“So what crap have you brought me this time,” Old Garrin said from behind the counter.

  His eyes flicked past Ephraim almost immediately and settled on me instead. He gave me a slow once-over that felt practiced, unimpressed, and deeply judgmental.

  “Oh,” he said. “and you brought another one of your slutty little friends.”

  I froze. “I’m sorry, what now...”

  Garrin didn’t even look back at me. He had already dismissed the entire exchange as unimportant and was squinting through the front of the shop toward the cart outside.

  Ephraim sighed like this was not the first time this had happened. “Easy, Garrin. He’s new.”

  “That so,” Garrin said dryly. “They always are.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again, deciding very quickly that engaging further was not going to improve my day.

  Garrin finally shifted his attention fully back to Ephraim. He glanced past us through to the front of the shop, then slowly brought his eyes back and fixed Ephraim with a glare that felt like it could curdle milk.

  “So,” he said, “what nonsense are you dragging into my store this time.”

  I had a brief and uncomfortable realization that everyone Ephraim associated with seemed to have mastered the art of communicating entire sentences through facial expressions alone.

  Ephraim did not miss a beat.

  “Oh no,” he said easily. “Cleared out that goblin dungeon south of my place. Been letting it cook for a few years now.”

  Garrin grunted and leaned back slightly. “So you’ve got a wagon full of bent goblin iron and half-rusted weapons. Why are you wasting my time.”

  Ephraim rested his elbows on the counter like he was settling in for a pleasant chat. “Because it wasn’t just goblins.”

  Garrin’s eyes narrowed further. “Oh.”

  “And it wasn’t just weapons.”

  A pause.

  “Whatever it is,” Garrin said flatly, “I’m probably not interested.”

  Ephraim smiled in a way that told me he absolutely was. “I let it go long enough for hobgoblins to start showing up. Quite a few of them.”

  Garrin exhaled slowly through his nose. “You got hooch.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ephraim said, his voice dropping just a touch. “I do.”

  Garrin closed his eyes briefly like a man accepting an unavoidable truth. Then he pushed away from the counter.

  “Give me a second,” he said. “Lets look.”

  He came out from behind the counter and headed for the door, and we followed him outside. He circled the cart once without speaking, his attention focused almost entirely on the large sealed container that made up the heart of the distillery. He rapped his knuckles against the metal once, then again, then leaned in close and listened.

  He waited.

  Tapped it again.

  Then he straightened and let out a long sigh.

  “All right,” he said, turning back toward Ephraim with a suspicious look. “What do you want for it.”

  Ephraim smiled like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

  “Well,” he said casually, resting his elbows on the counter, “considering the effort it took to clear the place out and haul everything here, I’m thinking forty - maybe forty-five gold for the moonshine and the iron.”

  Garrin stared at him like Ephraim had just suggested burning the shop down for warmth.

  “You know there’s no way in hell I’m paying that much for this pile of shit,” Garrin said flatly. “Half that iron is rusted junk. If I even take it, I’ve got to sort it, clean it, and resell it to a [Blacksmith]. That alone is a headache.”

  “And the moonshine?” Ephraim pressed.

  Garrin snorted. “If anyone drinks goblin moonshine the way it is right now, they’re going blind. Or dead. Or both. I’ll have to run it through a proper distiller.”

  “Please,” Ephraim said, waving a hand. “Don’t pull that with me. I know what you’ve got back there. You’re an [Enchanter]. You’ve got enough enchantments in this shop to do half the distilling work without lifting a finger.”

  That was when I realized I hadn’t actually looked at Garrin properly yet.

  I focused on him, just a little.

  A line of text popped into view above his head.

  Enchanter {Level 73}

  Whoa.

  I swallowed.

  That was the highest level I’d seen so far by a decent margin. Higher than Ephraim. Higher than anyone at the farm. And while being an [Enchanter] probably didn’t come with flashy attack abilities, something told me that assuming he was harmless would be a very short-lived mistake.

