With a handful of coins and the weight of a new, dangerous secret settling on my shoulders, our first priority was to stop looking like victims. Dignity, I was learning, was a form of armour in this city. After grabbing some street food, which turned out to be some kind of small river fish that had been skewered on a stick and then burnt to a crisp, we went looking for clothing stores.
The first shop we entered was a tailor's in the main plaza called "Gilded Garments." A man with a pinched face and clothes worth more than my last ten lifetimes combined took one look at our rags and sneered. "We have nothing for your kind. Be off before I summon the Guard."
'What a prick,' Ronan muttered in my head as we turned and walked away.
Let's get moving,' I projected, my mental voice now artificially bright as I started walking again. 'Let's try the leather shop.'
The second shop, a leatherworker's that smelled of rich dyes and tanned hides, was no better. The proprietor, a burly woman with arms like tree trunks, didn't even let me in the door. She held up a hand, her expression one of utter disdain. "No scraps for beggars today. Move along."
Frustration, a familiar, bitter taste, settled in my gut. Two gold coins in my pouch, and I still couldn't buy a shred of respect. I was about to give up on the reputable shops and find a back-alley stall when I saw it...a smaller storefront tucked between a bustling bakery and a jeweller, almost hidden in their shadows. The sign was simple, carved from a single piece of dark wood: "The Worn Path Outfitters."
Expecting a third rejection, I pushed the door open. A small bell chimed. The place smelled of old, comforting things: worn leather, wool, and beeswax. It was cluttered but meticulously clean, filled with practical gear for people who actually worked for a living...sturdy boots, canvas packs, and simple, durable clothing. This was a place that valued function over fashion.
Behind the counter stood an old man, his face a roadmap of gentle wrinkles, his eyes holding a quiet, weary kindness. He looked up as the bell chimed and simply smiled. "Welcome, lad. What can an old man do for you on this fine day?"
The simple, genuine greeting was so unexpected that it threw me off balance. For a moment, I was speechless. "I... I need clothes," I finally stammered, feeling strangely exposed under his gentle gaze. "Just one set. Sturdy stuff for the road."
"Aye, that I have," he said, his smile never wavering. He came around the counter to introduce himself. His name was Elian. As he held up a dark grey tunic to my frame to check the size, his movements paused, and a far-off, sad look entered his eyes. "You have a similar build to my Arin when he was at your age... Same thin shoulders," he winked. He let out a soft sigh, the sound full of a quiet, permanent ache. "He was an adventurer. Joined the Guild, full of fire and dreams of glory. Went on an expedition into the Gloom five years ago... and never came back."
He didn't say it with self-pity, just a quiet statement of fact, a wound that had scarred over but would never truly heal. He gathered up a single, well-made set of traveller's clothes with matching boots...sturdy blue cotton trousers, the grey tunic, and a warm undershirt. "This will see you right," he said, folding them neatly on the counter. "It's a new set, better than the used racks. Call it two silver."
It was a more than fair price. As I reached for my coin pouch, he held up a hand. "Tell you what, lad. Seeing you stand there... Let's call it an even one. For... for an old man's sentiment."
Before I could protest, he reached under the counter and pulled out a simple but beautifully made leather belt. It was well-oiled but clearly worn, the kind of thing made to last a lifetime.
"A good belt is the foundation of a traveller's kit," he said, his voice soft. "Holds everything together. This was... well, this was Arin's. He'd just outgrown it, gotten too broad in the shoulders." A sad smile touched his lips. "I was meant to get him a new, bigger one for his next birthday. He never saw it. You take this. It deserves a journey."
I took the clothes and the worn leather belt, my mind a churning mess of calculations. For centuries, kindness had been a currency used to buy something later: loyalty, a debt, a future betrayal. My first instinct was to find the angle. What does he want? Information? Protection? Does he think I'll come back and share my findings? I looked into the old man's gentle, weary eyes, searching for the lie, the hook, the hidden clause in the contract.
And I found nothing. There was no angle. Just a grieving father seeing a ghost of his son and offering a simple, unconditional kindness. The realisation didn't feel good. It felt like vertigo, like the entire foundation of my world had just cracked beneath my feet.
'See, Murphy?' Ronan's voice was a quiet, awestruck whisper in my mind. 'This is it. This is the reason. Not some grand, cosmic battle between gods. Just this. The light from one good man who has every reason to be dark. This is what's worth fighting for.'
