"Stop him!"
The trading post buzzed with noise. Merchants shouted prices, children ran between stalls, and somewhere outside a butcher argued loudly with a farmer over the price of a goat.
"Someone—after him!" a woman screamed, her voice cracking over the noise.
"That man stole ten pieces of Nash Silver!"
"What? Nash as Nash Silver?" A middle-aged man in ragged clothes joined the chase.
While the crowd surged the thief, an old woman collapsed on the stone floor. A boy carrying an empty oil jar stepped inside and froze.
[Did I just hear someone calling out a thief? Are they pointing at me? I just got here.]
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden spike of fear, and walked deeper into the hall.
Amala Trading Post still carried the sharp fresh smell of pine. Its timber walls looked practical, not decorative—one wide front entrance opened into a long hall with smaller side doors. Stalls lined the sides, leaving walkways between them.
A circular reception desk was situated facing the front opening after walking some distance into the building. The desk surrounded the base of the staircase that led to the upper floor. Beside the circular reception, on the right-hand side, stood The Adventure's Commission Board. Behind the reception, the building continued further back.
The rear section comprised of guild offices and trading company rooms. Outside the trading post was separate open marketplace. All food vendors operated their – grains, meat, vegetables, fruits, cooked meal. Other traders who do not have space inside the trading post also traded outside.
Screams echoed as men and boys rushed past him.
[Maybe it's not me.]
He calmed down as the crowd kept on passing him, running toward the entrance opening.
"What's going on here—oh! Granny Mo!" The boy stopped in shock. The old woman who had fainted was Granny Mo, matriarch of the Collins family—one of the wealthiest in the village. It would take most people over a year to stash ten pieces of Nash Silver.
A woman who seemed to be her attendant knelt beside her. "Hurry, water! Bring me water!" She screamed for help.
People crowded around, offering help, but the boy could see the truth in their eyes. There was no real kindness here—only the chance to earn favor from a powerful family.
The Collins family were the largest producer of cow milk and chicken eggs in the region. Most of their supply went to the village, with the remaining share exported to surrounding settlements through the trading post. To sustain this output, they ran a huge livestock farm that employed a good number of people.
"You demon! What are you looking at."
The shout sliced through the noise. In a blink, every head turned toward the boy.
"Look at his eyes, no wonder Granny Mo fainted" A man carrying a jar of water glared, veins bulging in his neck.
The boy looked down.
[This again. Blaming me the moment anything goes wrong.]
"Demon! Get your disgusting self out of our sight." A drunk man hurled the last of his alcohol at the boy's chest. "I don't care who your grandfather is, that scum of god he worships abandoned our village long before I was born. Who does that damn old man think he is. He even allow a Devil Child to breath the same air as us."
The boy's stomach twisted.
"I can't stand the sight of this misfortune-bringer," a young man whispered nearby, "but insulting the Venerable? That crosses the line."
"This bustard has gone too far, alcohol has gotten him. I might hate the Shaman for keeping this curse, but the Venerable; nobody has ever crossed that line." Another man agreed.
"Look at me wretch! What? Am I disgusting?"
The drunk spun back to the crowd, laughing. "Did you hear that? This stinking beggar says I'm disgusting!" He took a swig of what little remained in his bottle. "What do they call you again? Ed… something. Oh, right—Edwin!" He grinned at the onlookers. "Who knew even demons had names?"
"It's this boy again!"
"It's the child of chaos!"
"I don't want to be close to that thing."
Voices could be heard from the crowd as onlookers belittled the boy among themselves. Some spat on the floor out of disgust.
"Husband, let's leave this place. I don't want to get near that thing." A pregnant woman and her husband left.
Tears burned behind Edwin's eyes. He turned and started walking toward the entrance.
"They got the thief!"
The cry rang through the timber hall. The drunken man, the crowd, and even Granny Mo—who had just woken with heavy eyelids—all looked toward the entrance.
Two muscular men in red ponchos and brown tree-bark trousers dragged the thief inside, his hands tied behind his back. The crowd followed, some surprised, others grinning.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. "Merchant Griford?" Faces shifted from anger to confusion. This was no common thief—this was the caravan trader who served the poor.
"Isn't that Merchant Griford?" a woman gasped, her eyes fixed on the thief in disbelief. "This has to be a misunderstanding."
"What's going on here? Merchant Griford!" Most people were confused.
Merchant Griford—known to every poor family in the village for the cheap goods he traded—stood bound and bloody, unrecognizable as the man who once ran a small caravan with his wife.
Merchant Griford was a short man in his thirties, clothes torn and bloody. This was no simple punishment for stealing. Something else must have happened.
"Have mercy! Let me go! I'll return the money!"
As Edwin glanced at the bound man, a memory slammed into him like a cane across the back.
"I had enough of these little street thugs!" a man had once shouted, holding seven-year-old Edwin by the collar.
"It wasn't me! I was just passing by!" Little Edwin had cried.
"Street rats are all the same. Demon! You cause trouble wherever you go!"
The scene in front of him triggered the same old trauma, carved deep into his heart.
"You! Boy, move out of our way!" One of the muscular men shoved Edwin with his shoulder as they dragged the thief past.