Zealth walked for ten minutes before he reached a shop.
It sat along a quieter commercial street away from the central plaza, modest compared to the other stores he passed. No gold dragon statue guarded the entrance. No floating sign screamed legendary-grade discount.
Just a clean wooden sign, two large glass windows, and merchandise arranged with almost suspicious discipline.
Weapons lined one window—swords, axes, spears, daggers, and maces set on angled racks, each polished enough to catch the sunlight. The other displayed armor and shields, sorted by weight and material. Inside, behind the counter, potion vials stood in neat rows, their contents glowing in different colors—ruby red, pale blue, poison green, thick gold, cloudy violet.
No garments.
No accessories.
No artifacts.
Only things meant to fight, survive, or recover after making foolish decisions.
Zealth stopped outside and looked at his reflection in the glass. His armor still had scratches. His sword was gone. And his pride... remained under repair.
"Perfect," he muttered. "I truly look like a shabby knight now."
He pushed the door open.
A bell chimed above him.
Immediately, a cheerful voice rang from behind the counter.
"Well, well, well. Look who graces my humble establishment—the man of the day, the future star in the making, the tragic hero of today's most dramatic defeat!"
Zealth closed the door slowly.
Behind the counter stood Slater.
At first glance, Slater looked like a proper gentleman merchant. Tall, well-groomed, hair neatly combed back, black suit fitted without a wrinkle. His gloves were spotless. His posture carried elegance, dignity, and honor.
Then he opened his mouth.
And the illusion suffered.
Zealth sighed. "Enough with the flattery, Slate. I know you watched me lose earlier."
Slater placed one hand over his chest, offended in the theatrical way of a man who had practiced being innocent in front of mirrors.
"Lose?" he repeated. "Such a crude word. I prefer strategic retreat through forced mortality."
"I died."
"Against four coordinated players."
"Still died."
"In unfair conditions."
"Still embarrassing."
Slater smiled warmly. "Not as embarrassing as your viewer count near the end."
Zealth stared at him.
Slater's smile did not break.
Zealth pointed at the door. "I can leave."
"And buy overpriced trash from the plaza?" Slater clicked his tongue. "Don't insult both of us."
He reached beneath the counter and brought out a sword as if he had prepared it long before Zealth entered. The scabbard was dark brown leather with brass fittings, simple but well-made. Slater laid it on the counter with reverence, then pulled the blade free.
Steel flashed clean and silver.
"Here," Slater said, voice sliding into smooth salesmanship. "A refined longsword from the eastern forge district. Balanced grip, sharper edge than your old weapon, and far less ridiculous weight in the scabbard. Your previous one looked like it was designed by a blacksmith who hated wrists."
Zealth leaned closer.
The blade was good.
Too good, probably.
Which meant expensive.
Slater angled it toward the light. "This will not crush someone through a shield like that barbaric scabbard of yours, but it will cut cleaner, move faster, and make you look less like a knight using construction material as a weapon."
"How kind."
"I am famous for kindness. Also, accurate pricing." Slater sheathed the sword and tapped the counter. "Ten thousand Callis."
Zealth blinked.
Then smiled.
The kind of smile used before insulting a friend.
"Slate."
"Yes?"
"Did the sword come with land ownership?"
"No."
"A small house?"
"No."
"An obedient dragon?"
"Sadly unavailable."
"Then how about five thousand?"
Slater laughed softly, as if Zealth had told a joke too poor to charge for.
"Cunning as always. You come here broke, wounded, emotionally damaged, and still bargain like a noble widow buying funeral flowers."
"Five thousand."
"Seven thousand five hundred," Slater said smoothly. "Halfway. Fair. Elegant. Economically moral."
Zealth looked at the sword again.
It was good.
Too good for his current wallet.
His inventory funds had thinned badly. If he bought this, he could still move—but with the financial posture of a dying rat.
He straightened.
"I'll check the other swords first. Maybe you have a cheaper option."
Slater's smile became smaller.
"Cheapskate."
"Survivor."
"Financially wounded squirrel."
"Independent customer."
"Poor."
"That one was direct."
"Truth saves time."
Slater turned away and walked toward the back shelves. His shoes made soft, precise sounds against the wooden floor. He returned with another sword, this one plain enough to look forgotten.
The scabbard was ordinary wood. No carvings. No leather wrap. No decorative metal. It looked like someone had shaped a plank, hollowed it out, and decided effort was for richer customers.
Slater placed it down.
Zealth frowned immediately.
"This looks like a practice sword got depressed."
"Do not judge by clothing," Slater said, which sounded strange coming from a man dressed like a wealthy funeral director. "This one has character."
He unsheathed it.
The blade was black.
Not painted black.
Black through the steel itself, deep and dull, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. Zealth leaned closer. The edge had a faint red undertone, barely visible when the angle shifted.
"Why does it look like it was forged in someone's bad decision?" Zealth asked.
Slater's eyes brightened. Now he sounded less like a merchant and more like the biochemist he kept hidden beneath polished manners.
"Experimental work," he said. "A blacksmith friend of mine infused a Netherrose Heart into molten steel during the tempering process. Dangerous crafting material, indeed. Unstable if handled by idiots, fascinating if handled by professionals."
"So which one handled this?"