I stepped outside, the sounds of the street seeming distant and muted. I looked down at the sturdy leather belt I was now wearing… a gift from a grieving father, a piece of a life that was stolen. An act of charity. A debt I couldn't repay. It was a weight I couldn't carry.
The kindness had to be erased. It had to be balanced.
Damn it, I thought.
"Forgot something," I mumbled, turning back.
The lie was a stupid, pointless reflex. Not only could he see and feel everything I did, but he could also feel the real reason churning in my gut—the frantic need to erase the kindness, to turn a gift back into a transaction. But after a thousand lifetimes of pain and deception, a lie was just the noise my mouth made to cover the wounds of my damaged soul. A flimsy curtain drawn in a house with no walls.
I walked back into the shop. The old man was arranging a stack of blankets, his back to me. I moved quickly, pulling a single silver coin from my pouch and slipping it onto the counter.
Dignity was one thing; survival was another. With new, respectable clothes on our backs, we now needed steel to protect them. I left the main thoroughfare of the Merchant's Tier, turning down a side street that smelled of coal smoke and quenching oil. The sounds of haggling and polite chatter were replaced by the rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils. We found what we were looking for in a building that seemed carved from a single block of dark granite. Instead of an elegant sign, a massive, stylised stone anvil was embedded into the wall above the iron-banded door. This was Irondeep Armaments, a Dwarven-run establishment.
The moment we stepped inside, the air changed. It was hot and dry, thick with the heavy scent of the forge and the faint, sharp tang of ozone. This was not a place for flashy decoration or polite conversation. This was where people came to buy tools for the serious business of staying alive. As I moved deeper into the shop, I passed a full-length, but cracked, mirror set against a stone pillar so customers could check the fit of their armour. For the first time, I caught a clear, complete look at my new self.
I stopped.
The face staring back from the glass was some stranger's mug, all sharp angles and hollows, like a kid who'd grown too fast on a diet of air and bad luck. My cheeks were gaunt, my nose a little crooked like it'd lost a bar fight and never got set right. But the scar...that was the real show-stealer. A thin, silvery line kicks off just under my left eye, carving a path down my cheek before pulling a dramatic curve back toward my ear. It wasn't just a mark; it was a story.
"Jeez, we look bad," I muttered to the unsettling reflection. 'How old do you think this body is?' I projected to Ronan.
'The vessel feels young, but the bones are settled,' Ronan replied, his tone clinical and detached. 'Sixteen seems a reasonable assessment.'
I let his words hang in our shared mind for a beat. Then, in the perfect mental imitation of a scandalised old woman, I projected back, 'So you're saying you like the feel of this "young vessel," huh?'
A wave of pure, horrified indignation crashed over me from his side. 'That is not what I said, and you know it! It was a clinical observation!'
'Relax, I'm just pulling your leg,' I shot back, already turning away from the mirror.
The real problem wasn't our age, but our strength. 'A 'settled' skeleton is still just a skeleton. I'd be surprised if we can even lift a proper sword.' Our focus immediately shifted to the walls, which were lined with every conceivable instrument for ending a life.
His mental voice filled with the excitement of a true connoisseur. 'See that one? It's an estoc! A duellist's weapon, designed solely to pierce mail—useless for slashing. Strategy starts with the blade.'
"I'm not duelling anyone," I grumbled, my eyes scanning past the gleaming, expensive new swords. I saw a masterfully crafted longsword, the kind a noble knight might carry, and felt a pang of longing, not for myself, but for the paladin in my head. A glance at the price tag—thirty gold—crushed that thought instantly. We had what, one and some silver?
An old, familiar instinct took over, a way of thinking honed in a thousand lifetimes of poverty and desperation. Why pay when you can take? The Inventory wasn't just a tool; it was the perfect crime. No pockets to pick, no evidence to hide.
As we passed a rack of finely balanced daggers, I let my hand brush against the hilt of one. It was a simple, elegant weapon with a nine-gold price tag. A single, silent thought—'Mine.'—and a faint shimmer was the only sign it had ever been there. No one in the shop noticed.
But Ronan did.
The moment the dagger vanished, a wall of ice slammed down in my mind. Ronan's presence, which had been buzzing with a connoisseur's excitement, went utterly, furiously silent.
'Let's go,' I projected, turning to leave. We walked out of the armoury and into the noise of the forge street.
'Put it back,' Ronan's voice was cold steel. 'Now.'
'It's a tool, Ronan,' I shot back, my own frustration rising. 'A nine-gold dagger we got for free. It's called being resourceful. Or have you forgotten that we're broke and sleeping in alleys?'
