Exploration (Welcome to the Multiverse Book 10), page 6
I couldn’t keep myself from Identifying them. This time, it came with more information, showing me that whatever node inside me that was still tied to my system was adapting to the new information it was getting from the Fey System.
Bart Muntz (Advanced Tier) Level 54
Heaven’s Equivalent: Uncommon Tier
Class: Brute Swordsman
Highest Stat: Strength
Nelson Simpson (Advanced Tier) Level 53
Heaven’s Equivalent: Uncommon Tier
Class: Duelist
Highest Stat: Agility
Each had a magic sword. Those were the only items on their persons that gave me those little glimpses of color, but somehow they felt different, less vibrant than the lamp or shower. As for their general strength, I felt like I got a good read on them, and was confident they would have been absolutely nothing to worry about. Any of us could have destroyed them without looking up from our stew.
I refocused on my food, enjoying it as I let my mind go over all the incongruities in this world.
Merca Chat emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, wiping her hands on her apron as she scanned the room with a practiced eye.
Her gaze settled on us almost immediately, and she angled her path to our table. She smelled faintly of flour and hot oil, and there was a steadiness to her posture that told me she ran this place by will as much as by reputation. She gave us a polite nod that carried just enough warmth to feel genuine.
“Food to your liking?” she asked. Her tone suggested she already knew the answer but asked out of courtesy rather than doubt. I inclined my head and answered honestly, telling her it was excellent and that the meal alone justified the inn’s reputation. That earned a brief smile before she folded her arms loosely and waited, clearly expecting more.
I took the opening and asked about Basetown, keeping my voice casual. She spoke readily enough, explaining that it was a working port first and foremost, with merchants, fishermen, and haulers making up the bulk of its population. “As much as we might not like it, though, adventurers are ultimately the lifeblood of Basetown. The name itself should be a giveaway. But what do you expect for a town built at the mouth of the Endless Dungeon?”
That piqued my interest. “The Endless Dungeon?”
Her expression was one of utter bewilderment. “I’m sorry,” I said, “we’re from a distant land, and ended up here because of magic that went astray. We didn’t even know the name of this town until you told us.”
She sucked in her breath. “Has to be the first time I’ve heard that one. Not sure what to make of it. You don’t look like elves, dwarves, or any of the others, so not sure what far-off country you come from. Never met anyone who hadn’t heard of the Endless Dungeon.”
Samvek leaned forward. “Forgive us innkeeper, we mean no offense. We are really looking to find our way here.”
“You should probably check in with the adventurers’ guild. Not doing that could end up putting you on the wrong side of the Lawkeepers. You didn’t hear this from me, but something has them all riled up, and there have been more coming in from outside than ever before. Never known a time when so many Lawspeakers were in town, and apparently some higher muckety mucks.”
I thanked her for the recommendation and information. I really didn’t want to get involved in local politics. I’d had more than enough of that in my own universe, and ever since Proximus, I’d learned that it could be difficult to know who had the right of it in any given situation.
When I asked about shops suitable for adventurers, her expression shifted in a subtle but telling way. She hesitated for a breath, then nodded once as if she had reached a decision. “There’s only one place worth your time,” she said. “Sargin’s.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice, not enough to hide the words but enough to mark them as advice rather than gossip.
She explained that Sargin was the only merchant in Basetown permitted to sell TMI items. Not everything, and not to everyone, but enough to make his shop important. His stock changed without warning, his prices were fixed, and he did not tolerate browsing without intent. From the way she said it, Sargin was less a shopkeeper and more a gatekeeper to something larger. “He’s even claiming that one of the owners of TMI used to work in his shop, if you can believe it. I don’t know about that, but I do know he had a small shop of no real note until a month ago when ships arrived with goods for him to sell.”
That caught my attention in a way I did not bother to hide. TMI, again, tied to manufactured magic and appearing in places it should not. I couldn’t help but smile at the name of that company. It probably just didn’t translate over very well, but I was half tempted to pull a Woody and say, “Tell more information.”
Instead, I thanked her again for the information and asked for directions, which she provided with crisp efficiency, tracing the route with a flour-dusted finger on the table. As she turned back toward the kitchen, I felt the faintest stir of anticipation settle in my chest. Whatever waited at Sargin’s, it was not going to be mundane.
Chapter Six: Into Basetown
We stepped out of The Purple Cat and into the press of the street, and Basetown settled itself around us. The air smelled of salt and fish and damp wood, layered with the sharper notes of exotic spices and hot oil drifting from food stalls farther down the road. Wagons creaked past at a careful pace, their wheels biting into the cobblestone street in ruts that had been formed by generations of traffic. People moved with purpose, heads down, hands busy, as though the town was responsible for setting the rhythm and everyone else followed in time.
The streets were much busier now, which made sense—it was the middle of the day. I let my gaze wander as we walked, cataloging details without pushing my Perception too hard. Market stalls lined the wider avenues, their awnings patched and sun-faded, displaying crates of dried fish, coils of rope, bolts of cloth, and baskets of root vegetables still dusted with soil. Hawkers called out prices in practiced singsong voices, competing more out of habit than desperation. Children darted between legs with the reckless confidence of those who had grown up learning exactly how close they could come to danger without touching it.
