Night had settled gently over Greyhaven.
From Arin's window, the world stretched outward in quiet layers—the stone streets of Ironreach district dimmed beneath scattered lantern light, their soft glow flickering against the walls like distant embers. Beyond them, the second gate stood tall and unmoving, its silhouette carved against the horizon where the city ended and the wild began.
And above it all—
The sky.
It was not the deep black he remembered from another life.
It shimmered in shades of violet.
A vast, endless expanse of soft purple hues, deepening toward the edges, where a pale moon hung suspended like a silent observer. Its light spilled across the distant forest, brushing the treetops in silver, as though the world beyond the gate existed in a quieter, more dangerous dream.
Arin stood by the window for a moment longer, letting the stillness settle.
Then he turned back.
The room was lit by a single magic stone lamp resting on his table, its glow steady and warm, casting soft shadows across the wooden surface.
And on that table—
Results.
A small wooden compartment sat open before him, its interior neatly lined with filled glass vials, each sealed with a wooden stopper.
Ten of them.
Carefully arranged. It was precise and complete.
Beside the compartment, two more vials lay on their sides, faintly reflecting the lamplight as the liquid within shimmered with a subtle, almost sacred clarity.
Arin pulled out the chair and sat down slowly, his gaze fixed on them.
"…How did this happen?"
The thought came quieter than expected.
Not doubt.
Just… reflection.
In the mornings, before training, he would empty himself completely—drawing out every bit of mana he could muster, shaping it into holy healing water until exhaustion pressed against his bones.
At first, it had been simple.
He could produce two vials at most—sometimes a little more, on better days—but never beyond that. That had been his limit. Or at least, the limit he had come to accept.
Then came a small adjustment.
So minor it had barely seemed worth noting at the time.
Instead of wasting the excess, he had begun storing what remained—diluting it with plain water and carrying it with him through the day.
At first, it was practical.
A way to recover.
To push through the strain.
But the effect had been… different.
Stronger than expected.
The fatigue faded faster.
The ache in his muscles disappeared sooner.
More importantly, his mana returned quicker, cleaner, and more responsive.
By the time he returned from the forge each evening, the exhaustion that should have weighed him down was no longer there.
Instead, there was a strange readiness in its place—like a body that had already recovered before it had any right to.
So he began to test it.
Not out of confidence, but curiosity.
Each night, he repeated the same process. He poured out every trace of mana he had left, without holding back, without pacing himself—just to see where the limit truly lay.
And each time—
two more vials were formed, as steadily as the first.
Arin leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze lingering on the table before him.
"…Four a day," he murmured, almost to himself.
A quiet breath left him—not quite disbelief, but something close to it.
In just three days, he had produced twelve vials.
Ten of them now rested neatly within the wooden compartment. Two remained set aside, reserved for his own use.
His fingers tapped once against the table, a soft, absent motion—then came to a stop.
His thoughts shifted.
Not to the vials.
But to what came next.
Tomorrow.
He leaned back in his chair, staring briefly at the ceiling before letting his eyes drift back toward the window, toward that distant gate, toward the forest beyond.
"…Do I wait?"
A week had been the agreement.
Ten vials in a week.
But the work was already done.
And more importantly—
So was the weapon.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"…No."
Waiting, he realized, served no real purpose.
If anything, it only introduced risk.
Pippins was a merchant—and merchants, by nature, did not trust easily.
"…There's a chance he has someone watching me."
The thought came without urgency, without fear. It was not paranoia, but simple logic.
A supplier appearing out of nowhere, carrying high-grade potions of consistent quality, yet offering no background, no traceable origin—
That was not the kind of thing a careful man ignored.
It invited questions.
And questions, more often than not, drew attention.
Arin's gaze sharpened slightly as the thought settled into place.
"…Then I won't give him the time to ask them."
If anyone had been set to watch him, they would be expecting patterns—delays, routines, predictability.
Not this.
Not an early return.
"Tomorrow, then."
The decision settled within him with quiet finality—clear, certain, and without the need for reconsideration.
He reached forward and closed the wooden compartment, the soft click of wood meeting wood echoing lightly in the quiet room.
Outside, the violet sky stretched endlessly above the city.
—————
Morning came early.
And this time—
Arin did not step out as himself.
The figure that stood before the potion shop was not the boy who lives in a nearby tavern.
It was someone else.
The dark cloak fell cleanly over his shoulders, its darkened outer side concealing the richer crimson red tone beneath, while the hood rested just low enough to frame the worn, bluish iron rusty helmet that covered his face entirely.