The shift in his mental voice was jarring. The casual, modern tone he'd adopted evaporated, and what was left was cold, ancient, and absolute. It was the paladin, not the passenger.
'That is theft,' he stated, his voice resonating with his oldest convictions. 'It is the path of a common cut-purse, not a champion. There is no honour in it.'
'Honour doesn't fill our stomachs! Honour doesn't keep a blade out of your back! Survival is the only honour that matters out here, and you're too damn noble to see it!'
'Then you will survive without me,' he stated, and the coldness in his voice was absolute. 'That is the path of a thief. If this is what you choose, you do it alone. My knowledge will be my own. Good luck figuring out how to Awaken a Core by yourself.'
'You wouldn't dare!' I shot back, a spike of genuine panic cutting through my anger.
'Try me.'
And then, nothing. The link between us wasn't severed, but he had simply walled himself off. His presence was a block of silent, stubborn ice in my mind. The threat hung in the air, final and non-negotiable. He would let us get killed on principle.
My first thought was pure denial. 'He's bluffing. The self-righteous prick is bluffing. He wouldn't just cut me off over one stupid dagger.' I took three more steps, the silence from his side of my mind screaming in my ears. He wasn't bluffing. 'You stubborn bastard!'
The denial curdled into rage. 'Fine! See if I care! Who needs you? I've survived a thousand worlds on my own. I don't need some phantom paladin judging me from his high horse! What has your 'honour' ever gotten us but a shallow grave?' The anger felt good, hot and clean, but it evaporated as I realised that without a mana core it didnt matter how what I could steel, I would have no personal strength. I would always be reliant on magical items. Who knows if I could even use magical items without a core?
The rage collapsed into a desperate, pragmatic bargaining. 'Alright, alright, look,' I projected at his wall of silence. 'It's a bad look, I get it. What if we just use it for emergencies? Self-defence only? We won't sell it. Just keep it as an insurance policy, and when we can afford it, we give it back. That's practical, right? Ronan!? Are you there? Just talk to me, damn it!'
The silence was absolute. He was actually going to do it. The full weight of it finally crashed down on me, a wave of pure, cold despair. Without his knowledge, I was just a cripple with a magic bag I didn't even know how to turn into a Core. I was truly alone for the first time in ten years, and I was terrified.
I just sat there for what felt like hours, and finally, there was only grim, bitter acceptance. The furious, self-righteous bastard had me. A single, stupid dagger versus my only lifeline in this entire universe. It wasn't a choice. It was just a losing equation.
When we were back in the shop, the ice in my mind thawed slightly. 'Thank you,' Ronan projected, the anger replaced by a deep weariness. 'And for what it's worth, your 'resourceful' plan would have failed anyway.'
I stopped. 'What are you talking about?'
'Most valuable stuff from a guild smith has a subtle tracer rune forged into it,' he explained. 'It's an anti-theft measure. The moment you took that dagger out of the Inventory, it would've sent a ping back to the guild. We'd have had bounty hunters on us before we could even spend a copper.'
I just stood there, speechless. He hadn't just beaten me with his honour; he'd beaten me with logic. In this scabbing, magical world, his noble, 'honourable' way was also the smart way.
I hated it.
'No,' Ronan's voice was firm and immediate. 'That Core is not for sale. It's our key. We need it to Awaken. Selling our entire future for one shiny tool is a bad deal.'
He was right. I placed the sword carefully back on the rack, my mind racing. With only one gold coin and some silver to my name, our options were severely limited. My gaze drifted to a dusty, forgotten corner of the shop where a large wooden barrel sat under a sign that read "Scrap & Forging Stock."
An idea, born from a thousand lifetimes of making something from nothing, began to form.
I rummaged through the scrap pile and pulled out my true targets: a longsword with ugly notches in the edge but forged from true Irondeep steel; a shortsword bent at a sickening angle; and an unfinished, high-quality boot knife blank. I left them on the floor and walked over to a display of shields, picking up a simple but well-made iron buckler. This would be my misdirection.
I brought the shield and the three pieces of scrap to the counter. "How much for the buckler?" I asked, pushing it forward as the main item of interest. "And... what would you take for this lot of scrap? Just need something to practice on."
The stout, bearded dwarf eyed the pristine buckler, then glanced at the scrap with disinterest. "Six gold for the shield," he grunted. "The scrap... It's good steel, but a nightmare to repair. I'll give it to you for scrap weight. Three gold."
