By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Helga's shop had been picked cleaner than a carcass in a vulture pit. The atmosphere had shifted entirely. Barnaby and Herbert, who only few days ago treated me like a sentient piece of damp lint, were now hovering around me with terrifyingly polite smiles. Herbert actually tried to dust my chair while I was sitting in it.
"Can I get you more wine, Arthur? Perhaps a footstool? A fan?" Herbert asked, his voice dripping with a desperation that made my skin crawl.
"I'm fine, Herbert. Just... stop breathing on me," I said, leaning back and crossing my legs.
I was tucked away in the shadows of the back corner, watching the last of the high-ranking nobles scurry out the door clutching their silk pouches like they were holding the Holy Grail. To them, I was just a scrawny shop-hand sitting in the dark; they didn't realize the "God of Orange Dust" was currently picking a piece of steak out of his teeth ten feet away.
Helga was at the main counter, her face flushed red with a "gold-high." She was counting coins with a speed that blurred her fingers, a manic cackle occasionally escaping her throat. Rufus, however, wasn't looking at the gold. He was staring at the crumpled, empty, greasy bag of Cheetos sitting on the table.
"Arthur," Rufus rumbled, his voice sounding like he was about to propose. "I will give you my entire share of today's profit. Every single gold coin. In exchange... for the Vessel."
I paused, my wine glass halfway to my mouth. "The what?"
"The Vessel!" he pointed a thick, trembling finger at the empty Cheetos bag. "The Sacred Crinkly Skin of the Great Tiger!" (Apparently, he thought Chester Cheetah was a forest deity).
I looked at the bag. It was covered in orange grease and salt. It was literally trash. "Rufus, you want to give me...your gold pieces... for a piece of plastic litter? Are you drunk on forge fumes?"
Helga's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as she processed what Rufus was doing. "Wait! Rufus, you crafty old mole! You want the material! Arthur, I'll match his offer! I'll give you my profit too! We'll split the Vessel!"
Rufus went absolutely berserk, slamming his fist on the table so hard a shield fell off the wall. "No! This material—it is miraculous! It is waterproof, it reflects light like a diamond, and the craftsmanship of the tiny, colorful 'Chester' is beyond any elven tapestry! I'm going to make a legendary coin-pouch out of it! No lady in the kingdom could resist a man carrying a pouch made of Divine Relic!"
I stared at them. I felt like I was in an insane asylum where the inmates were all millionaires. "Guys," I said, my voice dripping with sass. "It's a bag. I'm literally going to throw it in the bin. If you want it, just take it. You don't have to pay me for the trash."
THUD.
I didn't even have to look. Elsa had fainted again.
"What is WRONG with her?" I shouted, gesturing to the unconscious elf on the floor. "Is fainting her only personality trait? It's just a bag!"
"A BAG?!" Helga shrieked, looking at me with pure horror. "You would throw away a material that is so smooth, so thin, and yet impossible to tear by hand? You speak of it as if it were common dirt!"
"It is common dirt! Well, common oil, technically," I muttered.
"Please, Arthur," Rufus whispered, his eyes moist. "If you won't take our gold, at least let us... divide the relic."
I shrugged, utterly exhausted by their stupidity. "Fine. Cut it in half. Knock yourselves out."
It was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever seen. These two titans of industry—the most powerful smith and the richest merchant in the lower district—leaned over the empty bag of Cheetos with the intensity of surgeons performing a heart transplant. Rufus used a pair of enchanted silver shears, slowly cutting down the seam of the bag.
When it was finally in two pieces, they each grabbed their half and hugged it to their chests, weeping tears of joy. Helga was petting the "Nutrition Facts" label as if it were a poem from a lost god. And they both handed me their gold profit anyway.
"The lettering..." Helga sobbed, her eyes tracing the Ingredients list like it was a map to the fountain of youth. "It is so small, yet so perfect. Not a single smudge of ink. Even the royal scribes with their finest magnifying crystals could not produce a script this divine!"
Before I could tell her it was just a standard font and some high-speed industrial printing, she let out a squeal of pure, unadulterated merchant-greed-joy. She lunged.
Now, usually, I'm fast. But Helga, fueled by the mana-spike of an orange corn-puff and the prospect of infinite wealth, was faster. She scooped me up, hug-carrying me like I was a long-lost toddler she'd just found in a dumpster.
Oh, god. Not again.
My face was buried in the yellow silk of her shoulder. The smell—that suffocating mix of expensive musk, rosewater, and pure "Boss Lady" energy—hit my olfactory system like a freight train. My brain, a delicate instrument of logic and deep-seated social anxiety, simply pulled the plug. One second I was the smug king of the shop, the next, the Windows shut-down sound played in my head, and everything went black.
[NOTIFICATION: EXTREME PHYSICAL INTIMACY!]
[BONUS: THE "MATERNAL" CRUSH +100 VP!]