When Baston finally returned to Prius Academy from Zeverius Academy, he did not allow himself the comfort of rest.
He sought Panto immediately. The merchant boy had been living in constant unease ever since the fabricated rumor of a cult had taken root in his imagination.
Baston had planted that seed deliberately, watering it with vague warnings and half-truths.
Fear was a powerful fertilizer. It made people obedient without realizing they were bending. So when he stepped into the merchant dormitory corridor and called his name, Panto responded faster than usual.
"I need to ask you something," Baston said without greeting, "If I sell this ice bead, how much can I get?"
Panto blinked, "What?"
Baston placed the bead in his palm.
The translucent sphere caught the afternoon light and shimmered faintly. Cold mist curled around its surface before fading into nothing. It was subtle, refined and not the kind of trinket sold in roadside stalls.
Panto swallowed, "For something like this, I would need to ask my father. This thing is rare, very rare. I cannot determine the value on my own."
"How long?" Baston pressed, his tone carried urgency but his expression remained calm, "How long until you can ask him?"
"This week," Panto replied slowly, "I plan to return home for several days. I can show him this bead directly."
Baston nodded as if the matter was simple.
In truth, it was not.
He had explained the bead's origin as a gift from Zeverius Academy.
It was a token from Principal Zener yet he found it was unnecessary for himself.
That explanation was believable enough, even though barely.
Zeverius Academy was known for lavish gestures toward talent.
Still, Panto's eyes carried suspicion for a fleeting second.
"Are you sure it's clean?" he asked cautiously, "Some buyers care about origin. They fear about complications."
Baston allowed a faint smile, "It's clean."
The word was steady and Panto soon exhaled.
At first, he feared it might be stolen, or worse, tied to a hidden faction.
In business, legitimacy was not about morality. It was about risk. Even a profitable deal could destroy a family if the wrong enemy stood behind it.
"If you deliver it personally…" Baston added, "I will come with you."
Panto's confusion shifted into delight, "You will accompany me?"
"Yes..."
The merchant boy's mind raced.
Wizards were expensive to hire. Even knights cost a fortune when escorts were needed. His father always employed guards but never wizards.
The difference in price was severe.
Bandits were manageable while rival merchants were less so.
Money moved people and where money flowed, blood sometimes followed.
To have Baston along the journey was like acquiring invisible insurance.
"Thank you!" Panto was elated, "That would be safer."
The word of safer lingered. Baston merely nodded. He had another reason to see the outside.
Thankfully, Prius Academy didn't force him to always stay here since his status had changed.
Indeed, strength and talent were currency in this small society.
Prius Academy did not officially announce vacation. It simply called it recess for external affairs.
Nobles used it to attend banquets while merchants used it to inspect business.
The poor and commoner rarely used it at all.
For commoners, leaving meant falling behind.
For the poor, it meant suspicion.
But for someone who had just raised the academy's reputation at Zeverius Academy, regulations became flexible.
The instructors did not stop Panto's request. They barely questioned it. More interestingly, they did not question Baston.
That silence was worth more than permission because silence meant acknowledgment. Their acknowledgment meant value.
Baston understood something subtle. He had a value. He was now useful.
*****
Inside his dormitory room that night, Baston reopened the old book. The last page was quiet, indicating no new quest. He traced the event thoughtfully.
At the beginning of his journey, quests appeared frequently.
Small ones, personal ones, social manipulation ones, and performance act ones. But as time passed, they grew rarer. Until recently, the inter-academy trip had triggered two new quests unexpectedly.
That was unusual since he had struggled to receive even one before that.
Eventually, it meant something. The old book responded to his circumstance.
When he met Alicia, when he faced Angus, when he confronted Anderson, and when Clark cornered him publicly.
Certain individuals triggered it although it did not apply to everyone. The pattern was incomplete but it existed.
Now, he would test it. In a new city and a new environment with a powerful merchant patriarch, would that be enough?
The question lingered inside his mind before he closed the book gently.
*****
Three days later, the carriage rolled beyond Prius Academy's gates.
Panto's personal carriage was smaller than the academy's enchanted vehicle but it was comfortable.
Subtle runes beneath the frame softened impacts.
Outside, hired guards rode on horseback with sharp eyes.
Inside, Panto unpacked snacks. It was unbelievable that the boy secured so many snacks.
"Try this," he said eagerly, "It has excellent taste."
Baston stared at the stack of wrapped pastries, "Why did you bring so many?"
