CHAPTER 6 — “Market Day”
The village market is exactly as depressing as I expected.
Three stalls. That’s it. Three sad little stalls arranged around the central well, selling things that range from “barely edible” to “technically functional.” The vegetable seller has produce that’s more brown than green.
The cloth merchant’s fabrics look like they’ve been through a war.
And the general goods vendor is hawking tools so rusted they might actually be historical artifacts.
But people are here.
That’s the surprising part. A dozen villagers, maybe more, clustered around the stalls and chatting in small groups. More activity than I’ve seen since I arrived. More life.
They’re celebrating, Johnson observes from his perch on my shoulder. He’s taken to riding there, which I pretend to hate but secretly don’t mind. The weight is grounding. Word spread about Floor 2. They think things might actually get better.
“Things might actually get better.”
Optimism. Disgusting. But there’s no real bite in his voice. What are you selling?
I look down at the satchel over my shoulder, filled with carefully packaged potions and alchemical compounds. The fruits of three days of work, using materials from both dungeon floors and whatever herbs Mariella helped me find on the surface.
“Healing poultices. Antitoxin doses. A few things for household use—cleaning solutions, pest deterrents.” I pause. “Nothing fancy. But better than anything they can get out here.”
And priced?
“Cheap. Lower than city rates, lower than what traveling merchants charge. I’m not here to make a fortune. I’m here to—”
Build goodwill. Establish yourself as a community asset. Make the village dependent on your services so they’ll defend you when your past inevitably comes knocking. Johnson’s ear twitches. Smart. Manipulative. I approve.
“It’s not manipulative if everyone benefits.”
That’s exactly what manipulative people say. I’m not judging. I’m admiring.
I find an empty spot near the well and set up my display. It’s modest—a cloth on the ground, potions arranged in neat rows, prices written on a piece of scrap wood. Nothing professional. Nothing that screams “experienced merchant.”
But the products speak for themselves.
Within five minutes, I have my first customer.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │ MERCHANT ACTIVITYINITIATED │ ├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤ │Location: Millbrook Village Market │ │ Vendor: Velthar (ArcaneApothecary, Lv.
10) │ │ │ │ Inventory: │ │ --- Healing Poultice x8(Enhanced) │ │ --- Antitoxin Dose x6 │ │ --- Cleaning Solution x4 │ │--- Pest Deterrent x3 │ │ --- Glowcap Lantern Paste x2 │ │ │ │ PricingStrategy: Below market rate │ │ Projected Revenue: 3-5 silver │ │Projected Goodwill: HIGH │ │ │ │ NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: \[Merchant'sAppraisal\] Lv.
1│ │ --- Assess market value of crafted items │ │ ---Identify buyer interest and urgency │ │ --- "You unlocked a trade skillby selling │ │ potions at a farmer's market.
Your │ │ career trajectoryis fascinating.
" │ └─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Her name is Bess, and she’s the wife of one of the farmers whose livestock survived the last monster attack. She picks up a healing poultice, examines it with suspicious eyes, and asks the question I’ve been expecting.
“How do I know this works?”
“You don’t,” I say honestly. “Not until you try it. But I’ll tell you what—take one. Free. Use it next time someone in your family gets hurt. If it works, come back and pay me then.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’re giving it away?”
“I’m building trust. Hard to do that if I ask you to gamble on a stranger.”
Smooth, Johnson comments. The earnest honesty approach. Classic.
Bess takes the poultice, still looking suspicious, and retreats to show her husband. I see them conferring, heads together, glancing back at me periodically.
But she doesn’t put it back.
The second customer is more decisive. A young man—maybe seventeen, with a blacksmith’s build and calloused hands—approaches with purpose.
“You’re the dungeon guy,” he says. It’s not a question.
“I’m the dungeon guy.”
“My name’s Bram. My father runs the smithy.” He looks at my display, then at me, then at Johnson. “Is that rabbit magic?”
I beg your pardon?
“He’s a rabbit,” I say. “His name is Johnson.”
“He’s sitting on your shoulder like a familiar. And his eyes are weird.”
Weird. He called my eyes weird. I’m going to remember that.
“Johnson is… special,” I allow. “But I’d appreciate if you didn’t spread that around. He’s sensitive about his reputation.”
I’m not sensitive. I’m dignified. There’s a difference.
