Makeshift stalls lined uneven pathways, little more than rough wooden boards propped up on crates or barrels. Each stall overflowed with the spoils of the recent battle: dented shields, swords stained with something dark Luke didn’t want to identify, odd bits of armor, and the occasional glint of recovered trinkets. The entire area churned with a frantic energy, a stark contrast to the grim silence that had fallen over the battlefield itself. The air hung thick with the smells of sweat, damp earth, stale ale, cooking fires, and the faint, lingering metallic tang of blood.
Vendors bellowed over the din, hawking their wares with animated gestures. One man held up a chipped but serviceable sword, loudly proclaiming it was “blessed by war gods” as he argued with a skeptical looking soldier. Another stall displayed rows upon rows of battered helmets, each dent and scratch a silent testament to the violence they had witnessed, maybe deflected, maybe not.
Luke’s eyes scanned the scene, trying to take it all in, trying to make sense of the frantic commerce happening just hours after the slaughter. The market seemed to have its own rough sections: one area teemed with weapons, steel glinting dully under the harsh sunlight; another was dedicated to armor, pieces of leather and plate bearing the scars of recent combat. But what drew his attention most was a quieter corner where personal effects . Lockets, rings, small carved tokens, things people carried for luck or love were laid out like offerings on threadbare cloths. He couldn’t decide if this place felt more morbid or oddly reverent, but staring at those intimate items, ripped from the dead, left a hollow ache in his chest.
The soldiers here were a mix of types. Some were clearly battle hardened veterans, moving with grim efficiency, their eyes carrying a weary emptiness as they offloaded bundles of scavenged gear. Others looked younger, maybe even greener than Luke himself felt, their faces still holding a flicker of shock beneath the grime, perhaps laughing too loudly as they bartered, clinging to a camaraderie forged in shared terror. A man lugging a heavy sack overflowing with mismatched metal gauntlets bumped into Luke hard, muttering a gruff apology before disappearing back into the throng. It was clear that for many here, looting the dead wasn’t about greed, but grim necessity. Survival.
Luke kept close behind Lestor, who navigated the crush of bodies with a practiced ease Luke envied. The younger man, who was still a fair bit older than Luke, despite his robes, seemed surprisingly at home in this chaos, greeting a few merchants by name, offering a quick nod to soldiers haggling over prices. Luke, meanwhile, couldn’t shake the weight of the day’s horrors. His mind was a confusing whirlwind, replaying the raw violence of the battlefield and the strange, disturbing clarity his own kill had brought. This place, this system, it rewarded death. It gave him levels, power. An opportunity he desperately needed, born from an act that had made him retch.
As they wove deeper into the market, Luke noticed the stark divide between those trading with clinking coins and those bartering with salvaged goods. Gold and silver flashed in the hands of some, mostly the merchants or soldiers who looked like officers, while others hefted bundles of dented swords or piles of mismatched boots, hoping for a fair exchange. Every transaction seemed to carry a silent story one of desperation, luck, survival, or ambition.
The ground beneath his feet was packed dirt, uneven and littered with scraps of cloth, broken arrow shafts, discarded bindings, and other battlefield detritus. Each step felt heavy, as if the mud and blood of the battlefield still clung to his boots, dragging him down. This market wasn’t just a place to trade; it was a raw reflection of the world he’d been violently thrust into – a world where survival itself was transactional, where life and death were commodities, and where fortunes could change hands over the corpse of a fallen enemy.
Lestor stopped abruptly at the edge of the main throng, turning to Luke with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Stick close, kid. This place’ll chew you up and spit you out if you ain’t careful. Lots of vultures lookin’ for easy marks.”
Luke nodded, his grip tightening instinctively on the small, mostly empty sack slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what felt more overwhelming, the noise, the smells, or the sheer, crushing weight of it all. But he couldn’t afford to falter now. This market wasn’t just a place to sell his meager spoils; it was another test, another battlefield of a different sort. And Luke didn’t plan on failing. Not when Jason and Irara were counting on him.