"It's a two or three day journey! You might get bored if there was a little to eat."
"I cannot eat these snacks for three days straight."
Panto laughed awkwardly.
The fat boy's anxiety was almost endearing. As they traveled, Baston observed the guards' formation, the distance between horses, and the rhythm of their shifts.
He noted the terrain, forests, narrow roads, and isolated segments ideal for ambush.
No incident occurred thankfully yet the possibility remained tangible.
Panto once mentioned casually that merchants did not fear bandits. They feared competitors.
Bandits robbed visibly but competitors destroyed invisibly.
There were stories of poisoned shipments, forged contracts, and entire caravans misdirected by falsified route permits.
Accidents that were not accidents and fires that burned only one warehouse in a district of stone buildings.
Money did not simply buy goods. It bought silence, delay, and disappearance.
Baston listened without comment.
The academy trained mages to wield mana while the merchant association trained men to mobilize currency.
It was different systems but the same brutality.
"By the way, what should I tell my father about you?"
Baston leaned back, "If you introduce me as poor, he will be very suspicious of me."
"Yes…"
"So just tell him that I am a fallen noble."
Panto blinked, "Fallen…?"
"A bastard son. Cast aside with connections still intact but no formal backing."
The lie was elegant. It explained possession of rare items, justified secrecy, and invited curiosity without demanding proof.
"Understood," Panto said with a grin.
Baston wondered briefly whether Panto would obey any command if given directly. Though he doubted him, but however, Panto had been very useful at the moment.
Without his help, he couldn't possibly sell the ice bead.
No one was stupid enough to trust a poor person with such rare item.
The first thing they thought must be it was stolen from somewhere.
*****
By the time the third day arrived, the landscape began to change.
The forests thinned first and dense trees that once pressed close to the roadside gradually gave way to wider clearings. The road itself improved as well.
What had been uneven stone and dirt became carefully laid slabs, fitted so precisely that even the carriage wheels rolled more smoothly.
"We're close," Panto said, brushing crumbs from his robe.
The traffic thickened long before the city walls came into sight.
Caravans merged from different directions like converging rivers. Wagons filled with grain, cages was full of livestock, and crates sealed with merchant sigils was being delivered. Even heavily guarded transports bearing iron chests reinforced with metal bands started to line up.
No one moved recklessly.
Every caravan maintained measured distance.
Guards rode not lazily but in disciplined formation.
It felt less like a road and more like an artery feeding something enormous. Then, Baston saw it.
Farbarus City did not rise suddenly from the earth.
It emerged gradually first as faint towers against the horizon then as thick walls of grey stone reflecting the afternoon light.
Unlike noble cities adorned with banners and crests, Farbarus bore symbols carved directly into the stone. It was adorned with scales, coins, contracts, and crossed quills. This is the trade sigils.
Even from a distance, Baston could sense something different about this place.
Smoke rose from multiple districts, not from kitchens alone but from workshops and foundries.
Watchtowers were placed not just for defense but for visibility over trade routes.
Outside the main gates, a secondary market had already formed. It was consisted of temporary stalls for those waiting clearance to enter. No one wasted time.
At the outer checkpoint, officials did not ask about titles or noble lineage.
They were inspecting cargo lists, verifying seals, and weighing goods using large enchanted scales mounted beside the road. Taxes were calculated swiftly and recorded by scribes who barely looked up.
When Panto's carriage approached, the guards examined the merchant insignia attached near the driver's seat. The recognition was as fast as a light flickered.
"Proceed," one officer said simply.
There was no bow and no ceremony.
It was just acknowledgment of business standing. As the gates opened and the carriage passed through, Baston glanced back once.
Outside the walls, opportunity gathered. Inside, opportunity was harvested.
Farbarus City was truly overwhelming. Its gates towered high, carved with trade sigils instead of royal crests. Caravans queued in disciplined lines and guards inspected goods while ignoring the people.
Inside, the streets churned.
Merchants shouted prices, porters carried crates, and inns advertised vacancies from balconies.
The air smelled of spice, ink, sweat, and coin. Every building was a business.
Every home doubled as a enterprise.
In this city, the merchants seemingly could operate anything as long as they had a spot of land.
At one intersection, a merchant was being publicly confronted.
He was not beaten nor arrested. He was just exposed.
A board displayed his unpaid debt in clear ink for all to see. Reputation was currency here and once damaged, it did not recover easily.
