Isolde’s eyelid twitched.
That range of services made Orren’s shop sound like some otherworldly superstore where every strange thing imaginable was available.
Orren raised a hand and snapped his fingers.
A scroll of parchment flew from a drawer inside the traveling shop. It unfurled before him, then turned to face Isolde.
[Special Body Transport Contract.]
[Purchaser, Duke Valen Sylvain.]
[Merchandise, One High-tier Sacred Body.]
[Deposit, Paid.]
[Remaining Balance, Outstanding.]
The moment Isolde saw “Remaining Balance,” she realized the delivery was not a free gift.
“Valen is dead,” she said gently. “You can collect the money from him.”
Orren spread his hands. The painted smile on his mask seemed to widen.
“Regrettably, my noble lady, Clause Thirty-Seven states that if the purchaser dies, the remaining debt passes to their successor.”
His neck turned with a stiff motion, bringing the white mask around to face her.
“And you are now the master of Sylvain Castle.”
Isolde rolled her eyes inwardly.
She hadn’t known anything about the contract, yet the debt had been forced onto her. How was that anything but a predatory clause?
“Are all wandering merchants this shameless?”
Orren tapped the smiling white mask with one finger.
“My noble lady, the face is false. The contract is real.”
Isolde fell silent.
She had never heard anyone make shamelessness sound so commercially refined.
Orren calmly added, “Besides, wandering merchants do not make their living with their faces.”
He bowed slightly, placing his right hand over his heart like a devout believer.
“We rely upon honest trade, fair terms, and the occasional merciful smile of the Contract God.”
Isolde almost laughed from sheer irritation.
“You call this mercy?”
“Of course,” Orren replied. “Without divine mercy, you would not be facing an outstanding balance. You would be suffering the backlash of a broken contract.”
Isolde stared at the parchment.
“So Valen placed the order, Valen died, and I got stuck with the bill?”
“To be precise, you inherited Duke Valen’s castle, authority, estate, and every unsettled obligation he left behind.”
Orren’s voice remained pleasant.
“Inheritance has never been selective.”
Isolde smiled.
“What if I refuse the body?”
“The merchandise has already arrived.”
“I haven’t accepted it.”
“The castle gates were opened.”
“I did that out of courtesy.”
“Courtesy is part of receiving a guest.”
“Does the Contract God specialize in sheltering con artists?”
Orren raised his head. The painted smile on his mask never moved.
“A con artist denies the truth. A merchant merely chooses which truths to emphasize.”
Isolde had no answer to that.
Now she understood.
Orren wasn’t merely shameless. He had practically branded the words “crooked merchant” across his mask.
She had barely finished disposing of Valen and hadn’t even had time to enjoy inheriting a castle, becoming a Boss, and gaining an absurd advantage over everyone else.
Then reality slapped her with a bill.
People could return from the dead, but debt lived forever.
She had somehow ended up paying for her dead adoptive father’s purchase.
Isolde took a deep breath and tried to preserve the dignity of Sylvain Castle’s new master.
“Fine. Let me inspect it first.”
She wanted to see whether the “material” Valen had ordered at such expense was worth inheriting the bill for.
Orren seemed to have been waiting for those words.
He snapped his fingers.
Small drawers along both sides of the traveling shop sprang open. Countless slender, withered branches emerged from them like well-trained arms.
They reached behind a mountain of clutter and wrapped themselves around a massive coffin.
The coffin struck the ground with enough force to make it tremble.
Moon patterns covered its surface. Frost-iron spikes secured its four corners, and white mist constantly leaked through the seams.
Wherever the mist touched the ground, a thin layer of frost formed at once.
Isolde narrowed her eyes.
“What’s inside?”
Orren raised one finger.
The branches deftly pried away the frost iron and pushed open the lid.
The moment the coffin opened, cold air poured out as though someone had placed an entire winter night before the castle gates.
Lia silently stepped forward and draped a fur-lined cloak over Isolde’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” Isolde murmured instinctively.
Her attention quickly returned to the coffin.
She looked inside, and her pupils contracted.
The broken body of a unicorn lay within.