  Garrin noticed my stare and clicked his tongue. “My eyes are down here, [Bard].”

  “Sorry,” I said quickly. “Just…a high level.”

  Ephraim laughed. “Told you Garrin was impressive.”

  “Forty-five is a joke,” Garrin said, turning back to Ephraim. “But I’ll give you twenty-five for the moonshine setup and the iron. That’s generous, considering I’m the one taking your mess.”

  Ephraim scratched his beard. “Make it thirty and give ten of that for credit for the kid.”

  I am a man in his thirties, and I do not like being called ‘the kid'. I think I am beginning to understand why so many people end up glaring around this man.

  Garrin glanced at me again, unimpressed. “Fine. But he spends it here.”

  Ephraim grinned, the edges of his beard curling up with the movement. “Deal.”

  Garrin grunted at Ephraim’s response, then waved a hand and started walking.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s move it out back.”

  We followed him past the shop to a narrow gate that led behind the building. Garrin unlatched it and pushed it open, revealing a cramped yard and an old shed that looked one strong breeze away from giving up entirely. He opened the shed door and gestured inside.

  “Put it all in here.”

  Ephraim and I got to work. For me that meant hauling loose metal, bent armor plates, and rusted weapons one armful at a time. For Ephraim it meant picking up the heavier pieces and somehow needing constant direction despite being strong enough to lift a wagon. I told him to move right three separate times, and each time he confidently went left each time..

  I was starting to think he did it on purpose.

  The entire time Garrin leaned against the shed with his arms crossed, watching us like we were a mildly disappointing performance. I caught his eye more than once and every time he made a point of not reacting until I looked away and worked faster.

  Eventually, the shed was full and the cart was empty. Garrin stepped forward, shut the door, and nodded once.

  “That’ll do. Let’s go.”

  Ephraim picked the cart up again and we headed back toward the front of the shop. Naturally, the cart decided to wedge itself sideways in the gate. What followed was several minutes of backing up, shoving, rotating, and me giving increasingly specific directions while questioning my life choices.

  When it finally cleared, Ephraim dropped the cart in front of the shop with a thud and we went back inside.

  Garrin moved behind the counter and opened a thick logbook, flipping a few pages with practiced ease. He ran a finger down the column, then looked up.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s thirty gold in credit. Twenty to you,” he nodded at Ephraim, “and ten to the [Bard].”

  I straightened slightly at that.

  Ten gold suddenly felt very real. Then did I realize I had a problem.

  I had no idea how much that was worth.

  “Uh. Excuse me,” I said, raising my hand without thinking.

  Both of them stopped and stared at my hand, then at me. Like I had just done something deeply unnatural.

  “Oh,” I said quickly, lowering it. “Sorry. I just… I don’t know how much that actually is. Is ten gold a lot?”

  The sentence trailed off as I became painfully aware of how naive I sounded.

  Old Garrin studied me for a long moment, then glanced sideways at Ephraim.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “So when you said he was brand new, you actually meant it.”

  Ephraim made a vague sound and shrugged.

  Garrin looked back at me, and for the first time his expression softened. Not into anything warm exactly, but the edge dulled. On his face, that probably counted as kindness.

  “Ten gold’s decent trade,” he said. “Base currency’s copper, silver, and gold. Five copper gets you a loaf of bread. Two silver buys a night at an inn. Five gold will get you a proper weapon.”

  He waved a hand toward the back.

  “Not the rusted garbage you hauled in. Something you can actually trust not to snap in your hand.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He watched me for another second before turning back to Ephraim.

  “So he really didn’t know.”

  Ephraim nodded. “Fresh. Didn’t even slide into town. Wandered in from the woods.”

  “He made it to the farm yesterday,” Ephraim continued. “Got lucky before that. Caused a bit of a cascade. Killed enough small stuff to climb to his current level.”

  Garrin went quiet at that.