The city punished failure economically. It did not need prisons. That detail alone told Baston more about the city than any tour explanation.
"There are no empty plots here anymore…" Panto explained proudly, "Even houses operate as inns if needed. No one rests here unless profit sleeps first."
Baston watched carefully where information flowed like currency.
This city did not worship magic.
Instead, it worshipped transaction which meant influence could be purchased and enemies could be bought. That made it more dangerous than any academy.
After all, money had been a tough law in this city.
*****
Instead of bringing Baston home immediately, Panto suggested caution.
"I will show the ice bead first," he said, "If my father is interested, I will then bring you to meet him."
Panto did not leave immediately. He stood there for a moment as if something remained unsaid.
"My father is not an easy person to speak with," he finally admitted, "He doesn't raise his voice but when he looks at someone, it feels like he already knows the answer before the question is asked."
Baston tilted his head slightly, "Does that frighten you?"
"A little…" Panto confessed honestly, "He rarely wastes time on people he finds unimportant. If he thinks this ice bead is ordinary, he might not even ask who the seller is."
"That would be convenient," Baston replied calmly.
Panto blinked, "Convenient?"
"If he is uninterested, then there is no need for further explanation."
The merchant boy hesitated again, "And if he is interested?"
"Then I will meet him."
There was no tension in Baston's voice, no eagerness either. It was as if meeting the powerful merchants in Farbarus was no different from attending a casual lesson.
That steadiness eased Panto's anxiety more than any grand reassurance could.
"Alright," Panto said at last, "Wait for my message."
He turned and left, the weight of his father's expectations settling on his shoulders.
Baston watched him go with unreadable expression.
In Farbarus City, strength was measured differently.
Soon, he would see whether influence born from magic could stand against influence born from gold.
*****
The inn Panto had paid stood three streets away from his family establishment. It did not advertise loudly like the others. Its sign was modest, carved from dark oak, bearing only a single silver coin symbol.
The building was narrow but tall, squeezed between a textile shop and a contract scribe's office.
Inside, however, refinement revealed itself.
The floors were polished to quiet shine. The air smelled faintly of dried herbs, likely to mask the odor of travelers. Lanterns hung evenly spaced along the corridor, each fueled by steady-burning alchemical oil rather than simple flame.
Panto spoke briefly with the innkeeper, lowering his voice when mentioning his family's trading shop.
The reaction was subtle but immediate.
The innkeeper's posture straightened and his tone softened.
"Of course. The best available chamber..."
Payment was made without bargaining.
That alone told Baston something. Even here, even in a city where everyone negotiated, Panto did not haggle.
Reputation mattered more than saving a few coins.
The room assigned to Baston faced inward toward a private courtyard rather than the busy street. That meant less noise and fewer listening ears from outside windows. It was very thoughtful.
Once inside, Baston closed the door and remained still for a moment. Silence felt different here. He examined the room carefully.
The window latch was sturdy and the wooden beams showed no sign of tampering. Beneath the desk, he checked for carved listening arrays or hidden runes. In a merchant city, information was worth more than magic stones.
Finding nothing suspicious, he finally allowed himself to sit.
Below in the courtyard, two merchants conducted a quiet exchange. No raised voices and no exaggerated gestures. Just the transfer of a sealed envelope and a small velvet pouch.
The transaction was complete and no witnesses required.
Baston rested his elbows on the desk and folded his hands.
Farbarus did not resemble Prius Academy at all.
There were no students measuring each other's magical resonance. No nobles whispering about bloodlines.
Here, worth was determined by reputation and influence was calculated in coin.
And yet, the structure felt familiar.
In the academy, those without value were ignored.
Here, those without value were erased economically. He opened the old book slowly.
The page remained blank for now.
His gaze drifted toward the window again. In the courtyard, one merchant departed swiftly while the other remained behind, counting coins with deliberate precision.
Patience, that was what this city required.
Panto had said his father disliked wasting time on unimportant people. Baston did not mind. Being considered unimportant was safer than being considered threatening.
For now, he leaned back in his chair and closed the old book gently.
Outside, the city did not slow even as evening approached.
Lanterns were being lit one by one. Shopkeepers adjusted displays for night trade.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang not to signal prayer or curfew, but market closure for one district and opening for another.
Farbarus never truly slept. It merely shifted shifts.
Soon, a message would come. And when it did, Baston would step not into a noble's office, but into the heart of a merchant empire.
Magic had its hierarchy while gold had its own.
He intended to understand both.