Today was just as strange as the days before it.
Which is becoming a problem.
Not because strange things keep happening.
Because they no longer feel particularly strange.
I suspect this is how adaptation begins.
Quietly.
Without permission.
Without warning.
This morning I returned to Old Shard's shop with Ryn.
As usual, Old Shard attempted to hug her.
As usual, Ryn kicked him in the face.
Neither party seemed surprised.
Neither party appeared offended.
At this point, I have begun mentally categorizing this as a greeting ritual.
I am not certain this is healthy.
But neither is half the world.
Afterward I spent most of the morning speaking with Old Shard.
Or more accurately—
playing with artifacts while Ryn slowly lost the will to live.
Old Shard claims I have talent.
I am not entirely sure whether this is a compliment.
He says artifacts respond to me unusually well.
Personally I think the artifacts simply enjoy causing trouble.
Much like their owner.
The first artifact he lent me was called the Ring of Fatamorgana.
I love it.
Immediately.
Completely.
Its effect is simple.
Whatever image I imagine can be projected into the air.
Not solid.
Not real.
Just light.
Moving light.
Beautiful light.
The projections can move naturally as long as I maintain concentration.
Naturally, I used this power responsibly.
By terrifying Spathian.
I created an illusion of Ryn.
Perfectly still.
Standing directly behind him.
Then I said nothing.
Old Shard said nothing.
We simply waited.
Spathian noticed eventually.
And froze.
Completely.
Absolutely motionless.
Like a deer that had accidentally discovered taxation.
Several long seconds passed.
Then he slowly turned.
Found nothing.
Turned back.
Found Ryn again.
I nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Old Shard failed completely.
The next artifact was even stranger.
A Puzzle Cube.
A medium-sized cube made from glossy material unlike wood, stone, or metal.
Each face contained nine smaller squares.
Different colors.
Red.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
White.
Orange.
The layers rotated.
Twisted.
Shifted endlessly.
At first I assumed it was decorative.
Then Old Shard informed me it was a puzzle.
A horrifying puzzle.
Because every time I fixed one side—
another side became worse.
Every solution appeared specifically designed to create new problems.
Which reminded me slightly of merchant families.
Eventually I solved it.
The cube immediately made a happy sound.
Like a pleased cat.
Or an excited puppy.
Then it scrambled itself again.
I stared at it.
The cube stared back.
Emotionally.
We entered a long-term conflict.
Then came the Wind Blade.
Which may be one of the greatest inventions ever created.
Technically it is not a blade.
It merely resembles a sword hilt.
When activated, concentrated currents of air emerge from the front.
According to Old Shard, it was originally intended as a utility artifact.
Useful for cooling.
Drying.
Ventilation.
And removing insects.
I immediately understood its genius.
Deep Red nearly killed us.
Anything capable of creating cool air should receive national recognition.
Old Shard proudly showed me one installed above his hammock.
The airflow rocked the hammock gently.
Keeping him cool.
I respected him deeply in that moment.
Possibly more than some rulers.
There were dozens of other artifacts.
Perhaps hundreds.
The more I explored the shop, the more I realized something.
I genuinely enjoy being here.
Old Shard lets me borrow almost anything.
The only price is allowing him to hold my Infinity Bag.
This arrangement seems fair.
Perhaps suspiciously fair.
But fair.
By afternoon, however, disaster arrived.
Its name was Ryn.
She informed us that tomorrow we would enter the Heartspike Catacombs.
I nearly dropped the Puzzle Cube.
This surprised me.
Because until now she repeatedly insisted we had no plans to enter the Vault.
When I pointed this out, she sighed.
A familiar sigh.
The sigh of a merchant discovering reality has once again become inconvenient.
Apparently the problem is cargo space.
Specifically—
there are not enough artifacts available to confiscate from Old Shard.
Because Old Shard keeps protesting.
And hiding things.
And lying.
Mostly hiding things.
According to Ryn, her cargo allocation for Dunskar is still not full.
Therefore we need additional inventory.