  Not skeptical. Just thoughtful. The silence itself felt heavy.

  “I found him,” Ephraim went on. “Showed him how things work. He helped us with the dungeon. Treated us right. So I figured I’d make sure he didn’t get taken advantage of.”

  He gestured vaguely at the shop.

  “That’s why I brought him to you.”

  Garrin let out a low growl.

  “Don’t give me that,” Ephraim said immediately. “You look like an asshole. You sound like an asshole. You smell like one too. But your decent under all that.”

  Garrin shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint.

  “Smell,” he said flatly.

  Ephraim grinned.

  “Look,” Ephraim said, waving a hand. “I’m not asking for favors. He’s got enough credit to get what he needs. I just want you to make sure he gets the right stuff and that you answer his questions. All right?”

  Old Garrin studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, then gave a short nod.

  “Fine.”

  “Great,” Ephraim said easily. “Also, hold the twenty gold in credit for me. Silas has been running the plow hard, and I’ll probably need some enchantments adjusted in a week or two. I’ll bring it in when it’s time.”

  “Fine,” Garrin spat. “Anything else?”

  “Nope,” Ephraim said. “That’s it.”

  He paused, then added, “Actually, I’ll grab some pepper and celery spice. Just take it out of that credit. Been out for a few weeks.”

  Garrin made a vague gesture that could have meant anything from permission to mild irritation.

  Ephraim wandered over to a shelf, scanned it briefly, then grabbed two small glass bottles. He tucked them under one arm and came back over to me.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  “Well,” he said, “this has been interesting. And I really do wish you luck.”

  He held out his hand.

  I hesitated for half a second, then shook it. “Yeah. Thanks. So… this is where we part ways?”

  “Sure is,” he said. “Garrin’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks again,” I said. “For everything.”

  “No problem.”

  And then he leaned in.

  It happened fast enough that I didn’t process it until it was already over. A brief press of his beard then of his lips against my cheek. Close enough that I could smell leather and spice and whatever soap passed for soap around here.

  He murmured quietly, just for me, “Could’ve been fun if you’d stayed inside last night.”

  I froze.

  “Come see us again,” he added softly. “If you change your mind.”

  He pulled back, winked, and stepped away like he hadn’t just rearranged my entire emotional state.

  Then he turned and headed for the door.

  I stood there for a second, staring after him, very aware that Garrin was watching the whole thing with the same expression he probably reserved for structural flaws in enchantments.

  “Well,” Garrin said at last. “That’s Ephraim.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess it is,” and I hoped my tone suggested that I was not entirely unhappy to see Ephraim go.

  Old Garrin grunted. “Right then. Let’s get you set up. I’ve got a little of everything in here, and if I don’t, I can figure out how to get it.”

  He paused and looked me over again. “So you really are new.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And a [Bard],” he added. “Don’t know if that makes you lucky or unlucky.”

  “Yeah… Ephraim already warned me,” I said.

  Garrin snorted. “Then he probably didn’t sugarcoat it. You walk into town like this, and there are already people clocking you as potential experience. New arrival. Weird clothes. [Bard] class. Doesn’t help that Ephraim has a habit of dragging strays into town and leaving them behind.”

  “Not on purpose,” he added after a moment. “But it’s happened more than once.”

  I exhaled slowly. “That’s comforting.”

  “First thing,” he said, already moving, “we get you clothes that don’t scream outsider.”

  I looked down at myself. My t-shirt and travel pants had been chosen for airplane comfort, not dungeon diving. They were stained in shades of brown and dark red that I did not want to think too hard about, with a few small tears that had appeared somewhere between goblins and hauling scrap metal.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t have an argument there.”

  He led me to a rack and we worked through options quickly in his gruff, efficient way. I settled on a pair of tan linen undershirt with a buttoned collar, the ends a little too long in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of a disco shirt, and a muted green overshirt that looked common enough to disappear into a crowd. The pants were a matching tan, sturdier than I expected, and surprisingly comfortable. Not scratchy. Not theatrical. Just… clothes.