Bram doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he lets it drop. “I want to learn,” he says instead. “Fighting. Dungeon delving. Whatever you can teach me.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of being useless.” The words come out hot, frustrated—the frustration of someone who’s been carrying it for too long. “My father’s a good man, but he’s old. The village is dying. And I just… I can’t just sit here and watch it happen. I need to do something.”
He’s sincere, Johnson says. Painfully sincere. Also probably going to get himself killed.
“Dungeon delving isn’t a game,” I say carefully. “I almost died yesterday. Multiple times. And I have advantages most people don’t.”
“I know. Everyone knows—you’re the guy who soloed Floor 2 at Level 5. That’s insane.” Bram’s eyes are bright, eager. “But that’s exactly why I’m asking you. If anyone can teach me how to survive down there, it’s someone who’s already done it.”
He’s not wrong. He’s also not ready—too young, too eager, too convinced that determination alone will keep him alive.
But I remember being that age. Remember thinking I was invincible, that my intelligence and drive would carry me through anything.
Remember finding out the hard way that they wouldn’t.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally. “Come find me at the farm tomorrow. We’ll talk.”
You’re going to train him, Johnson says. It’s not a question.
“I’m going to assess him. There’s a difference.”
Is there?
Bram’s face lights up like I just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “Thank you. Really. You won’t regret this.”
“I already regret it. Go home, Bram. Tomorrow.”
He practically bounces away, and I watch him go with a mixture of fondness and concern.
He’s going to be a lot of work, Johnson observes.
“Probably.”
You’re going to do it anyway.
“Probably.”
Softie.
“Says the rabbit who let a child build him a shrine.”
Johnson’s ear flattens against his skull. We agreed never to speak of that.
“We agreed to nothing. I’m choosing to speak of it whenever it’s funny.”
I hate you.
“No you don’t.”
No. I don’t. But I wish I did.
The morning passes faster than expected.
I sell six healing poultices, four antitoxin doses, and all of my cleaning solutions. The pest deterrents go to a woman whose pantry has been invaded by something she describes as “rats, but wrong.” I don’t ask for details.
More importantly, I learn things.
Markets are about more than commerce—they’re about information. People talk while they shop. Gossip flows like water. And if you’re willing to listen, you can piece together a picture of what’s really happening in a place.
Here’s what I learn about Millbrook:
The village has been declining for decades.
The dungeon is the obvious cause, but it’s not the only one.
Trade routes shifted years ago, bypassing the valley entirely.
Young people leave for the cities as soon as they’re old enough to walk.
The ones who stay are either too old, too poor, or too stubborn to go anywhere else.
Granny Thorn is the unofficial leader, but her authority is more respect than power. Garrett used to be someone important—an S-rank adventurer, someone whispers, though nobody seems to know the details. Gretel the healer is older than anyone can remember and may or may not be slightly senile.
And there’s been talk, lately, about outsiders.
“Imperial surveyors,” one man says to another, not realizing I’m listening. “Passed through a month ago. Asking questions about the dungeon. About why it’s never been cleared.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“Same thing everyone tells them. The seal won’t open past Floor 3. Been that way since before my grandmother was born.”
“They believe you?”
“Seemed to. But they wrote it all down in their little books. You know how the Empire is—they write everything down.”
Imperial surveyors, Johnson says quietly. That’s not good.
I keep my face neutral, continue arranging my remaining merchandise. But inside, something cold is settling in my stomach.
The Empire is paying attention. Someone in the capital has flagged this dungeon—this unremarkable, sealed, supposedly worthless dungeon in the middle of nowhere—as worth investigating.
Why?
Because the seal is weakening, Johnson answers my unspoken question. The mana leakage has increased since you arrived. You’ve cleared two floors, opened the lower levels to your signature. The dungeon is waking up.
“And the Empire noticed.”
The Empire notices everything, eventually. It’s what empires do.
I think about Anton—the Spymaster, the one who erased me from history. His information network spans the continent. If imperial surveyors are asking questions about a dungeon with my mana signature, how long before that information reaches him?
How long before he connects the dots?
Not long, Johnson says grimly. We need to move faster.
“I know.”
But moving faster means taking risks. Means pushing deeper into the dungeon before I’m ready. Means potentially getting killed by something worse than a screaming mushroom.
The alternative, though—waiting for Anton’s agents to show up at my door—is worse.
The eternal dilemma, Johnson observes. Die now, or die later. Personally, I prefer later. It gives us more time to make their deaths worse.
Despite everything, I almost smile.
“Priorities.”
Always.
The lunch crowd brings a new face.