Richter parted ways with the family outside the town hall, a quiet nod exchanged before he turned away. He needed to see Lakeside with his own eyes—to walk its paths, feel its rhythm. Nan had pointed him toward the merchant’s tent, a half-constructed building braced with timber and canvas.

  The path leading to the merchant was alive with activity. One nearby tent had a furnace roaring under a makeshift canopy, where a man worked tirelessly, hammering a glowing slab of metal into what looked like an axe head. Judging by the towering stacks of timber around the settlement, it wasn’t hard to imagine why axes were in high demand.

  The next tent was occupied by two women, one of whom sat cross-legged in front of a wooden loom, her hands moving with practiced grace as she fed thread through the frame. The rhythmic clack of the loom was oddly soothing, a steady heartbeat of civilization. Beside her, the other woman was busy sorting dyed fibers into neat bundles, their vivid hues a stark contrast to the muted tones of the camp. Together, they worked in quiet harmony.

  A few tents down, the acrid stench of a tannery hit Richter like a wall—sharp, sour, and unmistakable. The heavy air was thick with the scent of blood and stretched hide, a pungent cocktail that clung to the back of his throat. He caught sight of a man wearing thick gloves and a stained apron, scraping clean a large hide stretched taut across a wooden frame. Nearby, vats of bubbling liquid simmered under the sun, their surfaces shimmering with oils and tannins. It was unpleasant, but necessary. Richter would need to come back her.

  Richter arrived at the merchant’s tent, its canvas flap swaying gently in the breeze. The structure was sturdier than most around it—reinforced with wooden beams and patched with colorful scraps of fabric, as if trying to advertise its purpose through sheer contrast.

  He pushed the flap aside and stepped inside, greeted at once by the scent of herbs, leather, and a faintly metallic trace of mana in the air. The interior was cramped but methodical—more organized chaos than clutter. Boxes were stacked high along the canvas walls, many marked with chalk symbols or tags. A cluster of them had been pulled together and draped with an embroidered cloth to form a makeshift counter, complete with a small, flickering crystal lamp perched atop it like a beacon for curious customers.

  A small bell tinkled as Richter stepped inside, and from behind a curtain of hanging charms and bundled herbs, a man emerged with startling swiftness. He was short and spry, with sharp eyes and a disarming smile—every inch the salesman. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, youthful in appearance, but there was something behind his eyes—an alertness, a glint of cunning—that suggested he missed very little.

  "A new face... and quite the memorable one," the man said, wincing slightly. The comment caught Richter off guard. He often forgot about the scar—forgot how it must look to others. He remembered Cain’s own mark; how striking and terrible it had seemed. He understood the instinctive reaction, but hearing it voiced so plainly still stung.

  "Great way to charm a customer," Richter said dryly, arching a brow. The man had the slick polish of a salesman—but clearly, he hadn’t mastered the finer points of tact.

  "Ah, my apologies! No offense meant," the merchant replied, bowing slightly with theatrical flair. "Let me try that again. I'm Jin—merchant, negotiator, and humble curator of curiosities." He swept his arms wide, gesturing with pride to the cramped, dust-laced tent around them. "Welcome to my emporium. A little chaotic, perhaps, but full of potential—like most good stories."

  Richter smirked, letting his gaze drift across the chaos of the tent. “Well, Jin, if this is your idea of potential, I’d hate to see what you call a mess.”

  "Ha, I like your honesty. I'm just getting started myself—back on Earth, I only ever sold weed. This whole shop thing? Bit of a career pivot, courtesy of the apocalypse." The young man rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, the kind that tried to pass off mischief as charm.

  "So how does this work, exactly? The folks who brought me here mentioned something about a barter system," Richter said, eager to shift from introductions to inventory.

  "Barter? That’s old news—two days ago, maybe," Jin said with a chuckle. "Once I unlocked the merchant profession and the settlement was officially recognized by the System, we got access to credits. Check your status screen—you should’ve been issued a starting balance of 100. Everyone gets the same amount to begin with. Level playing field and all that."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Richter pulled up his status screen, eyes flicking to the currency tab where a neat number glowed back at him—100 credits, just as Jin had said. It felt surreal, seeing value measured out so cleanly in this chaotic new world.

  "Oh cool—so what's 100 credits actually get me? I need a little context here," Richter said, scanning the cluttered shelves and stacked goods for anything resembling a price tag.