  I changed right there and handed him my old outfit.

  “Can you throw these out please?” I said.

  He nodded and tossed them into a bin behind the counter without ceremony.

  Shoes were next. I glanced down at my brown hiking boots.

  “What about these?” I asked.

  He crouched, inspected them, and frowned thoughtfully. “Rubber soles.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Might actually save your life. Keep them.”

  That was an easy decision.

  From there, we moved to packs. I chose a larger leather pack, rough but solid, big enough to swallow my existing hiking backpack whole. I transferred everything over, ditched the old pack I’d taken off the female [Warrior], and added a small vial of green dye to darken my old hiking bag later. Fewer things to stand out.

  “About half a gold so far,” Garrin said.

  Then he took me to what was clearly his camping section. Practical things. No frills. A rolled sleeping mat. A small cooking tin with nesting cutlery. Twine. Waxed cloth. A little tin of salve that smelled sharp and medicinal.

  “Nothing fancy,” he said. “Just enough to keep you alive.”

  Which felt like exactly the right shopping goal.

  “So how well do you know Ephraim,” I asked while tightening the straps on my new pack and tying the rolled sleeping mat to the top. “Are you two old friends or something like that.”

  Garrin watched me work with mild interest. “Friends is close enough,” he said. “I’ve known him and the people at the farm for about fifty years now. Since they moved in.”

  “Fifty,” I repeated.

  He shrugged. “Give or take.”

  “And you’ve been here how long?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Little over a hundred when they showed up.”

  That made me pause mid-knot.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I know Ephraim mentioned people don’t really age here once they arrive, but hearing it out loud is still kind of insane.”

  Garrin snorted. “You get used to it.”

  “Is it rude to ask how old you actually are?”

  “Yes,” he said immediately.

  Then the corner of his mouth twitched, and I realized he was enjoying this.

  “Somewhere around five hundred,” he added. “I stopped counting properly a while ago.”

  “Holy crap,” I said. “Seriously.”

  He nodded and motioned for me to follow him back toward the counter. “Came in with the [Enchanter] class. Survived by being useful. You don’t need to swing a sword if people decide it’s in their best interest to keep you alive.”

  “That sounds… practical.”

  “It was,” he said.

  He reached under the counter and set a small metal square in front of me. “Here. Pick that up.”

  I did. It was heavy and cold.

  “Focus on it,” he said. “On the enchantment inside.”

  I frowned and did as told. A heartbeat later, a small flame bloomed from one edge of the metal, clean and steady, appearing out of nothing.

  I stared at it.

  I had seen magic already. Lots of it. That did not make this less unsettling.

  “Enchantment,” Garrin said calmly. “Simple one. Fire, containment, control. All about understanding how the magic wants to behave. Yours to keep.”

  “Thanks. That’s… ridiculous,” I said.

  “Effective,” he corrected.

  He took the square back and slipped it away. “Didn’t stop people from trying to own me though.”

  I blinked. “Own you?”

  “Enslaved,” he said flatly. “About two hundred years of it, give or take. Different people. Same bad ideas.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “People come here with old ideas from their world,” he continued. “That you’ll suffer and become malleable. That you’ll break eventually, and be what they want you to be. And yeah, it will start like that, at least when you are talking in a normal human lifetime or two.”

  He reached under the counter again and this time placed something else down. A metal device shaped vaguely like a toy ray gun. It sat there with weight and intent that made my skin prickle.

  “This world doesn’t work like that,” he said. “Immortal people don’t wait. They plan. They grow. And eventually they kill the people who thought they were clever.”

  I stayed very still, eyes fixed on the device.

  Garrin noticed and snorted. He slid it back under the counter. “Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have noticed.”

  That did not help nearly as much as he seemed to think it did.

