The young man nodded and headed for the back door. After a brief hesitation, Roland set his pen down and closed the ledger. If Mr. Klein himself was telling him to come, then whatever they were about to see wasn't the kind of everyday stock that passed through the storeroom.
The back room was cooler than the front, but this time the crates lined up along the walls weren't the usual ones Roland handled. These were heavier,reinforced with metal bands,and some carried warning marks that never appeared on low-grade cores.
"This isn't fast-turnover merchandise," Edgar said as he lifted the lid off one of the crates. "Stuff like this sells rarely, and only to the right people."
Roland stepped closer and looked inside.
The contents were nestled carefully in soft padding, each item separated from the others, as if whoever packed them feared that even contact might damage something,or set it off.
The first thing Roland noticed looked like a small core, but it was far cleaner and brighter. The light within it was steady and calm, without the cheap flicker he'd seen in lesser pieces.
"A mid-tier dungeon core, extracted whole," Edgar explained. "No cracks, no loss. These go into artifacts,or they power important installations."
Roland nodded, memorizing the look of it. Cores like that were every craftsman's dream,and every accountant's nightmare, because their value could swing wildly from one day to the next depending on what was happening in the city.
In the next compartment lay a weapon grip made from a dark material. At first glance it looked like ordinary wood, but it felt heavier, colder.
"A piece of monster armor," Edgar said, catching Roland's look. "A craftsman reworked it into a base for a weapon. It conducts energy well, and it doesn't crack under overload."
Roland touched it carefully. There was a faint resistance to it, like the object didn't quite want to be understood.
He rarely saw things like this.
Too expensive for normal customers. Too troublesome for quick trade.
In another crate were vials filled with powders of different hues. Edgar described them as ground fragments of monster bones and crystals,used to strengthen spells or stabilize artifacts. Roland had heard craftsmen and mages talk about such materials, though he'd never seen them used himself.
"Adventurers sell this cheap because they don't know what they've got," Edgar added. "And then they're shocked someone else makes more money off it."
As they closed the next crate, Edgar leaned back against the wall and went quiet for a moment, as if weighing where to begin,because what he wanted to say wasn't just another road story or campfire rumor. It was something everyone had heard of, yet no one could truly explain.
"On the trade routes, I kept hearing rumors about… 'him,'" Edgar said at last.
Roland lifted his head, though he didn't take his hands off the crate. Work was something solid he could hold onto when a conversation started getting too heavy.
"Adventurers say when a catastrophe-rank dungeon appears, the question isn't 'Will someone close it?'" Edgar continued, adjusting the strap at his jacket. "'It's whether he'll handle it.' If he won't… people start packing up. Caravans change routes. Everyone knows what a catastrophe-rank dungeon means for the world."
Roland knew it was true.
Not from books or merchant stories, but from the way the world itself functioned. Cities existed only because the worst dungeons were being sealed. And catastrophe-rank dungeons weren't something ordinary mages or adventurers could deal with.
There were places in the world where humanity had failed to close catastrophe-rank dungeons,territories now swallowed by monsters, written off as lost lands.
"They're saying one appeared up north recently," Edgar added. "And the king sent messengers to ask him for help."
Something in Roland stirred.
The king was distant to ordinary people,almost unreal, someone who made laws and sent armies. And yet here was the thought that even he had to ask someone else for help.
"And the houses?" Roland asked quietly, more to confirm than out of curiosity.
Edgar smiled briefly, but there was no mockery in it. No satisfaction.
"They ask too," he said. "That's what people find strangest. He doesn't come from any house. He doesn't have a name that means anything. And still,it's the king and those arrogant noble houses who go to him when everything else fails."
A feeling rose in Roland's chest that was hard to name, warm and painful at the same time.
Since he was a child, he'd heard the same thing: magic ran in noble blood. Common people could at best operate tools powered by someone else's strength.
But somewhere in the world, someone existed who proved that order wasn't as unshakable as everyone pretended.
And the worst part,no, the best part,was that this person was considered the strongest in the world. Humanity's only real answer when catastrophe-rank dungeons surfaced.
