"You're holding it wrong."
The man paused, blade half-raised.
Ruger stepped in, took the sword, and turned it just enough for the edge to catch the light—clean, sharp, deliberate.
"Like this," he said. "Not for cutting.
The man frowned. "Then what is it for?"
Ruger met his eyes.
"For being seen."
Silence.
The man looked again. Not at the edge this time—but at the reflection. At how it sat in his hand. How it would look.
Ruger watched the shift happen. It always did.
"Anyone can swing a weapon," he said, voice lower now. "Not everyone can carry one like this."
The man nodded.
He didn't ask the price.
Money was easier than magic.
Ruger learned that fast.
Magic took discipline. Precision. Failure.
Money just took people.
And people were simple.
The shop wasn't much to look at.
Three floors. Crooked walls. Wood too new to trust. The sign outside read: The Hammer of War.
Ruger hated it.
"Sounds expensive," he said.
"That's the point," Franco replied.
Ruger thought about it. Then nodded.
"Good."
They opened anyway.
The first customers were wrong.
Too careful. Too experienced. They checked balance, weight, edge alignment. Asked the right questions.
Ruger sold them nothing.
After they left, Lens frowned. "We need buyers like that."
"No," Ruger said. "We don't."
The second group was better. Rich. Loud. Badly armed.
Perfect.
"They don't even know what they're holding," Lens muttered.
"They don't need to," Ruger said.
That was the point.
"Make it shine," Ruger told Firth.
"That's not how—"
"I don't care. Make it shine."
So they did. Armor lighter than it should be. Edges too clean. Enchantments layered for effect, not efficiency. Light where it did nothing. Glow where it meant nothing.
"Waste," Firth muttered.
"Profit," Ruger said.
They stopped building for survival. They started building for desire.
And desire paid better.
Within a month, they'd sold one knight's blade, one war lance, one full set of armor.
That was enough.
They made back everything. Then more.
"You're robbing them," Eit said, dropping a heavy pouch on the table.
"They're paying," Ruger said.
"What about real fighters?"
"They don't buy this."
"And that's fine?"
Ruger shrugged. "They don't matter."
Eit grinned. "I like this version of you."
Buying was better.
Adventurers came in tired. Dirty. Carrying things they didn't understand.
Ruger did.
"That," he said once, pointing at a dull black ore, "is worthless."
"It came from the forest."
"And now it's here."
Ruger held his gaze a moment, then added, almost casually, "You carried it this far without knowing what it is. That tells me enough."
The man hesitated.
That was enough.
"I'll take it," Ruger said. "Cheap."
He sold it ten times higher the next week.
A red feather caught his eye.
The woman wearing it was a mage. Young. Exhausted. Mud on her robes. Something darker beneath it.
The feather pulsed. Not light. Not heat. Something in between.
Ruger reached for it—just a touch of thought. It pulled back.
He smiled. "Where'd you get that?"
"In the forest. Some bird I've never seen."
"I'll take it."
He paid her more than it was worth. She left happy.
He didn't.
That feather hadn't come from any bird. He didn't know what it was. That made it valuable.
He kept the feather in a locked box. Didn't study it. Didn't touch it. Some things needed time. He could wait.
The box sat in the corner of his room. He walked past it every day. Never stopped. Never looked. The feather was patient. So was he.
"Where did you learn this?" Franco asked.
Ruger didn't answer.
He didn't see items. He saw structure. Weak points. Value. Where things broke.
Everything had one.
Firth didn't ask about the feather. He didn't ask about the ore. He just worked. That was why Ruger kept him. Questions slowed things down. Silence was faster.
The shop grew faster than it should have.
People talked. Not about quality. About how it looked.
It looks expensive.
That was enough.
Ruger smiled. "Make it more expensive."
The day shifted without warning.
The door opened. No sound. No announcement.
Someone stopped mid-sentence. Another set down a cup without noticing. Even Lens went quiet.
Light came in first. Not bright. Not warm. Controlled.
Then—him.
Golden hair. Clean lines. Armor that didn't need decoration.
He didn't look rich. He looked certain.
The room adjusted around him. Space tightened. Voices died. Attention narrowed.
Ruger didn't move. He watched.
Behind the man—something else. Not shadow. Not absence. Presence. Sharp. Cold. Unavoidable.
She said nothing. She didn't need to.
The air tightened.
The man stepped forward. Looked once. Then stopped.
His eyes found Ruger.
"Interesting place," he said.
Ruger tilted his head. "Expensive."
A pause. Then a smile. Measured.
"I believe it is," the man said.
He stepped closer. Removed his glove. Held out his hand.
"My name is Ophiroc von Wilhelm."
Silence.
Ruger looked at the hand. Then at him.
Not a customer. Not a buyer. Something else.
He didn't take the hand.
Not yet.
END OF CHAPTER 8