By the time Arin stepped out of the tavern, the day had already passed its peak.
Morning had not been wasted.
He had pushed his body through its limits—again and again—until muscle turned heavy and breath came sharp. The kind of training that didn't build strength immediately, but broke it first.
Then—
Sanctis Aquilia.
A single use of its holy healing water had washed through the strain, easing the ache in his muscles and clearing the fatigue that clung stubbornly to his body.
After that, he spent hours refining his work.
The pistol design.
The core structure. The internal flow. The individual components—drawn separately, adjusted, corrected. Every line sharpened with intent, until what remained on paper was no longer an idea, but something that could be understood… and built.
After finishing his work, he had a simple lunch.
And once he was done—
He stepped out.
As he moved through the district, his steps eventually led him to a quieter stretch—where a narrow canal ran beneath an old stone bridge.
He stepped down into the shade below, away from passing eyes and wandering attention.
For a moment, he stood still.
Then—
He moved.
The cloak shifted in his hands, its crimson side turned inward, replaced by the darker, muted exterior. The bluish, worn iron helmet came up next, settling over his face, concealing it completely.
By the time he stepped back out from beneath the bridge—
Arin was gone.
Zerath walked in his place.
The dagger Sanctis Aquilia was no longer with him, locked away safely in his room—hidden within the wooden crate among tools and the mechanical doll book that once belonged to his mother.
What he carried now were results.
Two small glass vials rested quietly within his cloak.
At his waist hung a different dagger—ordinary, unremarkable.
His hands were covered in rune gloves.
Prepared.
Just in case.
—————
The potion shop stood just as he remembered.
Brightly lit, orderly and secure.
Iron bars separated the inside from the street—thick, unforgiving, leaving only enough space for transactions to pass through.
A line of adventurers stood before it.
Arin said nothing.
He simply took his place to the side.
He waited and watched from the sidelines.
One by one, the customers finished their business and left—some satisfied, others grumbling under their breath at the prices.
Eventually—
Silence.
The shopkeeper looked up.
His eyes settled on the lone figure still standing.
"…You've been here a while," he said, adjusting the fold of his sleeve. "What do you want?"
Arin's voice came out calm. Controlled.
"I want to sell healing potions."
The shopkeeper paused for a brief moment, then leaned slightly forward, resting his arms against the counter.
He was… well-fed.
A round face, neatly trimmed mustache—short, square, almost comical—and a constant, calculating smile. A gold chain rested against his neck, rings glinting across his fingers as they tapped lightly against the wood.
"Well then," he said, tone shifting slightly. "You can call me Mr. Pippins."
A small nod.
"But before anything else," he continued, "I'll need to appraise it."
His eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"And you should understand—I don't pay the selling price. I run a business."
Arin didn't hesitate.
"Fine by me."
He reached into his cloak and brought out a single vial, placing it carefully on the counter.
Pippins picked it up, turning it slightly under the light.
"…Give me a moment."
He disappeared into the back room.
—
Minutes crawled.
Then—
Footsteps.
Sharp.
Erratic.
Pippins was back, his pace more frantic than before.
A thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, his usual composed expression replaced by something sharper.
Pippins looked interested.
"Mister…" he began, adjusting his tone. "…what should I call you?"
"Zerath." Arin Replied.
Pippins nodded.
"Well then, Mister Zerath…"
He held the vial up again, almost reverently now.
"This is not ordinary."
His voice lowered slightly.
"At first, I assumed low-grade… perhaps mid-grade at best."
A small shake of his head.
"I was wrong."
He leaned forward.
"This is comparable to high-grade potions."
A brief pause.
"…And that's not all."
His eyes flickered with curiosity.
"There are additional properties. I can feel it—but I haven't fully identified them yet."
He straightened.
"I would very much like to buy this from you."
He urged Arin,"Come inside."
The small iron side gate creaked open.
Arin didn't move immediately.
For a moment, he simply looked at it.
A closed space.
Controlled.
Risky.
But—
He stepped forward.
—————
Inside, the shop felt tighter. Warmer.
More controlled.
A worker stood near the back, carefully sealing vials into small wooden crates.
"Take the counter," Pippins said without looking at him.
The worker nodded and moved.
Pippins gestured toward a table.
"Have a seat."
Arin did.
Pippins followed, leaning forward slightly, fingers interlocked.
"Now," he said, a faint smile returning. "Let's talk business."
Arin gave a small nod.
Pippins studied him.
"…Where are you getting these from?"
"I have my own sources," Arin replied evenly. "Trade secret!"
A short pause.
Then—
Pippins chuckled.
"Fair enough."
His eyes sharpened.
"How many can you supply?"
Arin didn't answer immediately.
He thought.
Two per day was the limit he had now before he would be mentally exhausted if not drained dry of mana.
But that wasn't the number to give.
Not yet.
"Ten vials a week."
Pippins's brows lifted slightly.
"…That's consistent."
A pause.
Then Pippins leaned back slightly.
"You understand something, Mister Zerath," he said, folding his arms. "High-grade potions are expensive. Not everyone can afford them."
A small smile.
"But those who can…"
"They always buy."
His tone shifted—practical now.
"No high-grade potion sits unsold for long. Out there…" he gestured vaguely beyond the walls, "…it's life or death."
Another pause.
"So—pricing."
His eyes locked onto Arin.
"How much do you want?"
Arin didn't rush.
"The more I can get, the better."
Pippins laughed.
"Of course it is."
He tapped the table lightly.
"I can offer… sixty silver per vial."
A beat.
"We still need a profit margin."
Silence.
Arin didn't respond immediately.
Then—
"There's no transportation cost," Arin said calmly. "No middleman. I deliver directly."
Pippins's smile thinned slightly.
Arin continued.
"And you already know this isn't a standard potion."
He leaned forward just slightly.
"It's stronger. More refined."
A pause.
"And that's before you fully understand what else it can do."
Pippins's eyes narrowed.
Arin's voice remained steady.
"It can counter poison. Reduce exhaustion. Capable of curing untreatable diseases. Suppress dark magic effects."
A small pause.
"And potentially more."
Silence settled between them.
Then—
"Ninety silver."
The number landed clean.
"Nothing less."
Pippins leaned back, exhaling sharply.
"…That's steep."
"Is it?" Arin replied.
A brief pause.
"If not here… I can try elsewhere."
He stood.
Not abruptly.
Not aggressively.
Just enough.
Pippins's hand lifted slightly.
"…Wait."
Silence.
A few seconds passed.
Then—
"…Fine."
He let out a breath.
"Ninety silver."
A faint smile returned—but this time, it was sharper.
"You drive a hard bargain, Mister Zerath."
Arin reached into his cloak.
Then paused.
"…For today," he said, placing the other vial forward again, "I won't charge you."
Pippins blinked.
"…What?"
"Consider it a gesture," Arin continued. "If we're going to do business, I prefer long-term stability over short-term gain."
A pause.
"I'll return in a week."
Silence.
Then—
Pippins smiled.
Wider this time.
Genuine.
"…I like you."
He picked up the vial carefully, almost reverently.
"Ten vials."
"In a week."
Arin gave a small nod and rose from his seat.
As he turned to leave, his eyes briefly caught a small wooden compartment resting on the table nearby—neatly arranged with empty glass vials, each sealed with a wooden stopper.
He paused.
"…May I take those?" he asked, gesturing toward it.
Pippins followed his gaze for a moment, then let out a soft chuckle.
"Of course you can, Mister Zerath," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Consider it an investment."
A grin tugged at his lips.
"I'll be looking forward to your return."
Arin picked up the compartment without another word.
Then—
He turned and walked out.