"Adventurers say he doesn't fight like other mages," Edgar went on. "That he uses the same magic, but like it's… more ordered. More stable. Like magic itself is grateful he lowered himself to its level and chose to wield it."
Roland listened, feeling like a child standing at the edge of a square, staring at something too vast to fully grasp,yet close enough to feel its weight.
"People say without him, this world would've fallen apart a long time ago," Edgar said more quietly. "And that if he ever stops showing up… there won't be anyone left to ask."
Roland lowered his gaze to the crate in front of him.
Goods, numbers, records,those were simple.
A legend wasn't.
All he knew was that somewhere out there was someone holding the world together, even if no one understood how. And the thought was both comforting and terrifying,because if everything rested on one ordinary man, Roland couldn't answer the question of what would happen when that man disappeared.
The question stayed with him as he returned to work.
It hadn't been long since Edgar finished speaking and Roland went back to his writing when the shop door opened again,this time with a decisive motion that had none of the hesitation of ordinary customers.
A man stepped inside, neatly dressed but without unnecessary luxury. He wore a dark coat with House Halven's crest clearly embroidered on the shoulder, making it obvious he wasn't a merchant or an adventurer,he was someone here on behalf of someone more important.
Roland looked up for only a moment and felt the difference immediately.
This man didn't scan the shop with curiosity or caution.
He looked around the way someone did when everything already belonged to him.
"Mr. Klein," he said, not even bothering with a greeting. "I'm here on my lord's orders."
Mr. Klein raised his eyes from the documents slowly, as if he saw no reason to hurry.
"Welcome," he replied calmly. "How may I help?"
The man stepped closer and leaned lightly on the counter, looking down at Roland as if he were part of the shop's furnishings,not a person keeping the books.
"I want to know if the cores from the last delivery have been sold," he said in a tone that suggested the answer should be short,and the one he expected.
Mr. Klein nodded slowly.
"Not all of them," he said. "Some have already been contracted, but several batches are still awaiting buyers' decisions."
Displeasure flickered across the servant's face.
"You should move faster," he stated. "House Halven does not like its goods sitting in warehouses."
A faint tension tightened in Roland's neck, but he didn't say a word. He kept his eyes on the ledger. He knew conversations like this weren't the place for his opinions.
Mr. Klein showed no offense.
"Of course," he said mildly. "That is precisely why I took the liberty of holding back a few items that may be of particular interest to your lord."
The servant raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?" For the first time, something other than boredom slipped into his voice.
Mr. Klein gestured toward Edgar.
"Show him," he ordered simply.
Without a word, Edgar crossed to one of the crates by the wall and lifted the lid, revealing contents arranged carefully in soft padding.
Inside were weapons unlike anything Roland had seen in the shop before,made from dungeon-sourced materials, irregular in shape, and with a weight you could almost feel just by looking at them, as if each one held something more than metal and wood.
The servant stepped closer, examining blades and grips with obvious interest, though he still tried to keep his face neutral.
"From the last route," Edgar said. "Taken from several different dungeons. The craftsmen forged them to fulfill noble commissions."
The servant picked up one of the blades, turning it slowly, testing the balance and workmanship,though it was clear he didn't truly know how to judge such a thing.
"I don't make the purchasing decisions," he said at last, setting the weapon back in its place. "My lord will decide whether any of this interests him."
Mr. Klein nodded, as if he'd expected nothing else.
"Of course," he said. "I understand the rules."
The servant reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small metal token engraved with a symbol.
He set it on the counter.
"A pass," he said. "It grants entry to the inner district. The guards will be informed."
Roland glanced at it only from the corner of his eye, and still he felt something clamp tight inside him. A pass like that wasn't something ordinary people ever touched.
"Be at the Halven estate tomorrow," the servant added. "My lord will handle the rest personally."
With that, he turned and walked out without looking back, as if the conversation were finished and nothing more needed to be said.
The door closed behind him with the soft chime of the bell.
Silence settled over the shop.