Old Man Jenkins

The interior of the shop was bare of any decorations.

It only had shelves upon shelves of dusty guns, slimy weapons, and rotting shields. None of the many ordinary-looking weapons on display here screamed useful, or powerful. 

But in Harambe's own experience, it was among these supposed pieces of junk that his beloved pistol, which would go on to kill countless shifters, and then rise in stature after every successful battle, was from. 

Harambe won't forget the shop owner's face when he picked out that one among the rest. He wore a look of bewilderment mixed with appreciation. 

"The Sunset Legion has yet another wonderful seedling among their ranks," He said.

The exquisite, yet unremarkable pistol was sold to him for a meager eight pieces of copper mitras. 

Now, back again at this place, Harambe thought the pieces on display had not changed. 

It was the same normal grade battle axe at the front panel. On the far corner, near the counter, lies the same normal grade lance. Several more normal grade blades hung at the dusty walls. 

Finding a bargain was like finding a needle from a haystack.

"You liked our merchandise, dear sir? By my low level appraiser's appraisal of you, you seemed to be the type that would need a trusty sword slung onto your back." The thief, who was apparently also the one in charge right now, was scrutinizing every crease of Harambe's face. "Hmmm… I recommend this gray Ubwizan short sword, used by a Legion Commander in a battle against the Shifters led by the King of Ubwiza himself! This sword's battle history is unparalleled! I'll sell it to you, at a discounted price of—"

"I'll get that chainmail for seven copper mitras." Harambe cut the blabbering of the man, and pointed his fingers at a peculiar piece of chainmail armor sticking out of a worthless suit of armor. "Not the armor, just the chainmail." 

"What? No way in hell I'll sell you that chainmail for that amount!!" The thief turned shopkeeper exclaimed. "You know what? I'll even pay you seven silver mitras to fuck off out of here!"

"Really?" Harambe was suddenly excited. He was scammed out of four silver mitras by that horse carriage rider from earlier, so regaining the four and getting paid three more silvers? 

That was a hell of a deal. 

However, he wasn't about to trust this self-proclaimed temporary shopkeeper. 

"Why should I trust you though? You're a sneaky bandit that could change appearances after all." Harambe saw through another change that had happened with the thief: He got a little taller, and a little more muscular. Changing appearances was one thing, but he even was capable of changing his body sizes.

He was not what he seemed.

"You know why?" The bandit shopkeeper unwittingly threw away the sword, and then held out a small hatchet and swung it in front of him, with the intention to kill. If someone was facing him at that moment, Harambe had no doubt he'd drawn blood. "Because I know you're also hiding your true appearance." 

"I know I don't look that handsome, but this is just what the World Tree gave me…" Harambe's voice sounded low, and hoarse, almost self-deprecating. 

"Oh… that was… uhhh… I didn't mean to offend you…" A puzzled look appeared on the shopkeeper's face. He was certain this man was hiding his true appearance. "Okay… as an apology I'll sell you this chainmail for seven silver mitras…"

Harambe was offended. The sale price was seven copper mitras already, but this thief was selling it to him as an apology for seven silver mitras. 

Is this an apology?

Harambe handed the man three copper mitras and took the chainmail without asking for the receipt. 

"How dare you!" As Harambe turned towards the door, he felt the tip of a blade at the back of his head. No one could be trusted here in Nowhere. "You gave me seven copper mitras! I said, give me seven silver mitras!"

Three copper mitras isn't exactly the same as seven silver mitras… wait…

Did he say I gave him seven copper mitras?

"Can you repeat what you just said?" Harambe was not scared of the blade at all. Instead, he asked the question that flipped him out more than this person's mood swings.

"I asked for seven silvers, instead, you gave me seven coppers!" He repeated in an annoyed tone. "You can't even understand simple instructions?"

Barging into the store at this moment was an old man with a wrinkly, clean shaven face. His eyes were on the verge of tears, and his hands had curled up in a ball. 

"What the fuck are you doing to a customer, Gen, you wimp!"

It was a voice Harambe could never forget… it just doesn't match the face in his memories. Harambe can't give up his thought that the old man's most identifiable feature— his handlebar moustache— had vanished.

"Oh, pops…" The blade on Gen's hands had disappeared to who knows where. "It's because of this shameless person!"

"It doesn't matter if he's shameless, you can't just threaten a customer like you are the law!" Once the old man had said this, Harambe realized that even this nut job appraiser had mellowed down quite a bit.

Draken will never forget the store owner's advanced battle instincts he showed him via an underhanded attempt on Draken's life decades ago after he paid for the pistol. The shop owner used a small shield to bash Draken's head to the next life, but Draken used his blood red mana to cover the pistol with a metallic sheen, absorbing the blow, and shattering the puny shield to pieces upon impact. 

The old shopkeeper then playfully waved his sudden attack off like it's nothing and said, "I was just testing you, young centurion, if you were really a good seedling or a disgusting fluker."

Harambe smiled at the turn of events. 

"Is it always like this here, old man?"

"No. I just left earlier this morning to get a haircut and left him in charge, only to come back with him assaulting you." His voice was a low, exasperated growl. "Care to tell me what happened over here?"

Harambe told the events that led up to him having a knife at the nape of his neck. The furious expression of the old owner slowly turned to an apologetic smile.

"I'm terribly sorry, young man. My son can't read, write, or count." The revelation was more than what Harambe expected. He figured out that Gen can't count, but he didn't expect his problems went further beyond that. "My son has always been unruly, but I promise you he's a good kid." 

"Pops Jenkins! Don't apologize to him." Behind the shop counter, Gen was fiddling with a pair of curved daggers that had markings Harambe was sure signifying its runic qualities. 

The old man's name is Jenkins?

Isn't that who I am looking for? 

Without betraying the emotions he's feeling right now, Harambe said. "I am fine with letting this misencounter go, if you'd allow me to take another of your wares as compensation."

"Of course!" The old man affirmed.

"No way!" At the same time, his son adamantly refused.

"I want that misappraised legendary spiked mace."

"Of course!" Old Jenkins was already on the way to get the mace.

"No way!" Meanwhile, Gen was already on the way to stop him from getting the mace.