The general population fit my mental expectation for a medieval society, as did the buildings. The mana saturated everything, but the people showed no signs of magical abilities. They didn’t have auras I could perceive, and they didn’t have any magical gear. I was starting to expect it, but it still struck me as odd. If Earth had a magical saturation this high, I would have expected everyone to be epic tier at least, maybe legendary, with powerful auras and everything from their hats to their socks imbued with magic.
A patrol of Lawkeepers passed us at an intersection, white-and-gold tabards bright against the muted tones of the street. Something about them made me think of the villains from so many movies and stories, the ones who cared more about their authority than the town they were patrolling.
This time, I was able to Identify them more easily. Most were the equivalent of uncommon tier, with a couple who were actually still common. The pair who walked at the rear were higher, and that wasn’t their only difference. Most members of the patrol were warriors with heavy armor, almost like paladins, while one of the two in the back was a mage or cleric type. Identify called him a Lawspeaker, rather than a Lawkeeper, and listed him as being the equivalent of low rare tier. The other was dressed more like a rogue in breathable leather armor and had a whip-thin frame. He was called an Inquisitor, and registered as the equivalent of an epic tier. There were some stronger people here, but so far nothing that could really pose a threat to me.
It was interesting to see how the crowd moved around the Lawkeepers. Eyes darted toward them with disdain. Fear was on many faces, and mothers held their children back. They were clearly not trusted. The only people who didn’t seem bothered by them were a few of the adventurers I saw casually walk past them.
The streets narrowed as we moved away from the main thoroughfare, the noise of the market fading into a distant hum. Stone replaced plaster here, thick blocks fitted together with a precision that suggested more patience than skill. The buildings leaned inward, their upper floors jutting out just enough to steal light from the street below. Shadows pooled in the gaps, cool and still despite the bustle only a few streets away.
Foot traffic thinned, but it did not vanish. The people here walked with intent, carrying parcels wrapped in oilcloth or crates bound in iron bands. Doors were heavier, reinforced with metal straps or fitted with thick locks that had seen regular use. Even without trying, I could tell this part of Basetown served function over comfort. It felt like a place where business was conducted quietly, and consequences were remembered.
Sargin’s shop announced itself only by its refusal to blend in. The building was squat and broad, its stonework darker than its neighbors and reinforced at every corner. The windows were narrow and set deep, protected by iron grates that looked more functional than decorative. There was a single plaque mounted beside the door with a name carved into it in unadorned letters—‘Sargin’s Sundries’.
Then beneath it, as though recently tacked on, was another board—‘And Magic Goods’.
That set my mind to racing, and I wondered just how new this Tad and his magical inventory were. I shrugged it off. I had a quest to complete and, more importantly, my curiosity to satisfy. Hopefully we’d find some answers inside.
The door to Sargin’s Sundries opened into a space that felt nothing like the quiet street outside. The interior buzzed with activity, voices overlapping in clipped exchanges as clerks moved with practiced speed behind a long counter that ran nearly the length of the room. Given the few people on the street outside, I was surprised by just how many customers I saw inside.
Shelves climbed the walls, stacked with coils of rope, iron tools, lanterns, packs, and crates of supplies that bore the scuffs of constant handling. The place smelled of leather, oil, and old wood, with a faint metallic tang underneath that reminded me of sharpened steel. I could see how many of the offered items would have been useful for adventurers, especially at lower tiers.
Customers filled the floor in uneven clusters. A pair of adventurers argued quietly over the merits of one shield versus another while a clerk waited with thin patience. Near the far wall, a woman in travel-stained clothes dictated a list while a boy scratched notes into a thick ledger. Orders were called out, prices confirmed, and items passed hand to hand with little ceremony. A few of the clerks seemed to be filling out purchase orders for goods they didn’t have on hand but were going to provide in the future.
I noticed how the traffic sorted itself without signage or instruction. Locals hovered near the front, browsing mundane goods and keeping their distance from the deeper counters. Those with weapons at their hips or armor under their cloaks drifted naturally to the right side of the shop, where the shelves were sturdier and the clerks fewer but more attentive. No one crossed that invisible line without belonging there, and no one questioned it when they were turned back.
Selena paused beside me, her eyes moving over the room with quiet interest. Samvek had already shifted half a step ahead, taking in exits and angles, his posture loose but ready. I stayed where I was for a moment, letting the scene settle. The sheer volume of business told me more than any sign could have. Whatever Sargin sold, people wanted it badly enough to crowd his counters and wait their turn without complaint.
I took a breath and stepped forward, already certain that this shop was far more than a simple outfitter.
The division became obvious the moment I moved farther into the shop. A waist-high iron railing ran across the room, its end posts extending from the stone floor to the ceiling supports, separating the right side of the room from the rest. Its bars were worn smooth where hands had rested against them over the years, and a simple wooden placard hung from the nearest post with cleanly carved lettering that read ‘Licensed Adventurers Only’. There was no guard posted there, no overt enforcement, yet no one crossed it without permission.
