Chapter 11: The Profiteer

  Alter's lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile as he heard the question. His gaze swept slowly across the three of them before finally settling on Ronen's face. His voice was low and resonant.

  “Have you ever heard of… ‘Schr?dinger's Cat'?”

  “I know it!” Mary blurted out instantly. Her eyes ignited like struck matches, and she unconsciously loosened her grip on the hem of Zoe's sleeve.

  Alter raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, observing the timid girl who had just been shrinking behind her companions. “Oho? It seems this young mage possesses quite the refined knowledge.”

  Mary's cheeks flushed a light crimson, but her voice was much steadier than before. “I… I once assisted my mentor in organizing ancient magical manuscripts. There was a highly controversial fragment that mentioned this concept.”

  “Interesting.” Alter leaned back into his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the counter. “Then by all means, do tell.”

  Entering familiar territory seemed to transform Mary. Her back straightened, and her tone took on the focused precision of a scholar.

  “The theory was proposed by an ancient elven mage named Ervin. Long before the Great Calamity erupted, he had already prophesied its arrival.” She paused for a moment, as if recalling difficult original texts, before reciting word for word:

  “‘Excessively concentrated mana will warp the fabric of reality. When the rate of gain exceeds the gravitational pull of the plane, disordered magic sigils accumulate to form a chaotic energy field. These fields act as vortices, drawing in elemental planes to form uncontrollable ripples that eventually resonate with the participating mana, culminating in a macro-level composite disaster.’”

  A heavy silence fell over the counter.

  “I understood every individual word she said, but when they're put together…” Ronen blinked, leaning close to Zoe's ear and lowering his voice. “I don't know much about magic. What is she talking about?”

  Zoe’s brow twitched as she whispered back, “Uh… to be honest, I usually fall asleep halfway through theoretical magic lectures. That's why Master Ethan doesn't exactly fond of me. All I caught were ‘mana’ and ‘disaster.’”

  Seeing their blank expressions, Mary's brief moment of brilliance dimmed. She bit her lip and tried to explain in simpler terms, “To put it simply… it's about quantifying mana discharge—”

  “Stop.” Ronen held up a hand in a defensive gesture, interrupting poor Mary. He turned back to Alter. “Please, just tell me: what does this have to do with a ‘cat’? What breed should I be looking for? Will any mouser do?”

  At some point, Alter had used the heavy tome to hide the lower half of his face again, but his shaking shoulders betrayed him. He cleared his throat to regain his composure.

  “The young scholar’s knowledge is impressive, but some things… are better explained by me.” Alter's tone had inadvertently become more respectful toward Mary after her explanation. He idly toyed with the unfinished wood carving, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “‘Schr?dinger's Cat' is the central symbol of Ervin's theory. If you are truly interested in its specific meaning, you may consult this young lady later. However…”

  His tone shifted, and his gaze suddenly became as sharp as a blade.

  “What matters is that there is a group of people who believe in this theory. They have formed a highly secretive organization centered around it.” He paused to ensure he had their undivided attention before revealing the key.

  “The organization is called ‘Schr?dinger's Cat'. And the two sentences you heard earlier—those are their secret passphrases.”

  Ronen's eyes narrowed as he stared at Alter's mocking eyes. “Mr. Alter, since you know the code, are you a member of this organization?”

  Alter waved a hand and laughed. “In truth, many people know that code. You know it now, don't you? Knowing the code only proves you are aware the organization exists. To truly verify someone's identity, two sentences are far from enough. At most, it tells the other person you are an insider, so there's no need for polite small talk.”

  Ronen remained silent for a moment before leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Then do you know the full content of the passphrase?”

  The corners of Alter's mouth curled upward into a dazzlingly bright smile. He held up three fingers and tapped out a price on the counter, word by word:

  “Ten gold sovereigns—per sentence. I can tell you everything I know!”

  “Ten?!” Ronen nearly laughed in frustration. “You might as well just rob us.”

  “Robbery is so crude; selling information is an art,” Alter said, propping up his chin with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Since you're asking for the full code of a secret society—the moment you asked the question, weren't you already joking, little cub?”

  As Alter finished speaking, his carving knife flicked away the final sliver of wood. A wooden figure resembling him had taken shape—the features were similar, yet it couldn't quite capture the deep, swirling fatigue and cunning in his eyes.

  With a flick of his finger, he slid the carving across the counter, where it stopped steadily in front of Zoe.

  “For you, a gift for the lady. Thank you for your patronage.”

  Zoe took it, her eyes sparkling with a joy brighter than the shop's lanterns. As she stroked the wooden folds of the figure’s clothes, she began to chatter away.