  "Depends," Jin replied, his grin widening. "What are you looking for?" Classic salesman deflection—answer a question with another and never show your hand first.

  Richter didn’t even know what might be available, but he already knew one thing—he was desperate for potions. Healing he could manage on his own, but mana? That was his lifeline. "Do you have any mana potions?" he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes scanning the shelves with focused intent.

  "Ah, mana potions—always in demand," Jin said, gesturing toward a half-empty crate tucked behind the counter. "Between the crafters burning through mana like wildfire and the hunters chasing down those chests, they go fast. And unfortunately, we’ve only got one alchemist in the whole settlement, so supply’s..." Jin pulled out five blue vials.

  "Cut the sales pitch—how much?" Richter asked flatly, already tired of the merchant’s theatrics.

  "Sixty-five credits each," Jin replied, holding up a vial like it was a sacred artifact. "Which, I might add, is a bargain. I’m practically giving them away—could be charging double, easy."

  With only enough credits for a single vial, Richter felt the pinch of limited options. One potion was better than none—but it wouldn't last long if things got rough. As he weighed his dwindling resources, his eyes caught a small wooden placard hanging behind the counter: 'Buy & Sell.' His gaze lingered. Maybe he didn’t have the coin... but he had items. It was time to see what bartering could really get him.

  Richter reached into his pouch and drew out a green vial, letting it catch the light as he held it up. "Like you said—lots of work around here, and I bet stamina’s the bottleneck for a lot of folks." He moved with theatrical flair, miming the slow, laboured motion of someone utterly drained, exaggerating the act just enough to make his point—and maybe sweeten the deal.

  "Look who's laying it on thick now," Jin said with a smirk. "I'll give you 25 credits." As the man spoke, Richter noticed a faint shimmer of mana flicker across Jin’s eyes—a subtle glow, brief but unmistakable. An Identify skill, most likely. Maybe even Appraisal. It made sense; if anyone in this world had a built-in lie detector for value, it’d be a merchant.

  Richter's identify skill kicked in, focusing on the profession

  [Merchant- Level 4]: The Merchant profession facilitates the structured buying and selling of goods, granting access to skills that enhance item appraisal, dynamic pricing, and customer persuasion.

  Richter was in over his head. Back on Earth, shopping had been simple—prices were printed on stickers, transactions happened in sterile, fluorescent-lit aisles, and negotiation was something relegated to antique shows and bad TV dramas. But here? Here, value shifted with perception, charm mattered more than a barcode, and potions were as prized as gold.

  "I’ve got eight of these," Richter said, placing the stamina potion gently on the counter. "Will you buy the whole batch at the same rate?" It wasn’t a bad deal—tripling his credits in a single trade.

  "Yeah, that sounds fair—and since you didn’t waste my time haggling, I’ll throw in a mana potion as a bonus," Jin said with a wink.

  Richter placed the potions on the counter one by one, watching as Jin carefully pulled them toward his side. A soft chime echoed in Richter’s mind, and a System notification flashed: credits received. Clean. Instant. Efficient. Jin then slid a neatly sealed blue vial across the counter, the mana potion catching the lamplight as it came to rest in front of him.

  "The alchemist who brews these. Used to be a pharmacist back in the old world," Jin said, pulling out four more vials as if reading Richter's mind. "Worked in a prison, of all places. Tough crowd. But out here? He's become something of a legend. Always out scavenging rare ingredients, always experimenting. The guy’s a one-man potion factory with the survival instincts of a cockroach and the nose of a bloodhound."

  The four mana potions totalled 260 credits—just within Richter’s reach. Without a word, he gave Jin a curt nod. The merchant understood immediately, sliding the vials across the counter with practiced ease. Another soft chime echoed in Richter’s mind as the credits vanished from his total. A clean trade. No fuss, no negotiation. Just what he needed.

  Richter stepped out of the shop with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Jin wasn’t so bad after all—rough around the edges, sure, but ambitious, sharp. He could see the young merchant going far. In the old world, setting up shop at Jin’s age would’ve been a mountain of permits, loans, and gatekeeping. But here? The System had cleared the board, and Jin was building something from nothing. For all its brutality, the System had given some people more than survival—it had handed them a chance to thrive.

  With his satchel now clinking with mana vials and only a handful of credits to his name, Richter stepped into the afternoon light with a cautious optimism. The event still had a few days left, and despite the dent in his wallet, he was better prepared than he'd been in days. He was ready for his next hunt.