"I'm looking for something to protect against fire energy," the man said without preamble. "Not a high-grade artifact,something practical. For expeditions."
Edgar nodded as if he'd heard the question a hundred times.
"We've got a few options," he replied, reaching under the counter. "Depends on your budget,and whether you're worried about prolonged exposure or sudden hits."
Roland immediately bent over the ledger, dipping his pen into the inkwell, ready to write. He knew this rhythm too well.
Edgar set a small, matte bracelet on the counter. A reddish shard of core material was set into it.
"Low-grade salamander core," he explained. "Stable,won't blow if you overload it. It dampens the temperature around the wearer. It won't save you from a direct jet of fire, but it'll keep you alive close to it."
Roland wrote down the name, the core's origin, and its basic properties, then noted the price Edgar gave a moment later. His handwriting stayed neat and steady,trained by hundreds of transactions like this.
"And something more durable?" the customer asked.
Edgar pulled out a second item: a small plate of dark metal.
"Armor insert," he said. "Material from a deep-dungeon beast's plating, reinforced with earth-core energy. Heavier, pricier,but it can take more."
The conversation continued at the same pace,unhurried, emotionless,and Roland recorded each new detail: prices, terms, brief notes that would help Mr. Klein reconcile the day.
The man kept turning the armor insert in his hands for a long time, weighing it, running his fingers along the edges, staring into the dark metal as if trying to judge not just craftsmanship, but whether this piece was truly worth the cost. For people who went down into dungeons, those choices rarely came down to money alone.
"I'll take it," he said at last, setting the insert on the counter. "Better to pay more than rely on luck later."
Edgar nodded without a trace of surprise. He'd heard that line plenty of times. The ones who said it usually came back. The ones who tried to save money on protection often vanished for good.
"Good choice," Edgar said evenly, naming the price and conditions, then stepping slightly aside to give Roland room.
Roland recorded the sale carefully: the item type, material source, price, and a short description of its intended use. Mr. Klein always said ledgers weren't just for counting money,they were for remembering what left the shelf, and why.
When the coins changed hands and the customer tucked the insert into his bag, Edgar dismissed him with a brief nod, then waited until the bell over the door went quiet.
"That was the last one for today," he said, stretching slightly and glancing toward the window where the light was already starting to fade. "For a day like this, that's enough."
Mr. Klein closed one of the ledgers and rested his hand on it, as if symbolically sealing the day's tally. Then he looked at Roland.
"You can go home," he said calmly. "We'll handle the rest ourselves."
Roland lifted his eyes from the writing, reflexively on the verge of protesting out of habit, but in the end he only nodded.
"Alright, Mr. Klein."
He put away the pen, shut the ledger, and set it back where it belonged. Then he buckled on his belt with its pockets and headed for the door, casting one more glance at the shelves packed with cores and items he knew like the back of his hand,yet that still never stopped fascinating him.
Outside, the air had cooled. The streets of the commercial district were slowly thinning as he walked home, thinking how ordinary the day had ended,despite the fact that somewhere far away, above city walls and shop roofs, decisions were being made that would sooner or later reach people like him.
***
The next morning, Roland stopped short, staring.
Even from a distance, he could see the crowd gathered in front of Mr. Klein's shop,people standing in a loose, disorderly line, arguing under their breath and throwing nervous looks at the door as if afraid that if they blinked, something would slip away from them.
Roland slowed, a sharp pinch of unease forming in his chest. Mornings like this didn't happen without a reason, and the shop never drew crowds by accident.
He squeezed between bodies, catching fragments of conversation,questions about prices, availability, deadlines.
"I'm telling you, it was there yesterday, and today it's gone?"
"I only care about fire protection,nothing else. How many are left?"
"No, I don't want an order. I need it now. My expedition leaves tomorrow."
"I heard prices went up this morning. True, or just gossip?"
"The cores too? Even low-grade ones?"
At last he reached the door and slipped inside, pulling it shut faster than he could even think.
The shop was already in motion.
Edgar stood at the counter, leaned in toward a customer who spoke fast and tense. Mr. Klein was on the far side of the room, flipping through open ledgers and morning notes already crammed with numbers.
"Roland," Edgar tossed over his shoulder without turning, "don't stand there. Get to work."
Mr. Klein didn't even look up.
"The ledgers are open," he added calmly. "Start with this morning's sales. We don't have time for delays today."
Roland nodded, stepped up to the counter, and reached for the pen. The moment he dipped it in ink and scanned the first lines, he understood.
This wouldn't be a normal day.
From the very start it was clear it wouldn't be a normal trading day. The same questions kept coming faster than Roland could finish the first entries, and the tone,polite on the surface,carried a nervous edge that had nothing to do with ordinary haggling.