  “Mr. Alter, what made you decide to open a shop here? When we came down just now, we saw someone get slashed in the street—blood was everywhere! It was so scary. Do you always stay in a place like this?”

  She asked lightly, her questions tumbling out like beads on a silk tray. Alter leaned against the counter, relaxed, answering easily—likely because these details were trivial, he didn't mention the word ‘gold’ once.

  Watching from the side, Ronen sighed silently. It seemed the lead on ‘Schr?dinger's Cat' would end here tonight. While his curiosity remained, he was practical: the mission to the Eye of the Blizzard was the priority, not chasing shadows of secret societies.

  So, what should he ask next?

  As he pondered, a roar of cheers and shouting erupted from outside, violently shattering the brief peace of the shop. The three of them turned simultaneously.

  In the arena, a man built like an iron tower was flying through the air. He hit the ropes hard before bouncing onto the floor like a broken puppet. Below, a tide of cheers and spilled liquor rose in a cruel celebration.

  His opponent, however, stood in the center of the ring, breath steady. Her bound hair remained undisturbed by the chaotic wind. Tight leather armor traced her lean, powerful silhouette. Her hands, wrapped in cloth, hung loosely at her sides. It was none other than their teammate from Dragonshield—Vivian.

  She glanced down at her fallen opponent to ensure he was finished before slowly raising her right arm. A clear, piercing cry erupted from her throat, instantly drowning out the surrounding roar.

  The crowd fell silent for a heartbeat before exploding into even more frenzied shouting.

  Alter gave a low whistle. “Impressive… she’s part of your investigation team too, isn't she? Vivian, was it?” He tapped his temple as if recalling a memory. “Even the ‘Iron Bear' fell to her. I suspect the matches might end early tonight.”

  He turned to Ronen with a playful glint in his eyes. “Little cub, why not go up and play? The entry fee is low, but the prize money… is enough to buy a few more answers from me.” His voice dropped to a seductive rhythm. “She’s your teammate. Even if you collude in secret, who would know? And even if you fight for real, you’re comrades—she won’t kill you. At worst, you’ll just take a beating.”

  Ronen kept his eyes on the figure in the arena and asked a different question: “Do you know her? She's from Dragonshield—how is she so familiar with the pits here?”

  “Now that is a proper question. As the saying goes: know yourself and your enemy.” Alter held up one finger.

  “Forget it,” Ronen looked away. “I'm not wealthy enough to pay a gold coin for dirt on my own teammate.”

  “Fair enough,” Alter laughed. “I'll give you this one for free, consider it a favor.” He began to explain on his own:

  “It is indeed her first time here. But a place like Dragonshield… how could it not have similar pits? The rules and procedures are much the same. Sparring is common among soldiers, and pit fighting isn't far behind.”

  He looked toward Vivian with a hint of admiration. “Don't let her gender fool you; she’s a celebrity in Dragonshield. I believe she has a title… ‘The Thorn of the Rose.’” He shook his head with a chuckle. “Who would have thought the Thorn of the Rose would come to Glory City’s underground pits to crush amateurs? Those poor bastards are in for a rough night.”

  He turned back, his grey-black eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “Are you really not going to try?” He tilted his head as if appraising a piece of merchandise, idly tapping a gold coin on the wooden counter. “Right now, the whole alley thinks of you as a ‘clueless little tiger cub’…”

  The coin snapped down onto the wood.

  “Strength—unknown,” he smiled wider. “If you go up and show them something, I'll have exclusive intel immediately. When I sell it, I’ll give you a twenty percent cut. What do you say?”

  Ronen had no intention of challenging Vivian, but he did feel a sudden, strong urge to punch the profiteer in front of him.

  “We have an expedition tomorrow,” he said quietly. “If you know who I am, then you know the mission is important to me.”

  “Tsk, boring.”

  Alter sighed in regret, but his eyes suddenly shifted. He reached deep under the counter and pulled out two items, placing them gently on the surface.

  A crystal vial and a short sword.

  The liquid in the vial seemed alive, emerald light snaking through it in the dim light. The short sword was frost-white, with a blue sapphire at the hilt cut into a hexagram, looking like a snowflake frozen in the deep cold.

  “High-grade healing potion,” Alter tapped the vial. “You're a mercenary; you know what this is worth. It can't raise the dead, but common wounds will heal overnight.” He looked up, continuing his enticement.

  “You and Vivian are teammates. No matter how hard it gets in the ring, she won't take your life. This potion is enough to heal any injuries you take, ensuring you start the mission tomorrow in peak condition. If you go up, win or lose, the potion is yours!”

  He slowly pushed the short sword toward Ronen, his finger tracing the blade to its icy tip.

  “And if you win…” his voice was low, like a night wind leading someone into a trap, “this blade, ‘Snow Poem,’ belongs to you.”