Only his eyes remained visible beneath the helmet—brown, steady, and sharply observant, watching the world without offering anything in return.
A plain dagger rested at his waist.
Unremarkable and intentional in every way.
His leather boots were clean.
His posture was steady and his presence felt controlled.
At this early hour, the street lay in a rare kind of quiet. There were no lines stretching outside, no impatient adventurers crowding the entrance, no restless noise pressing in from all sides—only a calm stillness that felt almost unfamiliar.
He stood there for a moment before stepping forward.
Inside, the shop remained as orderly as ever.
Shelves lined the walls beyond the iron bars, each one arranged with careful precision—rows of sealed vials catching the soft glow of the magic lamps, their colors faintly shifting like trapped light.
The counter itself lay behind those bars, solid and deliberate, leaving only a narrow gap for exchange.
Secure. Controlled. Untouchable.
Behind it stood the man himself.
Pippins.
He was in the middle of arranging a set of vials when his gaze lifted—and settled on the figure waiting outside.
For a brief moment, he paused.
Recognition came quickly.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
"Well now…"
There was a quiet gleam in his eyes, something sharper than simple amusement.
"…what a surprise."
Arin stood before the iron-barred front, the faint morning light catching along the edges of his crimson cloak.
"I didn't expect you so soon, Mr. Zerath," Pippins said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
The merchant stepped forward, unlocking a narrow side section of the iron grill. With a soft metallic click, it opened just enough to allow passage.
"Come," he added, gesturing inward.
Arin inclined his head slightly. "Good morning, Mr. Pippins. I hope I haven't come at an inconvenient time."
Pippins let out a light chuckle, his neatly kept moustache shifting with the motion.
"Inconvenient?" he repeated. "Not at all. You're always welcome."
He stepped aside, allowing Arin to pass through before closing the grill behind him with practiced ease.
The interior opened further as they moved past the front.
Shelves gave way to a more secluded space at the back—less for display, more for work. Rows of ingredients, sealed containers, and labeled extracts lined the walls. A long wooden table occupied the center, its surface clean but clearly used.
A worker stood near the far end, sorting through small bundles of herbs.
Pippins gave him a brief glance.
Nothing was said.
The man understood immediately.
He set his work aside and moved past them without a word, heading toward the front to take over the counter.
"Please," Pippins said, gesturing toward the chair across the table, "have a seat."
Arin did not sit immediately.
Instead, he reached beneath his cloak, drawing out the wooden compartment he had taken days ago. Without ceremony, he placed it on the table and slid it forward.
The faint sound of wood against wood settled between them.
Pippins' eyes dropped to it.
"…May I?" he asked.
Arin gave a small nod.
The latch clicked open.
Pippins lifted the lid slowly, as though expecting something delicate.
Inside, the vials rested neatly in place.
One by one, he lifted them.
He held a vial up near the light, turning it slightly between his fingers. The liquid within caught the glow—clear, yet carrying a faint, almost luminous sheen that shifted as it moved.
His eyes narrowed slightly, studying not just the liquid—but its behavior.
Another vial.
Then another.
Each examined with the same careful attention without any rush or assumptions.
Only certainty built through observation.
After a moment, he reached for a small container placed near the edge of the table.
From it, he took out a single dark leaf.
Almost black in tone, with faint veins running through it like thin cracks.
"This," Pippins said casually, though his tone carried quiet intent, "is a dark tulsi leaf."
He placed it flat on the table.
"It grows in dungeon floors where dark-aligned creatures gather. The plant feeds on that energy—absorbs it over time."
He uncorked one vial.
A faint scent of purity lingered in the air.
"With most substances, it reacts violently," he continued. "Corrupts. Decays. Breaks down."
He tilted the vial slightly.
A single drop fell onto the leaf.
For a heartbeat—
Nothing.
Then—
The color began to change.
The deep, shadowed surface of the leaf softened… shifted… until a warm, golden hue spread outward from the point of contact.
The change in color wasn't dull or faint, it was bright and clear as if almost radiant.
Pippins' eyes sharpened, the reflection of that golden light flickering within them.
"…Interesting," he murmured.
His fingers adjusted slightly, observing the saturation, the speed, the intensity of the reaction.
"The purer the healing water," he said quietly, "the brighter the transformation."
He leaned back just a fraction.
"And this…"
A small smile formed.
"…is exceptionally pure."
He set the leaf aside and carefully sealed the vial again, placing it back with the others.
Then he closed the wooden compartment with quiet deliberation, his movements neither hurried nor careless, but precise—measured in a way that suggested long habit and careful intent.
