Frank's crate was lighter than when he started, but his patience hadn't budged an inch. He sat still as the sun dipped lower behind the buildings, his shadow stretching long across the dirt. Then a voice cut through the hum of tired conversation near the gate.
"Move, move—give us space."
Four familiar figures emerged through the shimmer of the gate's return portal, their armor scorched and shoulders slumped. Their healer limped, her staff cracked at the neck and half-dragging behind her. Blood crusted on their sleeves, dry and dark.
Frank straightened.
Tace led them, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, one shoulder sagging as if something had torn too close. He didn't stop walking until he reached Frank's table and dropped a crushed vial onto the wood.
Glass cracked. The label was still faintly visible: Vital Surge.
"That saved my life," Tace said, his voice low. "We need another fifty. You in?"
Frank didn't smile; he just nodded once. "I've got twenty now. You'll need to wait while I restock."
"Doesn't matter," Tace replied. "I'll take what you have and pay ahead for the rest."
Behind him, one of the others whistled. "Not kidding, those potions carried us. Our healer went dry halfway through. I popped two of those and didn't feel the burn until we hit the exit."
The woman with the broken staff nodded. "Better than some of the ones Zenith hands out—and we didn't even get the side effects."
Frank handed over the twenty, already boxed from his reserve stack. Tace pulled a clipped credit bundle from a side pouch and slapped it on the crate.
"Six hundred for now. I'll bring the rest tomorrow. You better have them."
The exchange wasn't quiet; other Hunters nearby had started watching.
"You that guy from earlier?" someone asked.
"Are those the potions they used?"
Tace turned slightly and didn't say a word, but that silence spoke louder than any endorsement. The watchers didn't approach immediately, but they didn't look away either.
Frank packed the rest of the crate, locked the table legs, and started walking. He didn't run, but his steps were sharp and focused—the kind you take when you know you just broke through something invisible.
Back in the Southridge Quarter market, he moved through the narrow aisles with practiced speed. He stopped at a bulk food stall and pointed at the shelf.
"Two of those. The twelve-packs."
The vendor tilted his head. "Noodles?"
"Yeah. Instant. I'll carry them."
He paid in full, stacked both packs into his duffel, and pushed toward home without any detours.
Once inside his apartment, he kicked the door shut behind him and dropped the bag. The system window opened before he even sat down.
He navigated to his previous trade contact: Clan Herbalis. His message was direct.
"Need 70 more potions. Same type. Same terms."
The reply came within a minute.
"Confirmed. 5 tokens each. 350 total."
He accepted the terms. His token balance dropped, and a new orb shimmered into his room, brighter than the last. He set it down next to his gear, planning to unpack it later.
Then came the ping.
Not the delivery—a message.
"Tomatoes. Is it consumable? Cooking method?"
Frank's eyes narrowed at the name: Lurevan, of the Frostglass Domain, an elf merchant.
He replied quickly.
"Slice thin. Heat with oil or steam. Add salt or frost herbs. Works in stews."
Thirty seconds later, a follow-up message arrived.
"Purchased."
The system window confirmed it:
Sold: Tomatoes ×2
Price: 50 tokens each
Total: 100 tokens
Frank leaned back slightly. He hadn't touched that listing in days.
Another ping hit almost two hours later, waking him from a light sleep.
"Next restock—can you supply 50 units?"
He stared at the message, his eyes still half-shut, and typed:
"Yes."
Morning came quickly. He packed his crate, secured the new potions, and headed to a different dungeon site: Gate 19 — Breakwater Sink. The overgrown ruins had less traffic but more desperation.
When he arrived, Hunters were already waiting. Some recognized him on sight.
"Hey! That's the guy from East Gate!"
"No guild, right? You still got stock?"
Tace was there again. He walked straight up, laid down fifteen hundred credits, and took fifty vials on the spot.
The rush began. Other groups stepped in. Questions flew. Offers grew louder. Frank handled each one without a smile or a pause—efficient, clean, direct.
By the time he emptied the last box, he had sold all 90 units—20 from reserve and 70 newly bought.
Total credits earned: 2,700.
Frank packed up again, maintaining the same calm rhythm. Nothing wasted. He walked to the produce market, bought 50 tomatoes without haggling, and returned home.