He followed Lestor toward a quieter section, away from the loudest shouting and most aggressive bartering. They approached a small, unimpressive stand tucked between a wagon selling dubious looking meat pies and another displaying dented pots and pans. It was little more than a few wooden boards propped up under a drooping canvas tent that swayed slightly in the hot breeze. The merchant here, unlike the others, seemed more interested in meticulously arranging his display of mundane trinkets and worn bits of gear than in actively hawking his wares.
“This is the guy,” Lestor said quietly, nodding toward the stall. “Orsul. He’s fair. Doesn’t gouge like most of these vultures. You’ll get a decent price from him, or as decent as you’ll find in a place like this.”
Luke studied the man behind the rough counter. Orsul didn’t look like much – scruffy white whiskers framing a weathered face, a bulbous nose that hinted at a fondness for drink, and a surprisingly neat, trimmed mustache that seemed oddly out of place. A faded white scar slashed diagonally across his forehead, disappearing into his receding hairline. If anything, he just looked tired, his eyes holding a deep weariness that suggested he’d seen too many battles and bartered over too many bloodstained spoils.
“G’day, lads!” Orsul called out as they approached, his voice unexpectedly strong and carrying easily over the market hum. He offered a warm, gap toothed smile, his posture relaxed. “Lookin’ to buy or sell? What can old Orsul do for you fine gentlemen today?”
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Luke hesitated, glancing at Lestor, who gave him an encouraging nod and stepped back slightly, letting Luke take the lead. Clearing his throat, feeling suddenly self conscious under the merchant’s direct gaze, Luke stepped forward. “Got some... items to sell,” he managed, the words sounding lame even to his own ears. “Stuff from the battlefield.”
Orsul’s eyes lit up with genuine interest, his hands moving to rest expectantly on the worn wooden counter. “Ah, the spoils o’ war! Always somethin’ interesting turns up after a good scrap. Let’s see what treasures ye’ve liberated, then!” He rubbed his hands together, a merchant ready for business.
Luke nodded, focusing inward. The faint, familiar prompt appeared in his vision:
~ Trade with Orsul (Imperial Merchant - Friendly)? ~
~ Yes / No ~
Selecting Yes mentally, a translucent trading interface materialized beside his inventory screen, visible only to him. Luke scanned the list of items he’d looted . The rusty swords, worn armor pieces, dented helmets, and the small pouch of copper coins. Quickly he selected everything for trade. The sheer volume of basic, low value items filled the interface window.
As the digital inventory populated the trade screen, Orsul leaned in, peering intently as if he could somehow see the interface Luke was interacting with. He let out a low whistle through his teeth. “Jefferson’s beard!” Orsul exclaimed, leaning even closer over the counter, his eyes wide. “Where in the blazes did ye scrounge all this up, lad? Battlefield, ye say? Ha! Makes me think I retired from the frontlines a tad too soon.” He chuckled, rubbing his hands together again, already calculating. “Alright then, let’s see… standard Imperium tithe comes off the top… current market rates for scrap… aye, should fetch ye a tidy little sum.”
Luke frowned slightly, confused by the process. “What do you mean? How does—”
As Luke spoke, the air between them seemed to shimmer, crackling almost silently. A vibrant flash of deep purple energy erupted, not seeming to come from Luke this time, but coalescing between them, momentarily focused on the invisible trade interface. It pulsed with a raw, potent energy, bathing Orsul’s surprised face in an otherworldly violet light before vanishing as quickly and silently as it appeared.
Orsul froze mid gesture, his hand hovering inches above the counter. His eyes, moments before filled with the calculating appraisal of a seasoned merchant, went distant, glazing over with a flat, unseeing stare. His posture stiffened, becoming unnaturally still, like a statue carved from flesh.
When he spoke again, his voice was different. Still Orsul’s vocal cords, Orsul’s accent, but the tone… it was flat, ancient, utterly devoid of warmth or personality. It held an unnerving resonance that sent a cold chill chasing down Luke’s spine, raising the hairs on his arms.
