He stepped out the door without checking the time. Frank crossed the quarter quickly, taking narrow streets where the noise didn't follow. Early trades were already underway—crates shifting, bikes loaded, open carts rattling through alleyways—but he moved past them without slowing. His focus was locked; Breakwater Sink wasn't far.
He stopped once, just outside a shuttered bakery near the edge of the lot. He opened his system. The screen lit up with a pale blue glow, a quiet hum pulsing behind the main menu. His token balance hovered steadily—8,900 left after the last wave of orders and scroll acquisitions. Enough to prep.
He tapped the inventory tab and navigated to gear.
First: a new weapon. His current blade had been functional, nothing more. It was weighted too far forward, designed for raw swings, not the tempo he'd started moving with since the Widow kill.
He scrolled past ceremonial blades and elemental-forged sabers, landing on one marked "Mercurial Cut."
Light-class short sword
Designed for precision combat
Reinforced edge for repeated thrust-draw techniques
Token Price: 900
He bought it. The system shimmered as a new blade slid into his inventory—a sleek, silver-black finish with a hilt wrapped in low-friction grip tape. No ornamentation, just purpose.
Next: skill match. He filtered by compatibility. His Piercing Fang had served him well, but it needed rhythm—something that flowed before or after, not just during.
He found it on the third row
『Twin Fang Draw』 – Martial Skill (Tier 1)
Cost: 1,000 Tokens
Type: Chain Execution
Description: Dual-slash opening followed by thrust. Bonus effect if used after dash or feint.
He confirmed. The download hit his system core, the scroll imprint flashing into his mind. The combo played twice—fast-draw open, shift step, into a piercing follow-through. Tight footwork, minimal windup. It would work.
With those locked in, he packed his bags—two crates already prepared: 500 Vital Surge potions and 50 Tier 1 fire scrolls. He double-checked the labels, then wrapped each scroll pack with binding tape and slipped a short handwritten tag into the side slot:
"+30% Fire Output for 24hrs. Tear to activate."
The system window pulsed once more:
『Inventory Upload Synced – Breakwater Sink Access Gate』
『Market Stall Upgrade Active』
『Stall Tier: 2 – Side Rack & Scroll Integration Confirmed』
By the time Frank reached the dungeon grounds, the sky had split wide open with sunlight. Not heat-heavy, just sharp enough to make every surface feel dry.
The stall was different now. The tarp was reinforced—heavy slate blue with steel clips anchoring it. The main table had three shelves instead of one, with a crate latch built into the side. To the left, a new rack unit stood waist-high, with scroll compartments labeled 1–10.
It didn't look flashy; it looked ready.
Frank unpacked the potions first—five neat rows of sealed vials, prices written in thick marker:
Vital Surge – 30 AC
Single Use – Quick Heal / Stamina Boost
Then he turned to the scrolls. He slid each one into its designated slot on the rack and hung the pricing card above it:
Flame Scroll – 70 AC
Limit: 5 per buyer
He stepped back and took a look. Clean setup. No distractions. Just product, price, and clarity.
A few early Hunters were already pacing the gate's waiting area, checking weapons and testing spell chants. Two of them noticed the new scroll rack—one tilted his head, while the other kept walking.
Frank remained silent. He settled onto the edge of the stall crate, his sword resting against the frame, and waited.
Behind his calm demeanor, the scroll imprint replayed in his mind—Twin Fang Draw. The form. The weight shift. The open-line slash. He tapped his fingers lightly against the bench, feeling the anticipation build. Someone would test it today. And if not, he would.
The hum of the gate intensified behind him—a fresh rift opening, pressure seeping through the cracks in the air. Frank stayed seated, his elbow resting lightly on the crate lid, eyes scanning the crowd. Two mages passed by, one pointing at the scroll rack but not stopping. A swordsman in leather paused at the corner, hesitated, then turned toward the weapons kiosk across the way. He recognized the pattern: they looked but didn't trust. Not yet.
A boot scuffed near the rack. Someone kicked it—not hard, but with intent. Frank turned his head.
Three men stood just off-center from the stall, all clad in cheap Hunter coats adorned with the same red chain emblem on their sleeves. A local guild. Nothing significant. The kind that flexed muscle more than they secured contracts. Their leader, short and broad, stepped closer and nudged the scroll rack again.
