Dungeon entrance.
Noise first. Always noise.
Steel clanging. Laughter too loud to be genuine. The wet slap of something freshly killed being dragged across stone. Someone arguing about party splits. Someone praying loudly, theatrically, like the gods needed an audience.
And under it all—the smell.
Iron. Sweat. Old blood baked into armor padding. Cheap oil. Nerves.
He stood at the edge of it with a wooden pushcart that looked like it had survived three generations of regret.
Beside him: Big Mute.
Big Mute said nothing. He never did. Bald head catching the light. Neck thick as a mooring post. Shoulders wide enough to block a doorway. Veins roped across forearms that looked capable of bending iron. Dock rope calluses like permanent gloves. He was the kind of man who looked carved out of labor—and violence—though he was sweet and naïve.
He, on the other hand, wore an easy, almost theatrical smile—careless brown hair, sleeves rolled up beneath a simple vest. He looked more like a friendly tavern regular than a man running silent calculations on everyone within sight.
A crooked sign hung from the cart.
STAMINA BAR EX – TWO COPPER
The bars themselves lay directly in the shallow wooden bed of the cart. Brown. Compact. Unimpressive. No shimmer. No steam. Just compressed nutrition stacked in neat rows against rough timber.
He cleared his throat. "Stamina Bar EX. Two copper."
No one stopped.
"Stamina Bar EX," he tried again, louder.
Someone snorted.
"EX?" a voice said. "What's that stand for? Extra useless?"
Laughter. Not cruel. Worse. Casual.
He forced a smile that felt like it was borrowed from someone braver.
"Stamina recovery rate improves by 20%," he said, too fast. "Effective in extended battles or—"
"Taste good?"
He hesitated.
Another wave of laughter.
A potion vendor shoved his own cart forward, nearly clipping the wheel of his.
"Minor Stamina Potion! Certified by the Al de Baran Alchemist Guild! One sip, instant refresh!"
Orange liquid in glass bottles caught the sunlight. It glowed.
Of course it fucking glowed.
A small crowd shifted toward the potion vendor's cart.
He adjusted his sign.
STAMINA BAR EX – TWO COPPER
"Two copper," he muttered.
"Make it one," someone called without even looking at him.
"It's already priced low," he said.
"Then it's probably trash."
More laughter.
He picked up one of the bars and held it out. "It's compact for dungeon runs. No spoilage. Balanced sodium ratio to reduce cramping. Slow-release carbohydrates to stabilize output."
The adventurers stared at him.
"…You selling food or giving a lecture?"
The bar was not taken.
A pair of armored men shouldered past him.
"Move the cart."
"We're not blocking—"
Big Mute shifted slightly. Not protective. Not aggressive. Just present. Like a wall that chose to stand there.
The wheel was kicked anyway. Not hard. Just enough.
Just enough to remind him where he ranked.
This is stupid.
***
He stared at the dungeon entrance—an archway carved into old stone, descending into shadow.
Dockworkers got paid daily. Dockworkers carried crates, got coin, went home. Simple. Predictable.
Too much back pain, though. Too much sweat.
A child ran by and pointed at the bars. "What are those?"
"Stamina Bar EX," he said.
The mother pulled the child away. "Don't touch that random weird thing."
Random weird thing.
It hit deeper than the laughter. Not the lost sale. Not the two copper. The dismissal. He had reduced exhaustion curves to ratios, measured salt against sweat loss, starved himself for controlled trials—and it was a random weird thing.
He had optimized the formula three times already. Reduced density without sacrificing caloric load. Adjusted mineral balance after noticing dockworkers cramp near the end of long shifts. Tested digestion timing and recorded fatigue onset.
Random weird thing.
A burly adventurer picked one up without asking.
Sniffed it.
"Two copper?"
"Yes."
"For this?"
"Yes."
"Smells like mother's disappointment." The man laughed and walked away.
***
Morning bled into noon.
Adventurers entered in waves. Parties of four. Parties of six. Some confident. Some pretending.
Steel. Leather. Capes that served no purpose but drama.
The cart bed remained full.
By midday, the humiliation had dulled into a heavy, practical calculation that this venture might not be worth the continued expenditure of time and pride.
Then he noticed them. Not because they were loud. Because they weren't.
Three figures lingering just outside the main flow. Armor mismatched and dented. Boots worn thin. No polish. No shine. No glow.
F-rank, if he had to guess.
They hovered near his cart too long.
One of them—a dark-haired girl with a shield a little too large for her frame—kept looking at the cart and then away, like eye contact might cost money. A pale mage stood just behind her, cloak neat, fingers counting coins with careful precision.
Beside them waited a shaved-headed cleric in plain robes, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"…Entry fee first," the mage muttered, not looking up from the coins in his palm.
"We won't last without supplies," the girl shot back under her breath.
"With what money?" the cleric asked flatly.
Their stomachs growled loud enough to compete with the steel.
He pretended not to hear.
He adjusted the sign again.
STAMINA BAR EX – TWO COPPER
They moved closer.
"Does it really help stamina?" the dark-haired girl asked.
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Two copper."
The girl and the mage exchanged looks.
Coins clinked.
"…We need those for entry," the cleric protested.
Silence.
He was tired. Tired of being laughed at. Tired of explaining. Tired of pretending this wasn't just another failed attempt at avoiding manual labor.
He picked up one Stamina Bar EX and sighed. He threw it to the girl. "Catch!"
It hit the girl in the chest. She fumbled but caught it.
"You're… giving this to us?"
He shrugged. "Focus group test."
They didn't understand the last part.
They split it three ways immediately, the girl shifting the weight of her battered round shield, then snapping the bar clean with practiced precision. Efficient division. Small bites. Slow chewing.
Hunger makes people practical.
"Does it taste bad?" he asked.
"It tastes like… nothing," the mage said.
"Good," he replied. "Bring me a monster corpse if you live."
He exhaled.
Half hoping they didn't—if they died, the experiment failed. Blame market conditions, become a dockworker, accept fate.
Half hoping they did—if they survived, it was proof of concept. Data. Iteration. Leverage.
Big Mute quietly pressed another bar into the girl's hands.
He said nothing.
***
By late afternoon, parties began to return.
Some carried loot. Some carried stretchers. Some didn't return at all.
He glanced at Big Mute. "You think they'll make it?"
Big Mute didn't answer.
He reorganized the bars in the cart bed, though none had sold. Adjusted spacing. Straightened the sign.
The potion vendor packed up early, his coin pouch heavy. "Little Smith, better luck tomorrow."
He forced a nod.
Shadows stretched long across the entrance. The F-rank party did not come out.
His chest tightened in a way he refused to label.
F-rank. Underfunded. Starving.
He waited a little longer.
The last adventurers exited.
He placed the remaining bars back into the crate. One by one. Methodical.
Big Mute lifted the handles of the cart without being asked.
He took one last look at the entrance. Nothing.
He nodded to himself.
This is stupid.
He turned the cart away from the dungeon.
The sign creaked as it swung.
STAMINA BAR EX – TWO COPPER
Big Mute glanced at him.
"They are probably dead, Mute."