as Roland lifted the lid, he felt the air inside was colder, common with better cores, which conducted energy more efficiently.
Inside lay long, transparent shards wrapped in thin cloth to prevent them from striking one another during transport.
Roland carefully removed one and set it on the tray.
It was flawless. Light passed through it cleanly, without distortion, making it suitable for precise applications, artifacts or mechanisms requiring a steady energy supply.
The second core, however, wasn't as perfect.
A dark streak ran through its length.
Roland recalled craftsmen talking in the shop, saying such flaws could cause overloads or instability, especially with prolonged use.
"This one should be marked," he said cautiously.
Mr. Klein studied him, but didn't reprimand him for speaking without permission.
"Good," he said after a moment. "Single-use artifacts or testing. Not permanent installations."
Roland made another note.
The final crate smelled different.
Heavy. Metallic.
It contained monster parts, mostly hides and bones, carefully wrapped and salted to prevent decay.
Roland checked one hide, running his fingers across it.
It was thick and tough, but corrosion marks showed in several places. The monster had either been killed long ago or left too long before processing.
"Craftsmen will complain," he muttered.
"They always do," Mr. Klein replied calmly. "But they'll still buy it, if the price is right."
Roland recorded another reduction in value.
That was what most days in the storeroom looked like.
Nothing heroic. Nothing extraordinary.
Just checking, counting, recording, and constantly making sure everything balanced out. Even a small mistake could cost Mr. Klein more than Roland earned in months.
When he closed the last crate and adjusted its marking, Roland felt a dull ache in his back.
And he knew the day wasn't over yet.
The storeroom was only the beginning.