“You are Marked,” the voice stated, not a question, but a cold, simple declaration of fact. “Fate takes notice. Potential stirs within the vessel.”
Luke stumbled back a step instinctively, his hand dropping reflexively to the hilt of one of his daggers. “What… what are you talking about? Orsul? Are you alright?”
The merchant’s head tilted slightly, a jerky, unnatural movement that didn’t fit his frame. “Orsul is the conduit. Fate speaks through the willing. You carry the echo of the fallen, the nascent potential for the Reaper’s Path.”
Luke swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Bewildered and more than a little scared, he gripped the dagger hilt tighter. “Reaper’s Path? What’s that? What are you talking about?” He glanced around frantically, but no one else seemed to have noticed the bizarre exchange, lost in their own transactions. Lestor, however, was watching intently from a few paces back, his expression a mixture of confusion and alarm.
“A Class of Balance,” the flat, ancient voice continued, utterly calm. “Born of death, shaping destiny through its echoes. Power derived from the cycle’s inevitable end. Rare. Demanding. Few are chosen by the resonance. Fewer still survive the investiture required.”
The trade interface flickered erratically before Luke’s eyes. He watched, stunned and helpless, as every single item he had painstakingly looted and hauled across the battlefield dissolved into faint motes of purple light that swirled briefly before dissipating into nothingness. His inventory screen blinked empty, save for the worn leather armor and the pair of steel daggers he currently wore.
“Hey! My loot!” Luke protested, the shock and indignation momentarily overriding his fear. “What did you do? That was mine!”
“The Path requires sacrifice,” the flat voice intoned, utterly ignoring Luke’s outburst. “Tangible possessions are meaningless before the Precipice. Your trial awaits at the Cliffs of Drono. An ancient place, steeped in echoes. Survive its depths, embrace the resonance of the fallen, and the Class shall be conferred upon you. Failure is… final.”
A new notification flared into existence, stark and demanding:
~ Quest Alert: The Reaper of Souls ~
~ Objective: Travel to the Cliffs of Drono and complete the Trial of Echoes. ~
~ Reward: Permanent Class Investiture: Death Merchant. ~
~ Failure Penalty: Permanent character death. No respawn. ~
~ Accept? Yes / No ~
Luke stared at the prompt, his mind reeling. Permanent character death? No respawn? This wasn’t just some dangerous quest; it was an ultimatum. This bizarre encounter, this Fate speaking through a random merchant, felt less like an offer and more like a sentence being handed down. Obey, embrace this dangerous, unknown path, or cease to exist entirely.
The memory of Jason, the desperate need for power, for resources, for a way to pull his friend from the jaws of dying Earth, warred with the sheer wrongness of the situation, the terrifying finality of the penalty. But did he truly have a choice? It felt illusory, preordained. The entity, Fate, already robbed him of all his loot as if he already had said yes.
He took a deep, shaky breath, his focus locked on the invisible “Yes” button as if guided by an unseen force. “I… accept.”
The moment the thought confirmed, the unnatural stillness left Orsul. The merchant blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if waking from a sudden daze. He looked down at the empty wooden counter, then up at Luke, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
“Huh? What happened there? Where’d yer items go, lad?” Orsul asked, his normal, gruff voice returning, laced with puzzlement. “Did we finish the trade already? My mind went blank for a second… strange.” He rubbed his temples wearily. “Gettin’ old, I suppose. Head’s not what it used to be.”
Luke stared, speechless for a beat. Orsul clearly had no memory of the purple light, the chilling voice, the pronouncements of Fate, or the life or death quest. He was just a tired old merchant again, slightly befuddled. Lestor cautiously approached, giving Orsul a wide berth, his eyes questioning Luke.
“Uh… yeah,” Luke managed, forcing the word out, hoping his voice didn’t betray his inner turmoil. “Trade’s done. Thanks.” He turned quickly, grabbing Lestor’s arm. “Let’s go.” He pulled his friend away before Orsul noticed his shaking hands or asked more questions he couldn’t possibly answer. He practically dragged Lestor away from the stall, melting back into the relative anonymity of the market crowd.