Markets have their charm.
Rows of stalls crowd together, selling anything and everything—a chaotic mosaic where swords rest beside fruit, armor glints next to jewelry. It's like walking through a toy box someone tipped over.
Of course, given this town's nature, most of what's sold here could kill a man.
...Wait. Grapes?
No kidding—they're selling grapes. But peeling them's a pain. Oh, grape juice! That's more like it.
"Hold on a second. I'll go buy some," I said.
"Why are you following me?" I snapped as Gram trailed at my heels.
Gram gave me a look of pure suspicion. I couldn't care less. If his head rolled off right now, I'd still go buy that juice. The problem was the small hand he held—Rubibel's. Her jewel-bright eyes darted everywhere, dazzled by the market's colors.
"Watching a dangerous man like you walk around with a child is horrifying. Someone needs to supervise you," Gram muttered.
"You just don't wanna work," I replied.
"Ah, look—clothes! These might fit Rubibel," he said, pretending to ignore me.
I ignored him right back, reaching into a basket full of folded garments and pulling out a white shirt. This is the Hero's town. Children's clothes aren't exactly common, but... she could wear this as a dress.
"Wow!"
She gasped, eyes wide. She'd lived as a slave—probably never worn anything this new, this clean. Rubibel stroked the thin fabric, wonder lighting her face.
"It's so soft! What's this made of? I've never touched cloth like this before."
I snatched it from her hands and shoved it back into the basket. Time to leave.
Right. I'd forgotten—there are two kinds of slaves. Laborers and playthings. Not all of them suffer equally. The rich treat their slaves better than some families treat their dogs. A twisted comfort, that.
The shopkeeper's glare burned into my back as we walked off. I leaned closer to Gram.
"...You got any money on you?"
"Yeah," he muttered, eyes dropping. Suspicious.
I craned my neck until our eyes met. "Don't tell me you mugged someone again."
"I did not! I earned it, fair and square!"
He yanked a pouch open and showed me gold coins, glittering in the sun. No blood on them, at least. But that didn't clear my doubts.
"Really? Strange—you said you haven't taken any quests lately. So where'd that come from?"
Gram turned away, as if my words were smoke he could wave off. I crab-walked sideways until our faces lined up again.
"I can smell it, you know. Been away from the church long enough, my nose's sharp now. That's blood I smell."
"Ugh, creepy. Fine, fine! I'll talk—just stop looking at me like that! I've got a part-time job!"
I blinked. "You? A drunk, half-retired hero, working part-time?"
"And what kind of job reeks of blood, huh? Even Rubibel smells like it."
"It's a restaurant! Run by a hero, 'The Three Little Coffins.' You've heard of it!"
Oh, great. That place. The one where they cook monsters fresh from the hunt—corpses and all. Guess that explains the smell.
"Then I suppose I can rest easy knowing your money's clean," I said with a smile.
"Wait—hey! My money—!"
I rolled the coin I'd just swiped from him between my fingers.
"You're behind on your resurrection payments, remember? Time to settle your debt. Now, Rubibel—buy anything you like. Priest's treating you today."
"What the hell are you planning, you—"
But Rubibel was already off, eyes sparkling as she flitted from stall to stall. She stopped suddenly before one, pointing.
"This! I want this one!"
"Huh? That?" I followed her finger.
"Yeah! It matches big brother's!"
It wasn't a dress. Not flowers, sweets, or trinkets. It was a gleaming axe.
It wasn't just any axe—it was a monster of a battle-axe. I reached for it, then stopped halfway. Just lifting it would probably wreck my back.
I glanced around the market. Damn it. Not a single stall sold toys for children here. I get that kids might dream of weapons, but an axe? Really? Gram's influence was clearly toxic. The girl was picking up his bad habits already.
"Well," Gram said, half-smiling, "given how rough this place is, a small knife might be fine. For cooking. Or, you know, self-defense. Look—this one shines nicely."
I picked up the knife he pointed to. Fine filigree gleamed along the blade. Small enough to suit Rubibel's hand, and sharp enough to worry me. She lit up the instant she saw it.
"Wow, it's so pretty! What's it made of? It's not silver!"
"That's right," Gram answered smoothly. "Silver rusts too fast—this one's better. Excuse me, we'll take—oh?"
The shopkeeper's face caught my eye. I knew him. The hero who'd fled the church after declaring retirement—right after his little torture episode. Didn't expect to see him again so soon.
I plastered on my most professional Priest smile.
"Well, fancy meeting you again. You still owe me your resurrection fee, remember?"
"Do I...? Oh, right, maybe," he said, scratching his cheek and looking anywhere but me.
I stepped lightly around the counter, cutting off his escape and forcing our eyes to meet.
"You haven't quit being a hero at all, have you?"
He sighed. "Soon. Just need time and coin to register at the Temple of Employment. It's packed lately, so I'm running a stall for now. I've got a good eye for goods, you see."
"Mm-hm. Then I'll be taking this knife as payment for your resurrection."
I handed the blade to Rubibel.
"Yay! Thank you, Priest!"
"Ha-ha, don't go swinging it around now."
The shopkeeper frowned deeply as she beamed at me.
"Cold as ever. You saw my body, didn't you? After what I went through, can't you show a little mercy?"
"I'll pray you never have to experience that again," I said, smiling kindly. "May the gods bless you. But mercy and debt are separate matters."
"Tch. Some priest you are."
Apparently paying resurrection fees was still too much for him. He grumbled under his breath.
"Can't believe what this town's come to. Nowhere's safe—not even in broad daylight. Damn place nearly got me killed."
"Attacked by another hero?" I asked.
"No. Torture. Caught me right in the alley."
"I see. That pattern again."
Most victims of those torture incidents were first crippled in battle with monsters. But a few were ambushed inside the city—no fight beforehand, no warning. This must've been one of those cases.
"Did you see the attacker's face?"
"Hard to, when they gouged your eyes out first."
"Anything stolen?"
"Just my life."
As I thought. Same as the others. It wasn't robbery—never was. If the goal was torture itself, then... a monster might be hiding in the city.
Not impossible. Heroes come and go constantly, few ever staying put. Unless they're in the same party, heroes barely know each other. So if a monster slipped in, who'd even notice?
And if that's true—how do you find it?
No, wait. If there really is one here, we normal folk are in trouble. Heroes can be resurrected. We can't.
"...Hm? Rubibel?"
I looked around. Through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Gram's head—moving fast, away from me.
That bastard. He ditched me and took Rubibel with him!
Fine. I had my own priorities now.
I tore through the market at full speed. If monsters were hiding in this city, then the safest plan was simple: don't go outside.
Time to stock up on supplies.
I'd barricade myself inside that blood-soaked church if I had to. Let the professionals—the heroes—deal with monsters. That's what they're for.
I slung a barrel of grape juice over my shoulder and clutched a bag of potato chips, running like the wind.
Notes:
• Gram - a male thug-like hero who frequently forgets to pay resurrection fees, occasionally snaps and tries to kill Julius, yet kind to children.
• Rubibel - a female beastkin girl and former slave, full of wild energy, plays until the heroes are distressed, part of Gram's party.