Finally, he looked up at Arin.
This time, the casual amusement had faded from his expression, leaving behind something far more deliberate—an attentive interest, sharpened by quiet calculation.
Pippins closed the compartment and rested his hands lightly on the table.
"Now then, Mr. Zerath," he said, his tone returning to business, "let us speak about your compensation."
He reached beneath the table and pulled open a locked drawer, producing a small key from his pocket before turning it with a soft click.
Inside lay neatly arranged gold coins.
He began taking them out one by one.
Each coin caught the lamplight as it emerged, its surface gleaming with a polished brilliance. A griffin was engraved upon it—wings spread, claws extended—the unmistakable insignia of the Valerion Kingdom.
Arin's gaze followed them without moving his head.
Even now, the sight held a certain weight.
Gold in this world was not subtle. It did not try to be.
It declared itself.
Pippins counted aloud, slow and deliberate.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
The soft clink of metal against wood echoed faintly with each placement.
Arin counted as well.
Silently.
"…Nine."
The final coin settled into place.
Pippins gathered them together and placed them into a small crimson pouch, its fabric threaded with fine golden stitching. He tied it neatly, then slid it across the table.
"You may count them, if you wish."
Arin shook his head once.
"That won't be necessary."
There was a brief pause.
Then Arin spoke again.
"Mr. Pippins… would you mind if I take the wooden compartment again?"
Pippins looked at him.
For a moment—
his expression did not change.
"I would very much mind it."
Silence.
A perfectly placed, uncomfortable silence.
Then—
he broke into laughter.
"Ah—" he waved a hand dismissively, his shoulders shaking slightly as his round frame moved with the motion. "I'm joking."
The tension dissolved just as quickly as it had formed.
His fingers tapped lightly against the table, gold rings catching the lamplight with each movement.
"Mr. Zerath," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "I do not know where you acquire your healing water… nor through what means."
His eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"But one thing is clear."
"You lack experience in business."
He stood up.
He walked to a nearby shelf.
And returned with a metallic container, placing it gently on the table between them.
It gleamed.
Smooth. Polished. Reflective in a way that was not merely decorative.
Arin's eyes lingered on it.
"…What is this?"
Pippins smiled faintly.
"Healing water is among the most valuable commodities in circulation," he began. "Every adventurer needs it. Every expedition depends on it."
"We sell it in glass vials."
He picked up one from the compartment, holding it between his fingers.
"With wooden stoppers. Convenient. Simple."
Then he set it down.
"But crude."
His hand tapped lightly against the metal container.
"When we trade in bulk—when merchants deal with merchants—we do not rely on such fragile methods."
He turned the container slightly.
"This is a storage flask."
Arin's gaze sharpened.
The metal—
It wasn't ordinary.
The sheen, the finish, the resistance to tarnish—
"…Stainless steel," he thought.
A flicker of surprise passed through him.
That shouldn't exist here.
The stopper was of the same material, fitted seamlessly, sealed tight with precision that allowed no leakage.
It resembled a thermos in shape—cylindrical, compact, efficient.
Practical and elegant.
Pippins continued.
"One small glass vial like this," he said, lifting it again briefly, "contains roughly thirty-five milliliters."
"We conduct bulk trade by volume."
He tapped the flask once.
"This holds one liter."
"Top-grade healing water—like yours—commands a price of twenty gold per liter."
He leaned back slightly.
"And this…"
He nudged the flask forward.
"…is for you."
Arin's gaze lifted.
"A gift?"
Pippins nodded.
"Consider it an investment."
Arin studied him for a moment.
"This seems… excessive."
Pippins chuckled softly.
"You're perceptive. It is not cheap."
He rested his arms on the table.
"But I have spent long enough in this trade to recognize value when I see it."
His eyes met Arin's directly.
"You are going somewhere, Mr. Zarath."
"And I would rather stand beside that direction… than against it."
"As for the cost—"
He waved it off lightly.
"The two vials you gifted me on your first visit?"
A small smile returned.
"I have already profited more than enough from those alone."
Silence settled between them once more, not strained or uncertain, but calm—measured, complete, as though nothing more needed to be said.
Arin reached forward and took the pouch first, then the flask. Each carried its own kind of weight—one of gold, the other of opportunity—but both mattered in equal measure.
Pippins extended his hand across the table.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you."
Arin met it without hesitation. The handshake was firm and brief, an exchange that required no further words to be understood.
"I look forward to our next transaction," Pippins added.
And with that, the deal was complete.