  “But to answer your real question,” Garrin said, settling back against the counter, “Ephraim’s a decent enough man.”

  I nodded, still trying to shake the image of that metal device he had casually produced a moment earlier.

  “He comes into town every few weeks,” Garrin went on. “Usually comes to me because he knows I keep things even and fair. And because he knows better than to deal with certain people here.”

  “Recruiters,” I guessed.

  Garrin’s lip curled. “Mostly, a lot of shops are aligned with different groups. Anyone trying to drag you north early is bad news. They don’t offer help. They offer hooks.”

  I mentally tucked that away carefully.

  “But yeah,” he continued, waving a hand dismissively, “he, that woman of his, and Silas have been tangled up together for years now.”

  I hesitated. “Together… how?”

  Garrin lightly snickered. “Exactly how you’re thinking.”

  “That seems… complicated.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “I’ve honestly been waiting for it to explode.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s usually how it goes,” he said. “People get here, realize they’re immortal, realize the rules they grew up with don’t apply the same way anymore, and a lot of old restraints just… vanish.”

  I shifted uncomfortably but didn’t interrupt.

  “Levels don’t help,” Garrin added. “People get stronger. Faster. Healthier. And for some reason that convinces most of them the best use of that energy is sticking things in holes or getting things stuck in theirs.”

  I stared at him. He shrugged. “You asked.”

  That was fair.

  “Most folks either burn through it and settle down,” he continued, “or they lean into it and become nothing but walking problems. Horny, reckless, and convinced every impulse is destiny.”

  “And Ephraim?”

  “He’s the second kind,” Garrin said. “Gets things done, sure. But he’s always watching the room. Always looking. Especially after he gained a few levels over the years. Strength goes up and apparently so does confidence.”

  That sparked an odd connection in my brain.

  “It kind of reminds me of a thing called the Olympic Village back home,” I said slowly.

  Garrin glanced at me. “That so.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A bunch of young people, in the best shape of their lives, away from home, full of adrenaline. Basically, they go at it like animals. There are stories about cities its in running out of condoms.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

  I exhaled. “I hate that this world seems to turn that dial up instead of down.”

  Garrin’s expression softened just a fraction. “Not everyone jumps at it,” he said. “But enough do that you notice.”

  That did not make me feel better.

  “Anyway,” he said, pushing himself off the counter and walking around it, “you got a weapon yet?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “I’ve got this.” I reached into my pack and pulled out the dagger, holding it up. “Do you happen to have a sheath or something?”

  Garrin took it from me without ceremony and turned it over in his hands. At first his expression was bored. Then it wasn’t.

  “Huh,” he said quietly.

  He rotated the dagger again, slower this time, thumb brushing along the pale surface of the blade. His eyes narrowed, not suspicious so much as focused.

  “This material,” he said. “You know what this is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Celestial ivory,” he said. “Tooth or tusk from an angelic being. Not being metaphorical, actual angels.” He glanced at me. “The kind that bleed light.”

  I swallowed.

  “This stuff is used to kill demons and is stupid strong,” he continued. “Near indestructible. You don’t forge it the way you do metal. You need a high-level crafting class just to shape it without ruining your tools. Most people never even see a piece of it. Much less walk in with a knife made out of it.”

  He turned the dagger over again, then frowned.

  “And yet,” he muttered, “there’s something else going on here.”

  My shoulders tightened.

  He held the blade at arm’s length, squinting at it, then tapped it lightly against the counter. The sound was dull and solid, like it had hit stone.

  “There’s a strange effect layered through it,” he said. “Not an enchantment I recognize. Not hostile. Not active either. Just… there.” He shook his head once. “Can’t make heads or tails of it. All I can say for sure is that the effect is crazy strong.”

  He glanced at me again. “Interesting.”

  I did my best to keep my face neutral and said nothing. I suspected he was sensing [Magic Mouth], but I did not really want to have to explain that.

  After a moment, Garrin grunted and nodded to himself. “Doesn’t matter. Still needs a sheath.”