"Nice rack," he said, his tone dry. "Is that where you keep your comic books?"
The second man laughed—a tall figure, built like a hallway. He leaned in toward the scrolls, picked one up without permission, and turned it between his fingers. "What's this even do? Paint my fireball pretty colors?"
Frank didn't blink. "Tear it. Cast after. You'll see."
The third man leaned back against the crate as if it were his own. "Scrolls from nowhere. Potions no one's registered. You running a stall or a scam, no-tag?"
Frank stood slowly, his hand resting near the side of the table—not close enough to threaten, just steady.
"I sell what works."
"Funny," the leader muttered. "Because I don't see anyone buying."
He stepped toward the rack again, his hand half-raising as if he intended to knock the scroll display over. That's when a voice cut in.
"You touch that, and I'll break your arm."
The tone wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be.
Tace.
He stood just behind them, arms crossed, his face unreadable. His three squadmates were spaced out behind him, as if they had been waiting for this moment. One of them—Riva—was already flexing her fingers near the strap of her blade.
The lead thug turned. "Back off, man. This doesn't concern—"
Tace stepped closer. "No, see, it does. Because this stall? It saved my people. Those scrolls you're mocking? They're probably the reason we're not burning in spider acid right now."
Silence.
Riva smirked, while Torin adjusted his bow without looking up.
The thugs didn't press the issue. Not with the odds even. Not with real names backing the defense. They muttered something low and walked off, brushing past Tace with feigned casualness.
Frank didn't say a word. He tightened the scroll rack slightly and then looked up at Tace. "I appreciate that."
Tace nodded once. "Still got stock?"
Frank opened the top crate and gestured inside. Vital Surge. Neatly lined. Five hundred strong.
Tace turned to his team. "Thirty."
No hesitation. The credits came fast—nine hundred dropped directly into Frank's stall interface. No haggling.
As Tace moved to pack the vials into his side pouch, more footsteps circled the edge of the stall. Two mages from a different guild were now watching the scroll rack, whispering to each other.
One of them stepped closer, wearing a pale robe with a charm looped at the collar. "What's this do?"
Frank picked one from the rack and held it up. "Tier 1 fire scroll. Boosts your flame output by thirty percent for a full day. Doesn't stack. Just tear and cast."
The mage narrowed his eyes. "Thirty?"
"Try it."
The mage paid, and the scroll swapped hands. He didn't hesitate; he tore it open on the spot. The parchment burned red, not turning to ash—runes surged into the air and vanished into his hand. A second later, he raised his palm and cast a simple ember flare toward the test wall beside the dungeon gate.
It hit with twice the intensity it should have.
The mage blinked, and his friend stepped back. He cast again—this time a stream. The edge flared bright, hotter, wider, leaving a visible scorch on the stone. Not fake. Not tricked.
"It's real," he said.
The words weren't loud, but they carried weight.
Another mage stepped up, followed by two more.
Frank didn't move. He kept pace—one scroll in each hand, a maximum of five per buyer. Each one clicked on the register, each one locked clean. Mages lined up; some remained quiet, while others grinned as if they'd found black-market gold.
He sold 49 out of 50 scrolls in less than twenty minutes. At 70 credits each, that totaled 3,430 credits.
The potions didn't last much longer—five, ten, fifteen at a time. Some were for solo runs, others were bulk buys for guild support. Hunters didn't waste time anymore; they'd seen the reviews. Tace's name carried weight now.
All 500 vials—gone.
Frank closed the tab on the stall page and checked the ledger: 15,000 from potions, 3,430 from scrolls—over 18,000 credits in a single setup.
He gave a quiet nod to the assistant clerk assigned by the Association—a kid managing nearby vendors—and flashed him a thumbs-up.
Then he locked the sales tab, slid his token window back to private, and stood up.
Tace was waiting at the edge of the gate zone. "You coming?"
Frank grabbed his sword, checked the weight one more time, and stepped forward without answering. The duffel felt light now, and the blade sat comfortably in his grip.
He followed Tace into the fog, into the gate's shimmer. Behind him, the scroll rack stood half-empty, and the stall lights blinked steadily.
Ahead lay the dungeon.
Time to see if the draw was as sharp as it looked.