Chapter 90: The Big Sell
Hans stood on a street corner in the Commercial District, watching as convoy after convoy of foreign merchants poured into Iron Fortress. Barnaby's caravan hadn't been the first, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
Every newcomer wore the same sequence of expressions: first, a jaw-dropping shock at the sight of the "Ghost Road," followed by a manic, feverish glint upon realizing the sheer order and untapped opportunity of this city.
Hans recognized that fever. It was the specific look a merchant gave when they caught the scent of gold.
Sinclair was currently crouched at Hans's feet, gnawing on a piece of hard bread and leaving a trail of crumbs in the dirt. Beside him, Tate paced back and forth, his hands wringing together nervously.
"Chairman, what's the move?" Tate asked. "The crowd is getting thicker by the hour. They only have seven-day permits, but gods only know how many more wagons are backed up on that road."
Hans didn't look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the newcomers, who were peering around like explorers discovering a lost continent.
"Who said they're here to steal our business?" Hans whispered, a sharp, predatory smile spreading across his face. "They are our new business."
He had a massive inventory of stock he needed to move. Specifically, the bulk order of healing potions he had "acquired" from the State Affairs Legion at a highway-robbery discount. He beckoned the two shills closer and outlined the plan.
Sinclair's jaw dropped so hard his bread hit the dirt. Tate practically levitated off the ground in fright.
"Chairman! We don't have a grudge, do we?!" Tate stammered. "I mean, sure, I talk trash behind your back sometimes, and yeah, I hid a few coppers from the last payout... and okay, I traded your favorite mug for a pint of ale... but I don't deserve a death sentence!"
Sinclair picked up his bread, dusted it off, and added in a small voice, "He's right, Boss. It's too risky. What if the act goes south and Tate actually kicks the bucket?"
Hans reached into his vest and pulled out a single silver coin, flipping it expertly between his knuckles. "This is the 'appearance fee' for a job well done."
Tate watched the silver dance, swallowed hard, but shook his head. "No. My life is worth more than a silver."
Hans pulled out four more, lining them up in a row on a nearby barrel. "Five silvers. You in?"
Tate's Adam's apple bobbed. Five silver coins were enough to keep him drowning in high-end ale for a month. He wavered, but his survival instinct held firm. "Chairman, it's not about the money. It's a matter of principle! I am a man of integrity!"
Hans swept the five silvers back into his pouch. Then, with deliberate slowness, he produced a single, glittering object.
A gold coin.
Hans placed the gold in the center of the barrel. "Finish the job, and this is yours. Plus, I'll give you three days of paid leave."
Tate's eyes went completely flat. His breathing became heavy and ragged. In his mind, that gold coin was already transforming into an endless mountain of roasted meat and vintage wine.
"Chairman..." Tate's voice trembled. "Which way do you want me to fall? I've been working on a very 'realistic' death rattle. Would you like to see a practice run of my final moments?"
Half a Day Later.
The Central Commercial District, Iron Fortress.
This was the nexus for all the visiting merchants. They gathered here to trade intel, scout prices, and marvel at the bizarre harmony of the city. It was the most densely populated intersection in the capital.
Suddenly, a figure stumbled out of a side alley, collapsing into the center of the thoroughfare.
It was Tate.
He was a gruesome sight—drenched in red from head to toe. Smeared across his face, his clothes, and his exposed skin were shocking streaks of "blood" (mostly his own, mixed with a healthy amount of chicken gore). Across his chest was a long, jagged "wound"—shallow enough to be safe, but deep enough to look horrifying. He'd cut it himself, gritting his teeth the whole time for the sake of that gold coin.
He stumbled, caught his foot on a loose paver, and let out a genuine shriek of pain as he face-planted into the stone.
THUD.
The surrounding pedestrians recoiled in horror, clearing a wide circle around him. Several of the new merchants turned pale; they had just arrived in the city only to witness a bloody murder.
Just then, a second figure burst through the crowd. Sinclair. He lunged to Tate's side, scooping him into his arms with a dramatic howl.