Nine gold. Way out of my league, but the game had begun. I started haggling, badly. "Six gold for the buckler? Look at the scratch on this rivet here. I'll give you four."
He scoffed, not even bothering to look. "The price is the price, lad. Six gold."
"Fine," I sighed, pretending to be dejected. I pushed the shield forward again. "Tell you what. I'll take the shield for your full six gold... if you'll throw in that pile of scrap for one extra gold coin. Seven gold for the lot. It's all the coins I have."
The dwarf stroked his beard, considering. He saw a boy desperate for a real piece of gear, willing to pay full price and trying to get a small bargain on some junk. Selling the scrap for a single gold instead of three seemed like a small loss to secure the much larger sale of the shield. "Make it eight gold for the lot, and you have a deal," he countered.
"Done!" I said, then immediately let my shoulders slump. I pulled out my thin coin pouch and made a show of counting my money. I sighed again, this time with theatrical disappointment. "You know what... I can't quite swing the eight today. My mistake."
The dwarf's face started to fall, the sale slipping through his fingers.
"Tell you what, though," I said, pushing the shield back towards him and pulling the scrap pile forward. "So I don't walk away empty-handed, I'll just take the scrap for that one gold we just agreed it was worth as part of the deal. I'll have to come back for the shield another time."
The dwarf stared at me for a long moment. The gears turned in his head as he replayed the conversation. He saw the trap, the misdirection, and the final, clean snap of the switch. He'd been masterfully conned into verbally agreeing that his three-gold pile of scrap was worth a single gold coin.
A slow, grudging grin spread across his face. He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, a sound of pure, appreciative respect. "You've got a serpent's tongue on you, lad," he rumbled, shaking his head. "And the guts of a badger. Fine."
I placed my single gold coin on the counter. "Done."
As the dwarf unceremoniously dumped the blades into a burlap sack, Ronan's thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion. 'Murphy, these blades are broken and flawed. Getting these fixed by a smith would cost more than just buying a new one! This is a bad deal.'
He was thinking like a warrior, concerned with parries and the integrity of his steel in a proper duel. I was thinking like a survivor.
'You're right, they're flawed,' I thought back, my own logic cold and sharp as the crude knife in the sack. 'But we can't afford a 'wise' use of our funds. We need tools, right now. This gives us three blades instead of none, even if it's a piece of junk. It gives me a weapon. It gives us a backup. They don't need to be perfect, Ronan. They just need to cut. And they will.'
There was a long, heavy silence from his side of our mind, followed by a wave of grim, reluctant acceptance.
With a new set of clothes on my back and three cheap, flawed blades that were now our best hope for survival, we left the forge district. We had the tools for violence and the clothes of a respectable traveller. Now we needed the most basic thing of all: provisions.
We headed for the food market, a chaotic, sprawling area near the city's main gates, as the vendors were beginning to pack up for the evening. The air was thick with the smells of fresh bread, ripe fruit, and roasting meats. My stomach rumbled, a sharp reminder that I hadn't eaten a real meal in this body yet.
'Holy shit, Murphy, that smell...' Ronan's thought was a low, pained groan. My stomach feels like it's trying to eat itself.'
'Get used to it,' I thought back, the pang in my own gut a dull, familiar ache. Starvation had been the default setting for most of my last life. But his very real suffering spurred me toward a stall where a sweating, cheerful man was carving thick slices from a massive, glistening haunch of roasted boar sizzling over a bed of coals. For a few copper pieces, he slapped a huge slab of the hot, fatty meat between two thick pieces of coarse, fresh bread and added a scoop of sharp, eye-watering pickled onions.
I didn't wait. I found a crate to sit on in a nearby alley and devoured it like a wolf. The overwhelming flood of flavour...the rich, savoury pork, the sharp tang of the onions, the simple, honest taste of the bread...was a dizzying, glorious assault on senses that had been starved for decades. It was a confirmation that I was, against all odds, truly alive.
The meal was too rich, too much after so long. I managed about half before my stomach protested. Not wanting to waste it, I wrapped the remaining hefty chunk of the sandwich in its grease-stained paper and, for the simple convenience of freeing up my hand, shoved it into the Inventory.
With the edge of my hunger blunted, I wandered to a small cafe and spent a couple of coppers on a mug of 'kaff'. I just sat, watching the crowd, feeling a sense of peace I couldn't place. I wasn't running. I wasn't fighting. I wasn't dying. I was just... sitting.
And then I found the source of it. The silence.