Which sounds considerably less heroic than every treasure-hunting story I have ever read.
I informed her that I would prefer staying here.
Spathian agreed immediately.
Unfortunately our opinions were rejected.
Ryn informed us we would both be coming.
I asked why.
Spathian asked why.
Ryn answered:
"To save money."
Which somehow explained everything and nothing simultaneously.
Eventually she revealed the actual plan.
We are only traveling to the fifth floor.
Apparently there is a neutral trading zone there.
A market.
A genuine market.
Inside a Treasure Vault.
I am beginning to suspect civilization is incapable of behaving normally.
According to Ryn, many goods sold there are significantly cheaper.
Because they come directly from the source.
No middlemen.
No resellers.
No merchant inflation.
Her eyes visibly brightened while explaining this
It was slightly frightening.
Then she explained why Spathian was required.
As a guard.
Spathian looked horrified.
He immediately pointed out that he has never fought phantoms before.
Ryn looked confused.
Then asked a question.
"When you spar with Ronan, who wins?"
Spathian answered casually.
"Usually fifty-fifty."
Ryn nodded.
"Then you'll be fine."
I remained silent.
Something about this exchange felt deeply unfair.
Later we visited the Adventurer Guild.
A massive building overflowing with hunters.
Mercenaries.
Explorers.
Treasure seekers.
The sort of people who appear in stories immediately before making poor decisions.
At the reception desk I learned something unexpected.
Ryn possesses a hunter certification.
Silver Rank.
Officially registered as a Porter.
Not a hunter.
A Porter.
The distinction apparently matters.
According to her, the certification allows her to legally transport artifacts without requiring direct The Elder supervision.
Which sounds exactly like something Ryn would obtain.
Not because she enjoys adventure.
But because paperwork became annoying.
The final surprise arrived shortly before sunset.
We visited an armorsmith.
Immediately my imagination betrayed me.
I pictured shining armor.
Legendary weapons.
Glorious preparation.
Perhaps even enchanted equipment.
Instead—
Ryn collected a cart.
A small reinforced transport cart she had apparently left for repairs.
Metal frame.
Heavy wheels.
Multiple hidden compartments.
A sturdy towing handle.
That was all.
I was disappointed.
Profoundly.
I was moments away from asking whether we would receive actual equipment.
Then Ryn demonstrated the cart.
I no longer have questions.
Several training dummies stood nearby.
Old targets.
Worn from repeated impacts.
Ryn grabbed the towing handle.
Lifted the entire cart.
And swung it.
Not pushed.
Not dragged.
Swung.
Like a war hammer.
The reinforced frame screamed through the air.
Metal whistled.
Momentum built instantly.
Then—
impact.
The first dummy exploded.
Not collapsed.
Exploded.
Wood fragments launched in every direction.
Before I fully processed this, the cart continued its arc.
Second impact.
Another dummy shattered.
Third impact.
The last one disintegrated completely.
The entire motion lasted only seconds.
The cart rotated around her like some monstrous steel flail.
A merchant's weapon.
A traveling warehouse transformed into blunt-force trauma.
The armorsmith nodded approvingly.
As though this was a reasonable use for transportation equipment.
I quietly decided against requesting armor.
If necessary, I will simply stand behind Ryn.
Preferably very far behind Ryn.
Tomorrow we enter the Heartspike Catacombs.
Technically.
Only the fifth floor.
Only a market.
Only shopping.
According to Ryn.
Yet somehow this explanation feels suspicious.
Perhaps because every major disaster in my life has begun with someone saying:
"It will be simple."
As I finish writing, I find myself thinking about the stories I read as a child.
The heroes always entered dungeons carrying legendary weapons.
Magnificent armor.
Sacred relics.
Grand destinies.
Meanwhile our expedition currently consists of:
A merchant carrying legal documents.
A genius studying a spoon.
And me.
Accompanied by a woman capable of using a cargo cart as a siege weapon.
I am beginning to suspect storybooks exaggerate many things.
At the very least—
monster hunting appears significantly less glamorous than advertised.
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