He almost didn't come back.
The docks were safer. Anonymous labor. Predictable exhaustion. No rumors. No eyes on him at all.
Coming back meant stepping into attention, and attention here was a blade.
Four days ago, he set up his stall for the first time and folded it before sunset, coins light, pride lighter. For three days after, the F-rank trio combed the entrance, and each rumor of it left him feeling exposed. They asked for him by description, by crate, by rumor — and when he didn't return, they tracked him to the docks, to a warehouse shift he hadn't meant anyone here to see.
Today he returned on purpose.
Steel rang against stone. A porter dragged something heavy across the cobbles, leaving a dark streak that no one commented on. Conversations stalled when he stepped into the square, then resumed a half-second too late. The noise was the same, but conversations dipped when he passed and resumed only after he moved on.
The F-rank trio waited at his usual spot. Armor scratched from second-floor contact, leather straps re-tied instead of replaced. Not heroic damage. Functional wear. They had pushed and survived.
He and Big Mute began setting up the stall exactly as before, their hands steady despite the weight of eyes on them as they aligned the crate, straightened the cloth, and moved with the same economical, controlled precision. When everything was in place, he reached into the crate and set the placard upright where everyone could see it.
STAMINA BAR EX. THREE COPPER
DON'T BE THE FIRST TO FALL
The black-haired girl stepped forward.
"Our six bars held."
"We'll take three more." The mage placed six copper on the crate without hesitation.
"Three copper each, friend."
"It was two."
"It was promotion, my friends."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're raising it because it works," the black-haired girl muttered.
"Yes."
No edge in it. Just fact.
"If it fails?"
Silence settled between them.
He studied the trio, recalculating the margin. Big Mute shifted beside him, not urging, not opposing, just there.
"Fine. Two copper each. But bring me another monster corpse," he added.
***
After the trio entered the dungeon, he and Big Mute finished setting the stall.
He cleared his throat. "Stamina Bar EX. Three copper."
Big Mute lowered himself onto an overturned crate that creaked under his weight, chewing through a rejected batch like it was the most important task of the morning. Crumbs caught on his chin. He brushed them off with slow, careful fingers.
Boots slowed around them, conversations thinning as onlookers edged closer, pretending not to stare. Same faces from the first day, but the mockery had thinned. One tried to resurrect it anyway.
"What's EX stand for? Extra dumb?"
No one laughed.
The space the trio left behind had barely settled when the potion vendor arrived moments later in a sweep of color and polish, smiling like he owned the air.
"Minor Stamina Potion! Certified by the Al de Baran Alchemist Guild! One sip, instant refresh!"
His bottles shimmered under the morning light. He sold three within minutes. Quick transactions. Clean confidence.
The glow carried the faint scent of distilled mint and alcohol, sharp and clean, the smell of guild infirmaries and stamped approvals. A silver insignia hung from his cart, catching the light with every movement. It looked official. It smelled official.
Mid-morning stretched thin. After the trio's purchase, no one else stepped forward. Beside him, the potion vendor moved steadily, coin by coin, until half of his stock was gone.
***
Noon.
The F-rank trio emerged again, walking and breathing hard but very much alive, dragging six goblin corpses behind them. Green blood streaked the stone.
The black-haired girl's sleeves were torn, a shallow cut across her cheek, but she was grinning.
Six goblins. Less than half a day.
A veteran near the well let out a low whistle. "That's not a quick surge," he muttered, scratching at his stubble. "That's the kind that keeps you moving when everyone else is winded."
Two low-ranks argued in hushed tones about floor pacing, one insisting it had to be luck, the other already recalculating how far they could push before exhaustion set in. A spear-user traced invisible lines in the air, mapping corridors from memory as if efficiency could be borrowed by observation.
A D-rank who had been pretending not to care shifted his weight but didn't leave; his eyes stayed on the corpses longer than he intended. Nearby, someone quietly compared potion costs to floor clear speed, lips moving as numbers fought pride.
The square wasn't laughing anymore. It was calculating.
The F-rank trio didn't look like survivors. They looked like they'd had an easy fight.
A murmur rolled through the square.
"Six?" someone whispered. "In half a day? That's E-rank pace."
Eyes shifted from the corpses to the push-cart.
"Three copper isn't that much," a dagger-user muttered.
A pair of low-ranks stepped closer, not mocking now. Calculating.
One of them asked, careful this time, "Guarantee?"
