Kael struck the match, and the tiny flame flared to life between them.
The dwarf's bushy eyebrows shot up, his thick fingers twitching as if to snatch the fire from the air. Around them, the murmur of the marketplace dipped—heads turned, curious eyes drawn to the flickering light.
Good. Attention means sales.
The dwarf recovered quickly, leaning in with a skeptical squint. "No flint? No sparkstone? Just… this little stick?"
"Just this little stick," Kael confirmed. He blew out the flame before it could singe his fingers and held up the matchbox. "One strike, one fire. No magic, no waiting. And cheap enough that even a rookie adventurer won't go broke buying them."
The dwarf snatched the box from his hand, turning it over with thick, calloused fingers. His nose wrinkled at the faint sulfur smell, but his eyes gleamed with interest. "How many fires per box?"
"Fifty."
A grunt. "And the price?"
"One bronze a box."
The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "That's robbery."
Kael shrugged. "Compare it to what you'd spend on flint and tinder over a month. Or a fire-starting charm from a mage—how much does that cost?"
The dwarf's scowl deepened, but Kael could see the calculation behind it. Fire-starting charms were luxury items, priced in silver, not copper. Even good flint and steel wore out eventually. Matches? Disposable. Reliable. Fast.
"…Fine. I'll take three boxes." The dwarf slapped down three bronze coins with more force than necessary. "But if these fail me in a damp cave, I'm coming back to break your nose."
Kael grinned. "Fair enough."
Word spread quickly.
Adventurers, always wary of damp kindling and unreliable flint, bought matches in bulk. A grizzled ranger tested one immediately, nodding in approval when it lit on the first strike. A harried housewife, her arms full of groceries, bought two boxes after seeing a demonstration. "Gods know my husband can never start the hearth properly," she muttered.
But not everyone was convinced.
A gruff miner, his face streaked with soot, squinted at the tiny sticks. "They work underwater?"
Kael shook his head. "No. But neither does flint."
The miner grunted and walked away.
Then there were the skeptics. One man, his robes marking him as a local priest, recoiled when a match flared too brightly.
"Demon sticks!" he hissed, making a warding sign. "No natural fire burns so quick!"
Kael barely kept his face neutral. "No demons. Just chemistry."
The priest wasn't the only one glaring. The potion-seller two stalls over had been watching Kael with increasing hostility. Fire-starting potions were his bestsellers—small vials of alchemical paste that ignited when exposed to air.
Now, Kael was undercutting him.
The man's jaw tightened as another customer bypassed his stall entirely, heading straight for the matches.
Tough luck, buddy, Kael thought. This is business.
Still, he kept an eye out. Enemies in the market could be more dangerous than monsters in a dungeon.
The matches sold well. The canned food? Not so much.
"Preserved corpse-meat?" one elf asked, wrinkling her nose at a tin of tuna. "That's what this is, yes?"
Kael forced a smile. "Fish. Caught across the seas. Preserved by methods that don't require salt or smoke."
She didn't buy, but a few curious souls did. Most asked the same questions. What was inside? How long did it last? Was it safe to eat?
Kael had answers. He'd rehearsed them a dozen times, building his pitch from scratch the first time he stood behind this stall.
Then a person arrived.
A tall woman in a merchant's embroidered robe paused before his stall. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned his display. She picked up a can of tuna, reading the faded English text as if trying to decipher a magical rune.
"You're the one selling these?" she asked.
Kael nodded. "Preserved fish. High in protein, lasts for years. Good for long voyages or sieges."
She raised a thin brow. "Where, exactly, does this fish come from?"
"South of the Endless Sea," Kael replied without hesitation. He'd collected plenty of information from traveling merchants to back up his claims, just in case anyone asked. "My homeland has ways of preserving food without rot or decay. Ancient methods."
It wasn't a lie—not exactly. Just a diversion.
She studied him for a moment longer, then tapped the can with a manicured fingernail. "How does it taste?"
Kael didn't miss a beat. He took his knife, popped the can open with a satisfying hiss, and let her lean in to sniff it.
Her nose wrinkled—but not in disgust.
"Try it."
She did, taking a small bite. She chewed slowly, then dabbed her lips with a silk handkerchief.
"…Not terrible. A bit bland, but edible." She set the can down carefully. "How much for a crate?"
Bingo.
Kael kept his face calm, but his brain was already crunching numbers.
"Fifty cans to a crate. Forty silver per crate."
He bought the food from Martha very cheaply. It cost him about 40 dollars—or 4 silver—to buy one crate.
Her lips pursed. "I'll give you thirty-five."
Thirty-five? That's still almost nine times what I paid. Damn right you will.
"Thirty-eight," Kael countered, keeping his tone measured. "And I'll throw in ten matchboxes—first strike fire, no magic needed."
A pause. Then she extended her hand. "Deal."
As she walked away, Kael let out a quiet breath.
His first bulk sale—clear profit, nearly thirty-three silver in the green. Back home, that would be over three hundred dollars, assuming he didn't get robbed on the way to the inn.
By midday, his coin pouch was heavier, but his stock was dwindling. He'd sold all of his matches and half of his canned goods.
I need to restock.
Kael calculated his profits. He sold 500 matchboxes. He bought them for 50 cents each and sold them for 1 bronze coin, which equaled 1 dollar. The profit was 50 cents per box. So the total matchbox profit was 500 × $0.50 = $250.
As for the canned food, Kael sold it to different people at varying prices. However, he made the most profit from that woman. He sold a total of 100 cans, from which he made a profit of about $420.
Then a city guard lingered near his stall, arms crossed. "You got a permit for those?" he asked gruffly.
Kael showed his papers—a hastily acquired vendor's license he'd paid a clerk to stamp. The guard inspected them, grunted, and moved on.
The potion-seller wasn't the only one unhappy. A blacksmith, who made good coin selling flint and steel sets, shot him a dark look.
Kael made a mental note to avoid dark alleys tonight.