Dried blood covered its entire body. Its once-silken coat had become a tangled mess, and deep cuts scarred its chest, belly, and limbs.
Its long silver-gold horn had snapped off and lay beside it.
Dark patterns covered the broken edge, as though some corrupt power had seeped into it.
Isolde had heard of unicorns in her previous life.
In this world, they were extraordinarily rare sacred beasts.
They possessed a natural affinity for holy light and could suppress undead creatures, decay, and forbidden magic.
No matter how she looked at it, such a creature had no place on Valen’s shopping list.
What had he planned to do with it?
Serve it as a palate cleanser before the main course?
Orren seemed to notice her confusion and offered an explanation.
“The last adult Mooncrown Unicorn from the Northlands.”
“Its blood can purify corruption. Its bones can channel holy spells, and its horn can break dark barriers. For equipment modification or potion brewing, it is also a Legendary core material.”
Orren’s voice grew noticeably more cheerful as he continued.
“Duke Valen intended to embed fragments of its horn into his spine.”
He spread his hands slightly.
“Unfortunately, he did not live long enough to receive the shipment.”
Isolde looked at the corpse.
A gray status screen slowly appeared before her.
[Special Body, Mooncrown Unicorn.]
[Quality, Legendary.]
[Status, Deceased.]
[Warning, A Lingering Final Wish remains within the body.]
[Echo, If the name of purity must bring ruin, then I shall drink every curse and defile the final dawn upon the sacred altar.]
Isolde’s gaze paused.
She had assumed that even in death, a unicorn’s final wish would involve holy light, forgiveness, salvation, or some other predictable blessing.
Instead, every word before her was steeped in hatred.
Even “hatred” seemed too mild to describe it.
Isolde lowered her eyes toward the broken horn.
It should have been as pure as moonlight.
Now it looked as though resentment had stained it black, inch by inch.
“How did it die?” she asked softly.
Orren seemed to have been waiting for the question. His voice behind the white mask remained impeccably courteous, with an unsettling hint of delight.
“My noble lady, unicorns are difficult to obtain, especially alive.”
“They are kind, pure, and repulsed by corruption. They rarely enter human territory. But they possess one fatal weakness.”
Isolde looked up.
“What is it?”
Orren slowly tilted his head.
“Memory.”
“Before a Mooncrown Unicorn dies, it passes everything it last saw, heard, and felt to every surviving member of its kind.”
Isolde frowned.
“How is that a weakness?”
“It is most certainly a weakness.”
Orren laughed softly.
“Because memory is not the only thing that can be passed on.”
He looked into the coffin, and his voice slowed.
“Fear, pain, regret, despair, and hatred travel with it.”
“When one dies, every survivor bears that death.”
“If ten die, it hears ten final cries. If a hundred die, it lives through a hundred massacres.”
Orren paused. His voice grew heavy, almost like a funeral prayer.
“And if it is the last one…”
The painted smile on his mask looked especially disturbing through the cold mist.
“My noble lady, what do you suppose it would do?”
“Seek revenge,” Isolde said quietly.
Orren snapped his fingers with delight.
“Correct. It sought revenge.”
“Unfortunately, it failed.”
Isolde frowned.
“Did they torture it?”
Orren tilted his head.
“For a very long time.”
“I made a deal with its keepers and barely managed to recover what remained of the body.”
His tone suddenly brightened, as though he had finally reached the price sheet.
“Naturally, such expenses do not come cheap.”
Isolde looked up at him.
“Are you expecting praise?”
“Certainly not.”
Orren bowed politely.
“A merchant never asks for praise.”
“A merchant simply includes every cost in the final price.”
Isolde stared at him.
The weight of the story had nearly settled over her before Orren kicked it aside with a bill.
He truly had a gift.
One moment, he was recounting an epic tragedy.
The next, he was submitting an expense report.
Was this the true face of capitalism?
Isolde drew a slow breath and looked back at the Mooncrown Unicorn.
It was already dead.
Yet its Lingering Final Wish still burned inside its broken body like a flame that refused to go out.
Isolde turned back to Orren.
“I’ll take it. How much is the remaining balance?”