"Any fire cores left?" came the first question, barely after Edgar finished with the previous customer, while Roland was still writing down a name and an amount.
"Low and mid-grade," Edgar replied automatically, reaching under the counter. "Depends what you need it for. Use?"
"Protection. Or a weapon. We'll see," the customer snapped, flicking a nervous glance at the door as if expecting someone to rip it from his hands.
Roland recorded another sale,core type, class, price,and when he looked up, the next customer was already there, not even pretending he'd come out of curiosity.
"Everything you've got that's fire," he said flatly. "Cores, inserts, amulets,anything. As long as it works."
It went like that all day.
Some asked for cores to power weapons. Others wanted protective items. Others asked about reinforcing existing gear. Different words, same meaning:
Something was coming, and they didn't want to face it unprepared.
Between transactions, the conversations began to sound less like normal shop talk and more like the complaining of people backed into a corner.
"You hear what our guild leader came up with this time?" one customer said while Edgar checked a core's quality, turning it under the light. "He wants us gathering people for an expedition to that damned dungeon that appeared under the city."
"As if he has a choice," someone beside him replied with a short snort. "House Halven asked. And when House Halven asks, you go,even if you don't have the people, the gear, or the desire."
"Asked…" the first man repeated with a bitter smile. "Right. Like always. And then they'll pretend it was our decision."
Roland listened in silence, writing line after line, because he'd learned it already: the real world showed itself in these half-whispered counter conversations far more than in proclamations or speeches.
"If it weren't for that dungeon, no one would be rushing like this," someone muttered while taking a wrapped core.
Roland recorded another sale and noticed the numbers in the "fire cores" column shrinking in a way that made his stomach tighten. Empty spaces appeared faster than they ever did.
Only near the end of the day,when the last customer finally left and the shop doors were at last locked,did Edgar and Roland step away from the counter and do what they always did after days like this: check the stock.
They moved between shelves in silence, peering into crates and counting contents, until Edgar stopped at one and let out a short huff.
"Well, look at that," he said, lifting an empty sack. "Maybe two left. The rest is gone."
Roland looked at the shelves of magic items and saw the same thing: amulets, inserts, small fire-linked artifacts,nearly wiped out, like someone had cleared them deliberately.
"Almost everything," he said quietly, more to himself than to Edgar.
Edgar nodded, leaning against the shelving.
"That's not a good sign," he said evenly. "When people start buying fire in bulk, it means they're bracing for something they still can't name."
Roland stared at the empty spots and thought of dungeons, magic, the rumors winding through the city,and how an ordinary workday could suddenly become a warning.
Then he reached for his notebook.
Because even if the world was shifting toward something unknown, the numbers in the ledgers still had to match.
When they closed the last crate and returned to the back, the shop had settled into that particular end-of-day quiet. Dust was slowly falling, and exhaustion spoke louder than hunger,the body understood there was no point rushing anymore, even if your mind still churned with numbers and overheard voices.
Edgar laid a short stock list on the table, tracing a finger down the columns one last time as if checking he hadn't missed anything. Then he looked at his father.
"Fire cores are basically cleaned out," he said bluntly. "Low and mid-grade. There are a few singles left that aren't even fit for sale until we sort them."
Roland stood beside him with his notebook and nodded, backing Edgar up.
"Protective items too," he added evenly. "Amulets, inserts,anything that dampens fire or heat. Those shelves are almost at zero."
Mr. Klein listened in silence, leaning on the counter and staring past them, as if he was counting not the inventory, but the problems waiting tomorrow.
Finally, he let out a heavy sigh.
"I expected this," he said slowly. "When people panic, they always start by buying the cores they need so they can rush them to smiths and turn them into weapons."
He walked to one shelf, looked at the empty spaces, and shook his head.
"It'll be hard to get more," he added. "The houses will hold everything for themselves now, and the guilds won't release reserves until they're sure they won't need them."
Edgar's mouth twisted.
"So tomorrow…"
"Tomorrow is a day of saying no," Mr. Klein finished. "Explaining that we don't have fire cores or fire resistance gear anymore. And no, we can't 'arrange something,' no matter how hard they try."
Then his gaze settled on Roland,more directly than usual.
"You'll stay for closing," he said, calm but firm. "With this much work, every pair of hands matters, and I want the ledgers closed properly."
Roland felt the familiar sting of fatigue, but he nodded without hesitation.
"Yes, Mr. Klein."
The merchant acknowledged it with a small nod, then opened one of the ledgers to a clean page.
"Better to prepare in advance," he muttered. "Because tomorrow they won't come for what we have."
He tapped the blank line with a finger.
"They'll come for what can't be bought anymore."