Frank turned and unsheathed his blade just long enough to check the edge. It was still clean and sharp.
"I've got deliveries to prep."
The Association Trade Hall smelled like a mix of steel, disinfectant, and too many boots. Frank stepped through the front desk checkpoint, nodded at the guard half-asleep in his chair, and made his way toward the back counter. No fanfare—just paperwork and flickering terminals.
He reached the loot submission bay and tapped his ID onto the scanner. A flicker of light shimmered beside him as his dimensional sub-space opened—a quiet pulse, no noise—and dropped three items onto the intake slab: the chitin plates, venom sac, and unstable core.
A clerk stepped out from behind the half-wall partition, uniform jacket with sleeves rolled up and scanner already in hand.
"Chitin set—mid-refined," the clerk muttered, eyes on the data. "Acid sac intact. Core's unstable but usable. We'll take the whole batch."
Frank nodded once. The scan confirmed:
The scan confirmed.
『Transfer Complete – 10,000 Arcadian Credits Added to Account』
He signed the digital slip—no questions asked, no explanation given.
Back outside, the sun was sharp and slanting between buildings. He walked back to the Lower Quarter on autopilot, boots stepping over familiar cracks in the pavement. A corner vendor tried to wave him over, but Frank kept moving.
Once inside his apartment, he hung the jacket by the door, tossed his pouch on the counter, and peeled off his boots. The floor was still cold.
He showered quickly—no heat left in the tank, but the water did what it needed.
Drying off, he sat at his desk, cracked open the system terminal, and paid the rent:
『Rent Paid – 6,700 Arcadian Credits – Unit 47-C Confirmed』
The number stung a little, but not enough to slow him down. He leaned back in the chair, pulled up the HunterNet blog window, and started scrolling. He wasn't looking for trouble—just checking the mood.
The top post stopped him cold.
Dungeon Crawl – D-Rank Team Review
A screenshot showed Riva mid-swing, covered in acid splatter. Another showed a scorched egg sac. The caption beneath was loud and blunt:
Tastes like crap. Works like gold. Saved my whole squad.
– Rhod Tace, Squad Leader, Wild Maw Team
Frank clicked into the comments.
The first read:
"Who's the vendor?"
The second:
"Where do I get the potions?"
The third:
"Saw the guy. No guild badge. Looked like a delivery driver."
There were already twenty bookmarks, twelve reposts, and at least fifteen replies asking for his name. Frank didn't type; he just watched it spread.
He exhaled through his nose, then opened a second tab and queued a stall upgrade. He didn't need visibility—he needed structure, better space, and more control. His cursor hovered over the confirm button.
Then came the knock.
Not sharp. Not aggressive. Just… placed. Twice. Like someone who expected to be let in.
Frank tensed but didn't stand—not yet. He waited for the second knock. When it came—harder this time—he stood up slowly and quietly, then walked toward the door.
___
Meanwhile, in the Frostglass Domain—a realm carved from glass peaks and crystal rivers—Merchant Legolas stood in the back corner of his moonlit stall, adjusting the lacquered trays where his latest product had just vanished. A white-robed assistant finished sweeping the last traces of the morning rush, and already two more customers were circling, asking if any "red-sliced vine fruit" remained.
Legolas didn't answer. He simply reached behind the velvet curtain, picked up the empty wooden crate, and stared into it as if the bottom might refill itself.
"Gone," he muttered under his breath. "In three hours."
He turned toward the three-pointed shelf beside him, where the day's first tomato had been cut open—still glistening. The skin shimmered under the stall lamps, its scent light but strange. The first time he'd tested it, he hadn't trusted the raw taste; it felt wrong—too sharp, too wet. So he took it to his private chamber and followed the preparation guide the human vendor had typed in that strange, flat phrasing:
"Slice. Add egg. Heat with oil. Salt if needed."
He didn't use meat—of course not. No elf of Frostglass would. But egg and herbs were permitted. So he did it. He cooked it low, letting the tomatoes soften and crack, folding in the yolk just before the turn.
The taste stunned him. It carried a warmth he didn't know food could possess—not strength food or performance blends—something simple and satisfying, like rain after glasswind.
He served samples that morning: just one strip of egg across a plate, the red fruit folded beside it. No one asked what it was; they just ate. And then they bought. All fifty tomatoes—gone. Forty tokens each.
He did the math again in his head: two thousand tokens off a whim. He ducked into his back chamber and sealed the door with a light rune, then walked to the inner desk and touched the silver crest on his trade terminal.