  He disappeared into the back of the shop and returned moments later with a plain brown leather sheath. Nothing fancy. A little worn. He slid the dagger inside, and it was immediately obvious the sheath was too large.

  I opened my mouth to say that it was fine, that as long as it stayed in place I didn’t care, when a faint blue light washed over the leather.

  I stopped talking.

  Garrin’s attention sharpened, his gaze fixed on the sheath as the leather subtly shifted. It tightened. Drew in. Smoothed itself along the blade’s outline like it had suddenly remembered what shape it was supposed to be. After a second or two, the glow faded.

  He pulled the dagger back out and slid it in again. Perfect fit.

  “There you go,” he said, handing it back.

  “What did you just do,” I asked after thanking him.

  “An [Enchanter]’s trick,” he replied casually.

  “Okay,” I said, because that felt like the correct response.

  I clipped the sheath to my belt. Thankfully, my old belt still worked with the new pants and sat comfortably enough that I barely noticed it.

  “So,” Garrin said, giving me another once-over, “you want anything else for weapons?”

  I hesitated. “I’m not exactly experienced. What would you suggest?”

  He studied me for a moment. “For people who don’t know what they’re doing yet, it’s always a spear or a club.”

  That matched my instincts well enough that I nodded immediately.

  “I’d suggest a club,” he added, already turning away. He walked over to a rack of dusty weapons along the wall. Not rusted. Just old. Forgotten. After a brief search, he pulled out something that looked more like a walking cane than a weapon. The shaft was sturdy wood, worn smooth by use, and the top was capped with a rounded metal knob about the size of a doorknob.

  He held it out to me. “Simple,” he said. “Hard to mess up. And it won’t try to stab you back.”

  “This is called a knobstick,” he said.

  Pretty simple. Pretty basic. Like a mace that didn’t want to admit it was a weapon.

  “It’s lightweight,” Garrin continued. “Easy to swing. Quicker than most things its size. Good for hitting small fast problems. Squirrels. Critters. Anything that thinks you look like food.”

  I picked it up and gave it an experimental swing. It was short, maybe three feet long, light in the hand with a solid weight at the end. The balance felt… right. I immediately felt like a kid waving around a toy lightsaber, which I did not love admitting to myself, but I could already picture using it like a bat to knock away one of those damn squirrels before it made another attempt on my nipples.

  “Alright,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  “Hold on.”

  He took the knobstick back before I could stash it and focused on it. A soft blue glow spread over the entire length, steady and deliberate, and stayed there for about ten seconds while he concentrated. When it faded, he nodded once and handed it back.

  “Put some enchantments on it,” he said. “Durability and attack. It’ll last longer, and you’ll find it easier to hit what you’re aiming for.”

  I blinked. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. Is that…expensive?”

  “Free,” he said. “Call it a new buyer special.”

  I nodded, genuinely grateful this time, and slid the knobstick into the back of my pack, angling it so it didn’t poke me in the spine.

  “So where am I at now,” I asked. “We said I had ten gold in credit.”

  He did a quick mental tally. “You’re about five gold in, all told.”

  That was… less damage then I expected.

  “Do you need food or anything else,” he asked.

  I thought about it. Between my [Magic Berry] skill and the dried rations I still had, I was probably fine for now.

  “No,” I said. “I think I’m okay there.”

  Then I hesitated. “Actually. Sorry to backtrack. We talked about copper, silver, and gold. What’s the ratio between them?”

  I could already tell by the look on his face that this was another one of those questions that confirmed I really was as new as advertised.

  “Ah,” he said slowly. “It’s a hundred between each. A hundred copper to a silver. A hundred silver to a gold.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Is that all there is, or does it keep going?”

  I realized I was smiling a little. Six gold and change sitting in my pack suddenly felt a lot more significant.

  “There are higher tiers,” Garrin said. “You just don’t see them often. Above gold is platinum. Then titanium. Then mythril. Then aluminum.”

