Chapter 36 – The Merchant's Bargain
Morning broke like molten glass through the cracks in the ceiling of the city.
Light spilled down the stone walls in narrow beams, slicing through the dust and smoke that hung above the streets.
John adjusted his cloak and stepped into the current of the waking city.
Tamara and Blake were already turning toward the southern district, the faint noise of the Mercenary Association echoing from that direction. Ember lay curled near the inn's steps, guarding their rooms; his eyes opened briefly as John passed.
"A month to grow," Alaric murmured inside him. "Then the desert will call again. Let's not waste a day, boy."
John's lips curved faintly. "Wasn't planning to."
The Merchant Association dominated the center of the city.
Its facade gleamed with carved sigils and banners of crimson thread, its doors guarded by bronze statues of spirits clasping scales in their hands.
Inside, light refracted through hundreds of suspended crystals, turning the air itself into a market of color.
Merchants whispered over piles of beast cores. Runners dashed between stalls carrying contracts and samples.
Every inch of the hall pulsed with wealth — and the quiet threat that came with it.
John approached the front counter.
A clerk barely glanced up, his tone practiced and bored. "Appraisal or sale?"
"Sale."
"Of what?"
John reached into his ring and drew out a small, glass-sealed vial. Inside it, the Light Cactus Flower glowed faintly — soft gold, gentle, alive.
The light filled the space between them.
The clerk blinked, his mouth half-open.
"Wait here." He nearly tripped over his own robes as he sprinted toward the back.
John folded his arms, patient.
"Subtle," Alaric said with dry amusement. "You've managed to terrify a man with a flower."
Moments later, a woman descended the stairs — robes of black silk embroidered with gold thread, her eyes sharp and calculating.
Two guards flanked her.
"You're the seller?" she asked.
John nodded once. "John."
She gestured. "Follow me."
They moved through corridors lined with floating shelves of scrolls and beast cores. Each step muffled by carpets woven with light-threads.
The air grew cooler as they ascended, until they reached a chamber of marble and glass — the VIP Appraisal Room.
The woman motioned to a table etched with a formation circle. "Place it there."
John set the vial down.
When she broke the seal, light filled the room — soft, pure, untainted. The air shimmered, and for a moment, even her professional mask cracked.
"Authentic Light Cactus Bloom," she murmured. "You pulled this from the desert?"
John said nothing.
She studied him for a long moment, then smiled thinly. "We don't often see men walk in with century-grade materials. Name your price."
He paused, letting Alaric's presence flow through his thoughts.
"Tell her you'll trade, not sell. Ask for supplies."
"I want trade credit," John said. "No coin. Materials."
Her brows rose. "What kind?"
"Spirit Daisy, Light Aloe Vera — five hundred of each.
Book Worms, Sky Borer Leaves, Spirit Dew — five hundred each as well.
And one working alchemy cauldron."
That made her laugh softly. "A lot for one flower."
John met her gaze. "It's a lot of flower."
She led him deeper into the Association's vaults — corridors that glowed from within, lined with transparent display cases.
They passed rows of rare plants sealed in glass, stones humming with aura, shelves of alchemical tools worth small fortunes.
"The Spirit Daisy," she said, gesturing to a tray of white petals glowing faintly blue. "Harvested from the Dune Gardens. Expensive, delicate."
Next came the Light Aloe Vera, leaves like molten glass. Then the Book Worms — kept in crystal jars, their small bodies etched with runes.
When they reached the cauldron chamber, John slowed.
Hundreds of cauldrons filled the room — bronze, iron, crystal, even bone. Each floated slightly above its pedestal, runes glowing beneath.
"Take your pick," she said. "The working ones, at least."
"To the back," Alaric whispered. "Left corner. That one."
John walked past the polished rows to a dust-covered relic in the corner — dull black metal etched with faded sigils. One leg bent. The surface pitted and scarred.
The woman frowned. "That thing hasn't worked in decades."
"It will," John said simply.
"It's an Ecliptic Forge," Alaric said, his tone almost reverent. "Ancient. It doesn't need fire — it channels starlight through the metal.
They abandoned the design because no one remembered how to awaken it. But I do."
John turned to the merchant. "Add it to the deal."
They returned to the upper chamber. The woman studied the list he'd written — eyes narrowing as she calculated.
"This is more than standard exchange value."
John shrugged. "Then find someone else selling a Light Cactus Flower."
A long silence. Then she smiled — a real one this time. "You'll do well here."
She extended her hand. "Mariel Vaun. Senior Broker.
Consider this your introduction to the Merchant Association. We'll take the bloom, and in return, you'll have your ingredients and that relic cauldron by dusk."
He shook her hand. "Pleasure."
Her grip was strong, her nails cold as steel. "Don't disappear, John. Good sellers are rarer than good buyers."
"She sees potential," Alaric murmured. "Or trouble. Sometimes they're the same thing."
John left the Hall of Gold as the sun dipped beyond the rock ceiling.
The city's lights had come alive — banners glowing, canals reflecting crimson and blue, merchants shouting prices that sounded like promises.
He passed a group of young cultivators bragging over a pile of beast cores.
Another hawked spirit meat skewers that steamed with golden aura.
For the first time in weeks, the air smelled like life.
He was almost to the main stair when a shadow moved across his path.
The man was tall, shoulders broad beneath scaled armor. His aura pressed like heat against John's skin — heavy, oppressive.
E-Rank, Step Eight.
John stepped aside to pass.
The man didn't.
Their shoulders brushed. The impact was deliberate, hard enough to rattle bone. John's hand went to his sword before he stopped himself.
"Watch where you're walking," the man growled.
"My fault," John said evenly.
The man's lips twisted. His eyes were amber, predatory. "You new here?"
John didn't answer.
The man's grin widened. "Figures. You'll learn. This city doesn't like quiet people. They bleed easy."
He shoved past, his laughter echoing down the street.
"Remember that face," Alaric said, voice low. "You'll see it again. Probably when he's dying."
John's expression didn't change. "I'll make sure he earns it."
Back at the inn, the common room hummed with low music and clinking cups. Tamara and Blake were gone — likely registering at the Mercenary Association.
John went upstairs, the faint vibration of Ember's snore rumbling through the floorboards.
He spread a sheet of parchment across the table. His handwriting was clean, deliberate.
Training Plan:
Rebuild the Ecliptic Cauldron under Alaric's guidance.
Master Tier-2 recipes — Spirit Healing and Meditation Light.
Store surplus potions for the team.
Refine Light circulation daily.
Find formation crystals to create a private workshop.
He stared at the list, the weight of purpose settling over him.
"We start at dawn," Alaric said. "I'll teach you how to ignite the Forge and bend your Light through the mixture.
These potions will carry your essence — stronger than any Tier-Two they've seen."
John smiled faintly. "You sound proud."
"You're my disciple. Pride is the least I can afford."
The city outside the window glowed red beneath the endless stone sky.
From somewhere distant came the clash of metal and the murmur of celebration.
John leaned on the railing, feeling the faint hum of Light Aloe and Spirit Daisy already pulsing in his ring.
The Merchant Association's towers loomed in the distance — sharp, golden, and hungry.
"Master," John said quietly. "You think this city's ready for us?"
Alaric's laugh rolled like thunder in his mind.
"Boy, the city should be asking if you're ready for it."
John's grin was faint, dangerous, alive.
Tomorrow, he would rebuild the cauldron.
Tomorrow, his alchemy would begin anew.
And somewhere beyond the walls, an E-Rank Step Eight mercenary had already made the mistake of remembering his face.