Beyond the barrier, the shelves changed. Rope gave way to reinforced climbing lines, thicker and braided with care. Packs were stitched with doubled seams and fitted with metal rings instead of leather loops. Weapons rested in orderly racks, blades clean and well-balanced, not ornamental but clearly meant to be used. Armor hung from pegs along the back wall, the pieces mismatched in style but unified by quality. This was gear for people who expected to be hurt and planned to survive it.
I caught a few glimpses of the flittering colors I associated with the strange enchantments here, but couldn’t determine which items might be enchanted. It might have been something coming from the back of the shop. Considering the demand and what might be a limited supply, I had to imagine that was likely the case.
I pushed lightly with Identify as I watched the adventurers on that side of the shop. They ranged from common to rare tier, and the clerks were all around level 40, with classes that related to commerce.
Selena leaned closer to me, her voice low enough that only I could hear it. “Access is the product,” she said softly, “not the items themselves. Kind of like the auction.” I nodded, understanding the implication. Power here was not flashy. It was regulated, parceled out in controlled measures, and gave Sargin’s staff all the control.
Samvek’s gaze lingered on the far corner of the adventurers’ section, where a reinforced door led deeper into the building. He said nothing, but the slight tilt of his head told me he had already marked it as important. I followed his line of sight and felt my curiosity sharpen. Whatever Sargin truly sold, it was not meant for everyone, and was not meant to be seen by chance. Another possibility crossed my mind. I remembered when my sister had wanted a Tickle Me Elmo as a toddler. My mom had gone from store to store looking for one without ever being able to find the toy. The supply hadn’t lived up to the demand. That might be the case here as well.
A clerk broke away from the adventurer’s side and approached us with a neutral expression that leaned more toward tired than unfriendly. He was a broad man with ink-stained fingers and a ledger tucked under one arm, his movements economical in the way of someone who had repeated them thousands of times. He glanced at Samvek’s armor, Selena’s posture, and then settled his gaze on me. “What are you looking for?” he asked.
I answered honestly. “Information,” I said. “And possibly a conversation with Sargin. I’m interested in Tad’s Magical Inventory.” I kept my voice calm and even, as though I were asking about rope or rations, but the effect was immediate. The clerk’s brows drew together, and his eyes flicked briefly toward the back of the shop before returning to me.
“You and half the city,” he said flatly. “We’re sold out.” He shifted his ledger, then launched into a response he probably said a hundred times that day. “All TMI stock is currently unavailable. You can put your name down for future shipments, but I wouldn’t recommend waiting around.” His tone suggested waiting would be a fool’s errand.
I nodded, then pressed gently. “Sold out implies there was stock. When will more arrive?”
That earned me a long look, the kind meant to assess whether a customer was persistent or simply slow. He exhaled through his nose and lowered his voice a fraction. “We don’t get schedules,” he said. “Shipments come when they come. Sometimes it’s every week, other times it’s several weeks between shipments. Depends on factors that aren’t shared with us.” He hesitated, then decided I looked well-off enough for his next sentence. “What we are doing is taking custom orders.”
The way he said that last part made it sound significant. A good portion of my magical items had come from quest rewards or dungeon loot, but there were also plenty of items which had been crafted either by or for me. Custom orders didn’t seem all that significant, but he was acting as if he were offering me the sun.
The clerk broke me out of my musings. “I would also have to confirm your status with the guild. They’ve been cracking down on us, and between the Order and the guild, it’s put a strain on who we can sell to. I’m only talking to you because you have the look.”
I didn’t answer, but locked eyes with him. If I could stare down a goddess bent on unmaking me, a clerk in some shop wasn’t going to ruffle my feathers. When I didn’t answer immediately, he became impatient. “Do you have something you wanted to order, or no?”
“Perhaps, but I’m only going to discuss that with your boss.” I hated doing it, but I was getting tired of this act already. I flexed Trailblazer’s Aura, and I could see the moment the wave hit him. His knees went weak and he stumbled back, only to catch himself on the counter. His resistance crumbled.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, already turning away.
I smiled and nodded. Charisma certainly had its uses.
Chapter Seven: Sargin
The door at the back of the shop opened without ceremony. It was not slammed or thrown wide, simply opened, but the effect rippled outward all the same. Conversations dipped to a careful quiet, and I felt attention shift as surely as if someone had rung a bell. The man who stepped through the doorway was older than I expected, his hair iron-gray and cut short, his build solid without being bulky.
Sargin looked like someone who had once been dangerous and had learned how to remain so without needing to prove it. His eyes moved over the room in a slow sweep before settling on the clerk, who straightened instantly. “What’s the problem?” Sargin asked, his voice low and rough, more tired than angry. “I was told there was noise.”
The clerk gestured toward us, clearly relieved to be handing responsibility upward. “They’re asking about TMI,” he said. “Insisted on speaking with you.”
Sargin’s gaze shifted to me, then to Selena, then to Samvek. He took his time, weighing us the way a merchant weighs coins by feel rather than scale. “Adventurers,” he muttered. “Always rowdy, always convinced they’re special.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you want?”