  I stared at him. “Aluminum is last. As in above mythril.”

  “Yes.”

  “That feels wrong,” I said. “Mythril is supposed to be god-tier in every story I’ve ever heard. Aluminum is… common garbage. Back home we wrapped food in it.”

  He shot me a look like I’d just said gravity was optional.

  “You must come from a rich Earth,” he said flatly.

  He leaned back and folded his arms. “Aluminum is one of the rarest metals you can find. Hard to extract. Harder to refine. Takes absurd effort without advanced methods. Mythril grows naturally in older dungeons. Aluminum has to be wrestled out of reality.”

  That was not a sentence I had expected to hear today.

  “Huh,” I said, suddenly rethinking every soda can I had ever casually handled.

  And then a thought landed.

  I had seen aluminum here already.

  That armor. The stuff sitting in the Nymph creature's garbage heap like it was nothing. The metal I had somehow eaten with my magic and turned into my [Magic Mouth]'ed dagger. Mouthy.

  My hand drifted toward my hip before I caught myself.

  I didn't know much about the values of metal, but it felt like a safe assumption that the weight of a metal would be the same for its equivalent iweight in coins. If Garrin was right, and if each tier was a hundredfold jump, then copper to silver to gold to platinum to titanium to mythril to aluminum was five jumps above gold.

  One hundred multiplied by itself five times.

  I swallowed.

  If that armor had even ten aluminum coins worth of value, then that wasn’t just expensive. That was ten times one hundred to the fifth.

  A billion gold.

  I stood very still and very quiet while my brain carefully refused to finish that math.

  I had turned trash into a weapon worth more money than I could meaningfully imagine. By accident.

  I slowly lowered my hand and made a decision. Do not think about this. Do not say anything. Because if I did, one of two things would happen.

  Either Garrin would take my knife.

  Or someone else would decide that taking me apart was worth a spell cast for a billion gold.

  I needed to know more, though and I thought I had an idea of what happened. I cleared my throat and forced my voice to be casual. “So… Ephraim mentioned components earlier. Is that something you deal with?”

  “Oh yeah,” Garrin said immediately. “That’s most of what I sell. Do you know what you need?”

  I grimaced. “Not really.”

  He nodded like that was completely normal. “Most abilities don’t bother listing requirements. You’re expected to experiment. Or ask someone who already burned the time figuring it out.”

  I hesitated, then accepted that sleep was already off the table. “What about [Magic Mouth]?”

  His expression shifted into something knowing. “Ah. The classic.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That one.”

  “Popular,” he said. “Especially at higher levels. Big hit with the perverts.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “Of course it is. Do you know the components?”

  “It's one of the simpler ones,” he said. “Only a hundred gold.”

  “A hundred.”

  “That’s for creating a mouth externally,” he clarified. “Not enhancing your own. Different category.”

  “Is there… flexibility with the metal used?” I asked.

  “There usually is,” he said. “Costs drop as your ability level improves. You can also substitute higher-tier currency. One platinum instead of a hundred gold for example.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said slowly. “What happens if you use more?”

  He shrugged. “You upcast it sure. Roughly ten percent stronger per same amount. Depends on the spell. Hard to say what that means for [Magic Mouth], though. More responsive. More durable. Mouthier.”

  I stood there very still while that settled.

  I had not cast the spell once.

  I had cast it several thousand times over.

  Accidentally. Putting a mouth on a knife.

  What the hell would that mean? Was the [Magic Mouth] a thousand times...more mouthy?

  Fuck. I had accidentally forged Excalibur of S&M sex toys.

  Garrin watched me for a moment, then clapped his hands once. “Anyway. You’re mostly set.”

  I blinked. “Mostly.”

  He smiled, and I did not trust it. “You’re a [Bard].”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  “What do you say,” he added, already turning toward the back of the shop, “we get you an instrument?”