“You really brought the horn back!” Mr. Alba, the gem merchant, burst out, his excitement glittering like fresh-cut quartz.

Shelika glanced at his eyes, bulging like startled fish, then set the wrapped horn on the counter, one tip peeking out like a crescent under silk.

“That means the commission’s done, right?” Her voice was calm, cool as a blade dipped in spring water.

“Heh-heh, of course.” He bent at the waist like a reed in wind, peered at the horn, then beamed like a sunrise over glass.

While they spoke, teams of hunters hurried past outside, boots beating like streams rushing through stone.

Shelika fell silent, turned to watch, and saw busyness swell like ants boiling from a nest.

“So many more hunters.” Her sigh fogged the air like breath on cold glass.

Mr. Alba’s tone settled back to plain, steady as a worn ledger. “Yeah. They answered the lord’s call, banners flapping like storm-wet cloth.”

She saw their faces, heavier than usual, like clouds packed with rain, and asked, curious as a cat’s paw, “What brings them to Oriel City?”

“To resist the beast tide,” he said, with a pause like a stone dropped in a well. “I thought you shared their aim, like ships heading for the same squall.”

“I’m but a traveler lodging here, a passing cloud,” she said, voice soft as dusk.

“I figured as much,” he replied, a small ripple smoothing back into the pond.

After a few lines of idle talk, her patience thinned like paper in flame. “Another day, then. I take my leave,” she said, a sleeve’s edge flicking like a swallow’s wing.

“Wait,” he called, like a bell struck in a quiet hall. “Bring your artifact here.”

Shelika turned, confusion pricking like frost. “Didn’t I already bring you the Scarlet Winged Dragon’s horn?”

“Yes,” he said, a wince tight as a knotted string. “So I need to swap off the two defective cores on your piece.”

“No wonder you weren’t afraid I’d run off with the goods.” Heat flared first, anger like a red tassel snapping in wind. “If those two duds had failed while I fought the winged dragon, how would you answer?” Her brows arched like drawn bows.

Mr. Alba’s smile strained, thin as gold leaf. “In this trade, faces lie like masks, and I’ve seen plenty. Be generous, please—like a river letting silt pass.”

“You think forgiveness is a coin you can flick?” Her words struck like pebbles against bronze.

“Alright, then.” He raised both hands, palms open like empty plates. “I’ll put in good Dragonheart cores, and toss in a spell core too. How’s that?”

“An extra one?” Distrust cooled her tone, a veil of dust over glass. “Don’t tell me it’s another dud.”

“No, no!” He waved quickly, like sparrows scattering from a branch.

She saw sincerity steady in his eyes, a candle that didn’t gutter. Reluctance eased like snow under sun. “What are you offering?”

“Hold on. Let me fetch my treasures from the box,” he said, words rustling like velvet.

He lifted three neat artifact boxes from the safe, each small and precise like lacquered shells.

He set them in a row and opened them, lids blooming like petals, revealing three cores with different gleams, like fruits under dawn.

He pointed to the leftmost, pale gold, its semi-transparent heart bearing a tiny shield, like a seed of iron in amber. “This is Guardian. It seals a 5th-level protective spell, Earth Bastion. Feed it mana, no incantation needed—like calling walls from the ground—to shield yourself in danger.”

He tapped the middle, deep red, its ring-pattern a short spear circling like a comet’s track. “This is Roarer. Inside is a 6th-level night art, Crimson Roar. Also no chant; it fires a blood spear, deadly as a thorned bolt—use it right, and victory comes easy.”

He indicated the rightmost, glowing violet, semi-transparent yet unmarked, like still water holding moonlight. “This is Sword-Soul. It holds a 5th-level enchantment, Mana Longsword. If you favor the blade, Sword-Soul makes a fine choice.”

Shelika listened, hesitation pooling like ink. The three were all good, bright as three stars.

But one thought pricked sharper, a fox behind silk. How did a mere gem merchant hold such high-tier cores?

“If I recall,” she asked, voice steady as temple bells, “spell cores for 5th level and above are temple-managed, gates shut like iron. How did you get these?”

He shrugged, casual as a man under rain. “Frontlines burn like summer lightning, and monsters run rampant like weeds. Ordinary folks stash things—it’s normal.”

“True,” she said, the word a leaf falling flat.

She thought a while, head bowed, silence like snow settling. His anxiety rose, a candle flickering thin. “Miss, have you decided? Which one?”

Her hand—slender and rounded like a willow branch—lifted, one pale finger pointing to the rightmost box, touch light as a petal on glass. Her lips, faintly pink like dawn, formed her choice. “Give me this—Sword-Soul.”

“What?” He blinked, surprise popping like a bubble. “Are you sure you want that?”

She didn’t answer at once. Arms crossed like a shield, chin tilted a hair like a crescent moon. “Any problem?” she asked, mild heat in her tone like coals under ash.

He wavered, concern thin as paper. “You don’t look like someone who uses a sword. Can you wield Sword-Soul well?”

“No problem,” she said, clipped as a snapped thread.

“Alright… I’ll mount it now,” he said, settling like a craftsman before his bench.

Mr. Alba took True Crimson Whirl, its scarlet sheen like a hawk’s feather, and set to work with instruments chirping like silver birds.

In a short while, two fine cores were fixed, their fresh power glowing along the blade like spring light through leaves.

He offered it to her, reluctant as a man parting with a keepsake. “Alright, take it.”

Shelika lifted the weapon, holding it up so the faint glow ran along the sword’s skin like dew on steel. Strength rose in her body, a tide filling a bay, as the cores woke.

“If anything goes wrong, come back,” he said, voice steady like hammered iron. “As long as you don’t rough it up, I can repair for free. If a core breaks, you’ll pay.”

“Thanks,” she said, gratitude brief as a nodding reed.

“Hope you bring more valuable monster parts next time!” He smiled, eyes folding like crescent moons. “See you!”

Leaving the central exchange, Shelika returned to the Gray Pearl Inn, afternoon light spilling like warm honey.

The landlady, a woman of the Demonic Human Race, sat behind the reception, painting her nails, lacquer shining like a tiny lake.

Seeing Shelika, she lifted her head, voice soft as cotton. “Oh? You’re back.”

Annoyance pricked first, a mosquito at the ear, though not disgust. She didn’t understand why a stranger chased her words like a child chasing kites, and not other guests.

She held the feeling like a pebble and answered, smooth as water. “Mm. I’m back.”

The landlady glanced outside, sun blazing like a furnace, and asked, “With heat like that, aren’t you afraid?”

“Why should I be?” Shelika said, cool as frost on stone.

The woman’s eyes slid over Shelika’s pale, tender skin, porcelain against her own weathered clay, and she sighed like a wilted flower.

Shelika didn’t get it, silence folding around her like a shawl, and she walked toward the stairs with steps drifting like shadowed water.

“By the way, better not go out these days,” the landlady called, voice like a hand catching a sleeve.

“Why?” Shelika turned, the word sharp as a pin.

“Don’t you know? The beast tide’s close, a storm at the gates,” she said. “The city will be messy. You’re a girl—protect yourself, like closing windows before rain.”

Shelika heard the tone first, simple care like bread and salt, and her mood smoothed like a quiet lake. “Don’t worry,” she said, reassurance gentle as a palm on a door.