Once inside, he opened the system, synced the tomatoes, and uploaded the Tomatoesfrit listing again. Then he paused.
The candy listing? He removed it. Instead, he added the instant noodles.
Short description added:
"Boil 3 minutes. Add included spice. Optional: mix with tomato or egg. Fills hunger fast."
Seconds later, the elf merchant returned.
"Tomatoes restocked?"
Frank replied: "Yes. Fifty units live."
Sold instantly.
50 × 50 = 2,500 tokens
New Balance: 2,840 tokens
He stared at the number for a few seconds, blinked, and whispered, "Alright." Then he turned to his sword case. It was time to learn how to use it.
Frank sat cross-legged on the floor, the sword resting across his knees, still wrapped in the thin canvas sleeve from the shop. He hadn't even peeled it off yet. The hilt was simple—no ornamentation, no engravings. Just a grip, a crossguard, and steel.
The system window hovered in front of him, faint and steady. He tapped into the Tier 1 marketplace, skipped past potions and materials, and filtered for one thing: combat techniques.
Nothing flashy. Nothing expensive. He wasn't here to become a hero—just useful.
He scrolled past flame sword dances, wind-blade arcs, and overpriced legacy scrolls until he found one tucked between listings for hunter footwork drills.
『Piercing Fang – Tier 1 Sword Skill』
– Type: Precision Thrust
– Focus: Speed and joint targeting
– Cost: 200 Tokens
He clicked without hesitation. His token balance dropped from 2,840 to 2,640, and the screen shimmered.
A faint light swirled into his chest, warm and clean. A scroll unfolded in his mind. He closed his eyes.
The motion played—slow at first, then sharper. One step forward. Left foot angled. Blade pulled back—not high, not wide. Three thrusts in quick succession: first to the shoulder gap, second under the ribs, third to the base of the neck.
Not a slashing move—a finishing one.
Frank exhaled slowly, opened his eyes, and reached for the sword. He peeled the canvas sleeve off and let the blade catch the light for the first time. It wasn't flashy; it didn't need to be. It felt balanced. He stood, shifted his weight, and copied the movement he'd just seen.
One step. Thrust. Reset. Again.
By the fifth repetition, it didn't feel like watching someone else move; it felt like remembering something that had always been his.
He glanced at the corner of his system—notifications still trickling in: potion sales, reviews, and a few messages he hadn't opened yet.
He closed the window.
HunterNet was next—Earth's own platform. He didn't need to browse long. A pinned request caught his eye:
"E-Rank Dungeon Run – Ironvale Depths. Looking for 1 support/hybrid. Must be mobile. No tag checks."
He replied with no fancy words: Available. Solo. Gear ready.
The reply came within minutes.
Accepted. Launch point, Gate 7. 2 hours.
Frank didn't waste a second. He packed twenty potions from his crate into a belt pouch, looped it tightly around his waist, and checked his credits. From the earlier rush, he still had 2,000.
He needed gear.
By the time he reached the hunter outfitter near the Association's west wing, the crowd had thinned. He walked straight to the weapons rack and pointed.
"Sword. Balanced grip. No enchantments."
The clerk didn't ask questions; he handed Frank a lightweight short blade with a reinforced core. Clean. Dependable.
"Seven hundred," the clerk said.
Frank paid—no haggling.
He left with the blade in hand and 1,300 credits still in his pouch.
The street outside buzzed, but differently: murmured conversations, group chats pulled up on visors, and whispers about the guy selling potions without a guild tag.
He checked his system again. His store was trending, with reviews stacked to the edge of the frame.
"Better than Zenith's."
"Three dungeons, still no crash."
"Who the hell is this guy?"
Frank didn't slow down. He didn't even glance at the posts.
By the time he reached Gate 7—Ironvale Depths—the group was already gathering: three of them, two with spears and one with a bow. All wore light gear and glanced his way as he approached.
"You're the solo?" one asked.
Frank nodded and tapped the hilt of his sword once. "Yeah."
They looked him over. No guild, no rank badge, but the belt of potions spoke louder than any tag.
"Alright," the archer muttered. "As long as you keep up."
Frank didn't respond; he just stepped forward, checked the edge of his blade, and whispered to himself,
"Let's see what this system didn't give me."
With that, they walked toward the gate.