It wasn't the noise of the market that had faded, but the noise in my head. The low-grade, psychic hum of impending doom that had been my constant companion for centuries had finally stopped. It wasn't quiet because it was broken; it was quiet because, for the first time, there was nothing for it to scream about. A muscle deep in my soul, one I hadn't realised had been clenched for a thousand miserable lifetimes, slowly began to release its grip. The sensation was so alien, so profoundly peaceful, it was almost agonising.
'It's peaceful here, isn't it?' Ronan's voice was a soft murmur, appreciating the moment.
'It's quiet,' I thought back. 'The danger sense... it has nothing to do.'
The memory surfaced, after a particularly nasty lifetime where the danger sense that I developed over countless lifetimes had become a curse of its own, right after Ronan joined the party, we had made a choice. I could dodge the falling brick, but it would just hit a child next to me. I could sidestep the runaway cart, but it would just plough into a market stall, injuring a dozen people. I had become a lightning rod for tragedy, my own survival causing ripples of chaos around me. We couldn't live in the cities anymore.
So we retreated. We spent months living off the land, staying away from anyone the curse could use as collateral damage. It was during that time we found it: a forgotten gas station in the middle of a vast, empty desert, a relic of a world that had mostly rusted away. An old man named Pops ran it, wiry and weathered and utterly alone.
At first, we just used the public bathroom to get water and wash the grime off. We never spoke. Then, after a few weeks, a nod. A month later, a "howdy." Over the months, a strange, distant friendship formed. We'd talk for a few minutes while I filled our canteens. He never asked where I came from, and I never asked about his past. We were two ghosts haunting the same patch of lonely desert. I always kept my distance, terrified that getting too close would make the universe notice him.
One day, we found the station silent. He'd died in his sleep, of nothing more than old age. He'd left a note on the counter, written in a shaky, arthritic scrawl.
"To the quiet kid," it said. "Someone ought to look after this old place. Thought it would be funny. You've got no one else, and neither do I - Pops."
And so we did. For ten years, we ran that gas station in the middle of nowhere. Ten years of pumping gas for the few desert wanderers who passed through. Ten years of profound, empty silence, where the only danger was the heat and the boredom. It wasn't a life, but it was a long, quiet pause between deaths.
The memory was so vivid that the sudden bustle of the city around me felt like a slap. This busy, chaotic, beautiful place... it was the opposite of that silence. It was a new kind of safety. A safety found not in isolation, but in anonymity.
As I finished the last of the kaff, I remembered the leftover boar. I reached into the Inventory, expecting to pull out a cold, greasy lump to gnaw on.
I pulled my hand out, and a plume of steam followed it. The paper was still warm to the touch. I unwrapped it, and the wave of heat that hit my face was as intense as when it had first been handed to me. I took a hesitant bite. It was still perfectly, impossibly hot, the meat juicy, and the bread still soft. I stared at it, my mind racing, the implications of this single, simple fact hitting me like a physical blow. It wasn't just a magic bag. It was a stasis chamber.
A slow, dangerous grin spread across my face.
'Incredible...' Ronan's mental voice was a whisper of pure awe. 'Stasis! The inventory doesn't just hold things, it preserves them!'
He was right. This changed everything. I stood up and walked back into the heart of the market, but this time with a new, predatory purpose. I was no longer a hungry kid looking for a meal; I was a logistics expert exploiting a market inefficiency.
I headed straight for the vendors who were desperate to get rid of their perishable stock. Instead of hardtack, I bought three fresh, soft loaves of bread from a baker for a pittance. I found a butcher selling off fresh cuts of poultry that wouldn't last until morning. The last stop was for a wheel of soft, creamy cheese, a jug of fresh milk, and a basket of perfectly ripe, slightly bruised peaches...all for less than the price of a single bag of dried apples.
The vendors took my silver and copper pieces with raised eyebrows, no doubt wondering why a boy who looked like he'd never had a full meal in his life was buying a feast's worth of food that would spoil by dawn. The total cost came to just over one silver coin. We didn't just have a few days of food. We had a portable, perpetual pantry of fresh, delicious meals.
As we finally left the markets, it was already dark. I did a quick mental tally. Two silver at the tailor's. One gold at the armoury. Just over one silver at the market. I had almost seven silver coins left. "Alright," I said, my gaze landing on a side street where a sign depicting a steaming mug hung over an inn door. "We have the gear. We have the food." I held up the pouch that now contained a small collection of coins and a single blue core.