"TATE! TATE! Talk to me! Don't you dare die on me!" Sinclair's acting was aggressively over-the-top. He squeezed out tears on command, sobbing as he shook the "dying" man. "Help! Murder! Someone save my brother!"
A young, naive-looking merchant in the crowd felt a pang of pity and shouted to a nearby Skeleton Soldier, "Quick! Call a Priest! There isn't much time!"
The skeleton tilted its skull, staring at him. It could sense perfectly well that the human wasn't in any mortal danger. The other veteran merchants nearby gave the youth a look usually reserved for the mentally infirm. You're in the Undead Empire and you're asking a skeleton to find a holy healer?
Tate suppressed the urge to laugh, closed his eyes, and let his head lol sideways, feigning his final breath.
Right on cue, a booming, confident voice cut through the clamor.
"Make way!"
The crowd parted automatically. Hans stepped forward, looking every bit the prosperous guild chairman in his fine suit. He carried a small, blue crystal vial in his hand. He approached Sinclair and glanced down at the "dying" Tate.
"A mere mortal wound," Hans declared, his voice carrying clearly to every ear in the plaza. "Hardly worth a concern."
He popped the cork and poured the blue liquid—the diluted version of the Master's formula—directly onto Tate's chest.
Sizzle—
A faint wisp of white smoke rose. Before the stunned eyes of the crowd, the jagged "wound" on Tate's chest began to knit together with impossible speed. Within seconds, the skin was flawless. Not even a scar remained.
Tate snapped his eyes open. He performed a perfect carp-leap, springing from Sinclair's arms to his feet. Sinclair gasped, "Brother! How do you feel?!"
Tate squeezed his fists, letting out a roar toward the sky with the full power of his lungs. "I FEEL ALIVE! I'M PUMPED!" He hopped in place, throwing a series of erratic, high-energy punches that whistled through the air. "I feel like I could punch a Ground Dragon into the next province!"
The watching merchants froze. Realization dawned on them like a lightning strike.
Hans held up the empty vial, facing the crowd. He cleared his throat, projecting his voice even louder.
"Are you tired of worrying about blades and arrows on the road? Do you fear the scars left by wandering mabeasts?"
"Behold, your salvation has arrived!"
He gestured to a crate that had "mysteriously" appeared behind him, filled with identical blue vials.
"Produced with honor by the Evernight Empire! Exclusively distributed by the Sunflower Merchant Guild! This is the [Superior Healing Catalyst]!"
"A single vial for only ten silver coins!"
Hans pointed to the bouncing, energetic Tate. "Ten silvers won't buy you a quality horse! Ten silvers won't buy you a set of enchanted plate! But today, ten silver coins buys you a second life!"
"Limited stock! First come, first served! If you miss out today, you wait a year!"
The crowd was silent for three seconds.
Then, a portly merchant who had clearly done the math burst forward, slamming a heavy coin pouch onto the crate. "Give me ten vials!"
He didn't care if it looked like standard low-grade medicine; he had seen the results with his own eyes. In a life-or-death situation, this "scam" was a miracle. Even at three gold coins, men would kill for this.
That first sale was the spark in the powder keg. Every foreign merchant went into a frenzy.
"Give me twenty! I'll pay double!"
"Don't push! I was here first! I want fifty vials!"
"Get back! These are mine!"
The scene devolved into absolute chaos. Merchants brandished their gold like hungry mabeasts, swarming the small crate. Sinclair and Tate, startled by the sheer violence of the response, scrambled to maintain order.
"Form a line! Get in line!"
"One at a time! Drop the coin, take the vial, and move!"
Hans stood at the center of the storm, that wicked smile firmly in place as he collected pouches and handed out stock. The sound of gold and silver clinking against the wood was the sweetest music in the world.
He didn't feel like he was selling medicine. He felt like he was printing his own currency.
He loved these "industry peers." To him, they weren't people anymore—they were just bags of gold that happened to breathe.
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