He nodded once.
The hesitation in the air thinned, not gone but beginning to bend.
A pair of porters paused with a crate between them, watching openly now instead of pretending not to. One spat to the side and muttered that six goblins meant something, even if no one wanted to admit it. A runner slowed, eyes flicking from the blood-streaked corpses to the crate of bars. No one cheered. No one applauded. They simply adjusted their stance, the way people do when risk stops looking foolish and starts looking possible.
A coin clinked onto the crate, then another. Coins kept coming—not a rush, but a steady conversion.
Low-ranks stepped in first, counting coins twice before committing. A cautious D-rank followed, buying one "to test." Another hovered too long, then bought anyway rather than be the last one watching.
By late afternoon, only two bars remained.
The potion vendor's voice grew brighter, thinner. His price dropped.
It didn't matter. His pitch grew sharper and louder as he lifted a bottle higher than necessary, his smile fixed too tight at the edges. "Certified quality!" he called, but the call cracked slightly when another pair of eyes drifted away from the glow and toward the bars.
The last bar sold before the sun dipped below the outer wall, leaving the crate empty and the day quietly decided. He packed without ceremony.
"Back tomorrow?" someone asked.
"Yes," he said.
The trio passed him on their way toward the Adventurers' Guild. The black-haired girl gave him a short nod, then tossed the goblin corpse toward them without warning. He reacted a fraction too slow, hand half-lifting on instinct before he realized he would have misjudged the weight. Big Mute caught it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a sack of grain, and set it down beside the crate with careful precision.
***
By evening, the tavern near the south gate was loud enough to swallow attention.
He and Big Mute took a corner table.
Meat stew. Bread. Cheap ale.
He allowed himself and Big Mute one small indulgence.
"Sold out," he said.
Big Mute nodded once.
A faint smile. Not celebration. Confirmation.
They finished, paid, and stepped back into the cooling evening.
Near the tavern entrance, the F-rank trio lingered instead of heading straight inside. The black-haired girl crouched by the steps, counting out silver into neat stacks, brow furrowed in concentration as she recalculated their split for the third time. The mage leaned against the wall, touching the shallow cut on her cheek with idle curiosity rather than concern.
"Second floor again tomorrow," she said, too loud, as if daring the square to hear it.
The cleric gave a short laugh. "Don't be too confident. Perhaps if we pace it right..."
They weren't whispering. They weren't cautious. They were riding the edge of their own momentum.
A few heads turned. Not all of them friendly.
The alley beside the tavern wasn't empty; voices carried first, followed by a dull thud. "E-rank pace, huh?" someone jeered as they rounded the corner.
The F-rank trio stood boxed in by a larger four-man team, D-rank tags visible, armor better maintained, posture lazy with confidence.
One of the D-ranks had the black-haired girl shoved against the wall. Another nudged the black-haired girl's boot with his own.
"Six goblins and you think you're climbing?" he mocked. "You're still F."
The black-haired girl's jaw was tight. Blood from the earlier cut had dried along her cheek.
Another D-rank shoved the mage; he stumbled but didn't fall.
Big Mute stepped forward, and the D-rank closest to him glanced once—then twice. "Move along," he said. "This doesn't concern you." Big Mute answered by stepping closer, and the alley seemed to tighten around them. "Or what?" another D-rank asked, amused.
Big Mute didn't answer.
He simply stepped between them and the trio.
One of the D-ranks swung, casual and testing.
The impact never landed clean.
Big Mute caught the forearm and squeezed.
The man's expression changed first, then his posture, a sharp intake of breath escaping him—not broken, but close enough to imagine it.
The other three shifted at once.
The black-haired girl watched, silent.
Big Mute released the arm and stepped forward again, not aggressive, just immovable.
Big Mute tilted his head slightly.
The question held no edge.
That made it worse.
The D-rank captain measured the alley, the trio, Big Mute, the lack of fear.
"Not worth it," he muttered.
They backed off, slow at first, then faster, until silence returned to the alley.
The black-haired girl exhaled and met his eyes.
"We had it handled," she said.
"My friends, of course," he replied.
No condescension. No credit taken. Just fact.
Silver already weighed down their belts; whatever the D-ranks had taken, they refused to let it touch the celebration. They turned back toward the tavern anyway.
The alley emptied.
He glanced at Big Mute.
Sold out before sunset and saved a trio after dark. Reputation was drawing eyes, and eyes meant pressure.