The interface blinked open with a soft note. His fingers hovered over the last contact tab, marked in glyphless script. Just a name:
Thehumantrader
Legolas exhaled sharply.
"I need more," he muttered.
He started typing.
—
In a different world altogether, one shaded by deep trees and war drums, the Fangrest Ridge night roared with chants. Fires blazed across the cliffs where beastkin tribes gathered for their monthly bloodfeast—a ceremony of lineage, power, and old oaths.
Krul-Van, a noble merchant dressed in oxhide robes and bone clasps, stood beside his war-king's throne, hands folded as the old lion-headed monarch lifted a long, dark cylinder to his mouth. The energy drink hissed as it opened. The king drank, then stopped, blinked, and looked down at the bottle as if it had just punched him.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Liquid thunder," Krul-Van replied.
The king let out a rumbling laugh and drank again. "Bring more."
Krul-Van bowed his head once. "After the feast, I'll message the vendor."
He stepped back, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.
He had only ordered five—just to test. But now the king wanted a crate. He returned to his stone chamber after the chants had faded and the meat pits were cooling. Alone, he unrolled the scroll that pulsed with faint violet light—the link to the dimensional trade system known only to clan merchants, not warriors or seers. The system didn't blink; it simply waited.
He bookmarked the vendor's store. The name sat at the top of the list like a spear lodged in a gate:
Thehumantrader
Krul-Van cracked his neck, flexed his fingers, and prepared his message.
Back on Earth, Frank hadn't opened either message yet; his system tab was still closed. The knock at the door hadn't come again, but the weight behind it still hung in the air.
___
The knock at the door hadn't come again, but the weight behind it still hung in the air. Frank stood with his back to the wall, watching the edge of the door as if it might twitch. A minute passed. Then another. Nothing. He exhaled and unlatched it.
Two men stood there. Not armed or armored, but sharp in a different way—dark Hunter coats, clean stitching, silver bands pinned to their collars. Their boots didn't scuff when they shifted. The shorter one looked up first, his round face framed by tired eyes that didn't blink enough.
"You're the one selling offworld potions at E-Gate?"
Frank didn't move. "I sell what I buy."
The tall one stepped forward, shoulders like concrete and jaw stiff. He didn't look at Frank's face; he looked past him, as if reading the layout of the room.
"You're undercutting six Guild-backed shops. What's in those potions?"
Frank crossed his arms. "I didn't make them. They come sealed and labeled. If you want ingredients, ask the original seller."
The shorter man clicked something on his tab. "No brand on the vial. No registration. No guild tracking."
"They're legal. Nothing banned in the mix."
"Don't play cute."
Frank didn't. He just stood there, quiet. The tall one stepped in close—too close. Not touching, but testing. "You one of those silent window merchants?"
Frank met his gaze. "You know how it works. No one talks system."
They didn't press harder, but neither looked satisfied. The shorter man finally muttered, "You'll be reported." Then they left. No threats. No warnings. But the air they left behind felt heavier than when they'd arrived.
Frank shut the door and locked it.
He sat for two minutes, not checking the system or moving. Then he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the Association.
The Trade Registry was quieter than usual. A long counter stretched along the left wall, with terminals lined in even rows, most of them empty. The light flickered faint green under each active screen.
Frank signed in. Terminal 18 opened. He sat down, logged into his trader ID, and tapped the stall upgrade request without hesitation.
『Upgrade Request – Market Rank: Stage 2』
Features: Side racks, seated clients, multi-currency processing
Cost: 1,000 Arcadian Credits
He confirmed.
『Upgrade Request Submitted – Confirmation Pending』
『Estimated Approval Time: 36 hours』
『Credit Deduction: 1,000』
『Remaining Balance: 2,300 AC』
He leaned back, arms crossed and boots planted. The hum of system processing filled the silence. No messages yet. No alerts. Just the quiet space before the next move.
When he finally stood, the clerk nodded at him without asking anything. Frank walked out into the afternoon traffic. There were fewer vendors now, more noise, and more Hunters moving with purpose.
He crossed the corner near the produce lane but didn't stop; he didn't need tomatoes—not yet. His mind was already sorting through new inventory. Potions were moving, noodles too, but tomatoes had hit. That wasn't enough.
He pulled his hood over his head and tapped the system open again: Marketplace tab, Tier 1 filter. Search: edible, non-mana, low price. His eyes scanned the listings—glowfruit seeds, wormroot stew kits, and a powder called sleepbloom.
"Something fast," he murmured.
He scrolled further, avoiding distractions and delays. The next product needed to land—not just sell.