Slater ignored that. "The result is a dark-element blade. Very rare at this price range. Highly effective against light-aligned beasts, sanctified constructs, certain temple-born guardians, and anything arrogant enough to sparkle."
Zealth studied the weapon.
"Any sightings of light beasts lately?"
"None."
"Then that selling point is sleeping."
"No sightings does not mean no existence," Slater said.
Zealth gave him a look. "That was supposed to be my line."
"Then say something smarter next time."
Zealth looked toward the window, where players passed in colorful armor, and NPC merchants pushed carts under the sun.
"Jupiter01 is too massive," he said. "The world map only shows fifteen percent of it. No one knows what's sitting in the rest."
Slater nodded, sheathing the black blade.
"Correct. But greed defeats curiosity every time. Why sail upstream to find mystery when gold diggers already found gold downstream?"
"That sounded wise. Did you steal it?"
"I invested in the sentence."
"From whom?"
"Myself."
"Refund yourself."
Slater smiled and slid the sword across the counter.
"Do you want it? As a friend, I'll give you a generous discount. Five thousand Callis."
Zealth narrowed his eyes.
He had expected higher. That was suspicious.
"Four thousand."
"Deal."
Slater pushed the sword fully into his hands before the word finished breathing.
Zealth stared at him.
"What's the rush?"
Slater folded his hands on the counter, dignity restored. "It's black."
"And?"
"Black is bad for business. Customers think cursed, corrupted, edgy, or low resale value. Sometimes all four."
Zealth looked him up and down. "Said the biochemist in a black suit."
Slater adjusted his cuff with pride. "This black suit fits me well. The sword does not fit my display. Also, the suit gives stats."
"Of course it does."
"Plus ten Charisma, plus ten Intelligence, plus ten Civic Courtesy."
Zealth stared.
"Charisma and Civic Courtesy, maybe," Zealth said. "But Intelligence? Luck would have been better for you."
Slater sighed. "If only I could find one."
Zealth smirked and equipped the black sword at his waist. The weight felt unfamiliar, lighter than his old weapon, less comforting, but usable. He would miss the heavy scabbard. It had been stupid, inconvenient, and occasionally perfect.
Like most things, he kept too long.
He leaned closer to the counter.
"I also need five hundred Ganymede Candy."
Slater's brows lifted.
"That much?"
Zealth nodded. "Restock."
"You had more than enough earlier."
"I'm emotionally preparing for the future."
"Yours or other people's?"
"Yes."
Slater chuckled and began writing on a small order slate. "Five hundred revival candies. That is either caution, bad planning, or masochism."
"I prefer precaution."
Zealth tapped the counter while thinking.
"And do you have that… kwan?"
Slater stopped writing.
He looked up slowly.
"Kwan?"
"The kwan."
"What kwan?"
"You know." Zealth snapped his fingers repeatedly, eyes narrowing as if the word might fall from the ceiling. "The kwan. It's on the tip of my tongue."
Slater leaned forward, perfectly serious. "Let me see your tongue."
Zealth glared. "Screw you."
"How can I sell you something you cannot say?"
"You're a merchant. Guess."
"I am a merchant, not your mother."
"Good. My mother would charge tax."
Slater placed the slate down. "Describe it."
Zealth frowned, digging through the mess of thoughts.
Then he snapped his fingers once.
"Right. Anything that can suppress a unique skill."
Slater's easy smile faded a little.
Not gone.
Just lowered.
"That," he said, "is not something I keep beside healing potions."
"So you don't have it?"
"I don't have a potion for it yet." His eyes sharpened with professional interest. "Suppressing unique skills is difficult. Dangerous too. Most methods interfere with the body's system circulation, and Jupiter01 does not enjoy being cheated."
"You're saying no."
"I am saying not here." Slater picked up a small silver bell and rang it once.
A young girl came from the back room, carrying a small crate nearly half her size. She looked fourteen at most, with tied hair, round eyes, and the deeply tired expression of someone forced to work near Slater too often.
"Yes, sir?"
Slater's dignified tone returned. "Mira, run to the artifact store two streets east. Ask if they have any seal-type tool for temporary unique-skill suppression. Not permanent, not cursed, not illegal enough to involve guards."
Mira stared at him.
"So… slightly illegal?"
"Professionally gray."
She looked at Zealth.
Zealth raised a hand. "I am a victim of customer service."
Mira sighed like a middle-aged accountant trapped in a child's avatar. "Fine. If Old Ren tries to sell me fake anti-magic beads again, I'm blaming you."
"Blame me after you have one," Slater said.
She left through the front door, bell chiming sharply behind her.
For a moment, the shop quieted.
Slater's expression changed.
The cheerful merchant remained, but only on the surface. Beneath it, something colder and more deliberate settled into place.
"Zealth," he said.
Zealth looked at him.
That tone was new.
Too serious for sword prices.
"What?"
"You have no guild, right?"
"None."
"Still?"
Zealth leaned against the counter. "Joining a guild is harder than job hunting. At least job interviews pretend to reject you politely. Guilds screen people like they're recruiting a president."
Slater nodded. "Good."
"That was not a supportive good."
"It was a useful good." Slater folded his gloved hands. "I am going to build a guild soon. I want you to join me."
Zealth stared at him.
Then laughed once.
"No."