"Whooo, ugh~"
The water tap of the sink screeched as it was turned on. Old Hawk, in his feeble state, managed to catch a mouthful of cold, unfiltered water from the pipe. He gargled desperately, the water swishing around in his mouth as he went through the motions, spitting it out in multiple, sharp bursts. But despite several rounds of cleansing his mouth, that unsettling, vile taste lingered, stubborn and pungent, like something vile had clung to the very fibers of his tongue.
If it weren't for his iron will, hardened by years of business dealings, the nausea that threatened to rise up in his gut might have caused him to expel the seafood broth he'd barely managed to swallow moments earlier. His mind reeled, but the old merchant, accustomed to fighting off discomforts for the sake of profit, kept a firm grip on his composure.
He reached into the crisp, brand-new box at his side and pulled out a small tube of medication, one reputed to treat hemorrhoids. The exact application of the ointment was not something to be discussed in such delicate company. But, oh, the relief. The moment the thick cream touched the afflicted area, it was as though a wave of tranquility swept over his very soul. It was a sensation so deep, so profound, it felt as though his mind had left his body altogether.
The discomfort vanished, replaced by a sharp, icy coolness, which lingered as though the very air itself was being filtered into something far purer. The feeling was blissful, transcendental. For a moment, he was weightless—detached from the world around him, floating in a bubble of peace and calm. His thoughts slowed, his worries eased. His previous anxieties about the petty merchants and their overly seductive seafood seemed so... trivial, beneath the grandeur of the moment.
It took some time for him to regain his faculties, but when he finally did, he knew he was now a changed man. The effects of the ointment were far from over. Even now, as he rested back into the worn leather cushions of the sofa, he still felt the soothing, persistent coolness on the sensitive area.
But, as a professional merchant, there was a thought that quickly settled into his mind—a truth he could no longer ignore.
That miraculous ointment, that "miracle drug," it could be his ticket to a fortune. He knew that such an elixir would cause an uproar in Winner City. The city's wealthy merchants, those self-indulgent, high-strung businessmen, would surely pay any price to acquire such a thing. He could see it already: even the pompous old wizards, the so-called "mage lords," would jump at the chance to possess such a marvel. Compared to the treatment rituals of those Druid priests, this remedy was far more versatile... and it could bring in endless profit.
"Harry Potter, my friend," Old Hawk said, his voice now hushed and serious as he turned to Michael, "I am not one to hide my desire for this magnificent medicine. Please, tell me, how much would it take to obtain that entire sack of miracle cure?"
His request was blunt, but in truth, Old Hawk rarely showed such open honesty. More often than not, he would use every trick in the book to drive prices down, always striving to pay as little as possible for anything. But not this time. This time, he was no fool. He understood the gravity of the situation—how rare and precious these medicines were. He could already see the other merchant factions, the rival caravans, eyeing this deal with greedy intent.
If there were enough profit, those merchants would risk open war just to snatch up the potential windfall. But Old Hawk was no stranger to conflict. With his wealth, his food supplies, and the large number of scavengers around Winner City eager to join his caravan for the promise of a meal, he wasn't afraid of a fight.
What truly terrified him, however, was the idea of losing out on this deal—of offending Harry Potter and forever ruining the chance of future cooperation. No, he needed this deal to go smoothly. If he could monopolize the sale of such a wonder drug, he would be set for life.
Michael listened calmly, as though expecting this sort of candidness. The harsh realities of the wasteland, coupled with the impressive efficacy of "Ma Ying Long's Musk Hemorrhoid Ointment," had long given him the confidence he needed. His response was almost nonchalant.
"This ointment—ten gold coins per box," Michael said, pausing slightly before adding, "But, of course, Coal Ash Town accepts a variety of flexible payment methods. You can pay in gold, firearms, ammunition, food, or anything else that piques my interest."
He smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, and one thing—we don't accept bottle caps."
Old Hawk didn't hesitate. He agreed without a second thought. To him, that price was nothing. Given the miraculous properties of this ointment, he was confident he could sell it for double in Winner City, and it would fly off the shelves, creating a buying frenzy.
He had already brought all his resources with him, and even if he bought the whole sack of ointment, there would still be enough left to trade for other valuable goods to take back to Winner City. Sure, the profits from these other goods might not be as high as from the miracle drug, but they'd still bring in a handsome sum.
With a grin, Old Hawk pulled out a list of goods he had brought with him from his jeans pocket and handed it to Michael.
The young man raised an eyebrow, intrigued. This old merchant could read and write, it seemed. He looked over the list, and though he fought to maintain his composure, he couldn't help but laugh inwardly. The list was written in a strange script, composed mainly of poorly drawn symbols and numbers, all looking like they belonged in some twisted alphabet of the wastelands.
For example, the "guns" were depicted by something that resembled a twisted walking stick—far from clear, but understandable enough to anyone familiar with the merchant's eccentric ways.
Yet despite the bizarre presentation, the contents were nothing to laugh at. On the list were 315 gold coins, a sum worth nearly a million by current exchange rates.
Silver coins were more plentiful, 1,520 of them, though they weren't nearly as valuable. There were also twenty tons of food, which, despite the abundance of provisions in the area, Michael knew would always be in demand.
Then there were the guns—eight Garand rifles, with 920 rounds of various ammunition. These items were essential, even if the rest of the list was filled with more mundane goods like paper, snacks, and other supplies.
Michael weighed the bag of ointment in his hands, then passed it to Old Hawk, who eagerly made the exchange. Both parties were satisfied with the trade. Afterward, a bottle of ice-cold soda was cracked open to celebrate.
As they clinked glasses, Old Hawk, still a little caught up in the excitement of the deal, asked, "By the way, what's this miraculous medicine called?"
"Ma Ying Long's Musk Hemorrhoid Ointment," Michael replied with a grin, "A magical remedy from the mysterious East. You'll find it's worth every coin."
Old Hawk's eyes widened, his greed flaring. When Michael pulled out two more massive garbage bags, filled to the brim with the ointment, he could hardly contain himself. He had planned for a simple transaction, but now, his mind raced with thoughts of how much more he could squeeze from the deal.
After agreeing on a follow-up meeting, Old Hawk hastily left the small town. He arrived at his bus, curtains drawn for privacy, and knocked gently on the door.
"Master Oliver," he called in a hushed voice, "May I come in?"
The door opened to reveal a striking half-elf maid, who ushered him inside the luxuriously furnished bus—luxurious by the standards of the wasteland, anyway.
And so, Old Hawk entered the world of the mysterious Master Oliver.