Chapter 12

The next day, it didn't surprise me that the entire city seemed to move in slow motion, as though collectively nursing the aftermath of an epic hangover. Yesterday's festival had drained the energy from the streets, leaving them eerily quiet. The usual hustle and bustle of the market was absent, and people walked around with half-lidded eyes and sluggish steps. The day after a celebration like that, apparently, was reserved for recovery.

It was fine by me. I had work to do.

The back room of my shop had become my sanctuary—a quiet, secluded space where I could focus on something far more intricate than simple repairs. Today, I was determined to get further into the heart of the rune system. I'd gathered quite a bit of information from the library over the past week, and the pieces were starting to come together. The runes were like a language, a form of communication between mana and the world. But not just a simple one—no, it was more like a deeply complex and nuanced code, with grammar, syntax, and structure.

I knew the basics of runes, enough to get by. But what I'd been learning recently? It was starting to crack open a whole new level of understanding. These runes weren't just about simple functions like heating something up or cooling it down. They could be directed to perform much more complicated actions—things I hadn't even considered before. Not just heat, but heat to a specific temperature, for a specific time, at a controlled rate. Or multiple effects at once, layered together to create something far more sophisticated than what I'd seen in the marketplace.

And that made me curious. Why hadn't I seen more of this complexity in the runes around the city? Most of the rune work I'd come across was basic—functional but not elegant. Had the knowledge of advanced rune crafting been lost? Or was it simply reserved for the rich and powerful? I imagined that those at the top of the social ladder had access to far more advanced magic, leaving the scraps for everyone else. It was a pattern that repeated itself across all societies, wasn't it?

I sat down, my tools laid out in front of me, and began the process of working through the runes I'd memorized. Slowly but surely, I started to make connections that hadn't been obvious before. I began sketching out the more intricate combinations, testing how they interacted with each other. The syntax was everything—it wasn't just about slapping runes together like puzzle pieces. You had to guide them, direct them with precision.

It was like coding for magic.

And then there was the matter of imagination. This, I realized, was key. I'd always known that when I infused the runes with mana, my mind played a role. But now I could see just how crucial that role was. The runes were a framework, but my imagination, my intent, shaped how the mana flowed through them. It wasn't enough to simply draw the rune and let it do its work—I had to guide it, think it through, feel the outcome in my mind before the magic would respond the way I wanted.

I began working on something for myself—something more practical than the fireball-slinging spear or the shield that repelled force. I wanted something subtle, something that would protect me without drawing attention. I focused on my tunic. It was a simple piece of clothing, but with the right runes, I could turn it into something far more valuable.

Protection, but hidden.

I carefully inscribed the runes onto the inside of the fabric, where they wouldn't be visible. The idea was simple in theory, but the execution was complex. The tunic wouldn't just repel fire—oh no, I was going to make sure it could defend against blunt force, blades, and any other physical attacks. And all of this needed to remain inactive until the moment of impact. That was the tricky part.

As I worked, I felt the familiar pull of mana leaving me and infusing the runes. But this time, I had more control. I knew what I was doing, how to focus my energy and guide it into the fabric. The runes glowed briefly as the magic settled into place, then faded, leaving nothing behind but the ordinary appearance of the tunic.

I stepped back, wiping the sweat from my forehead. The tunic looked... plain. Unremarkable. But I knew what was hidden within it, and that knowledge gave me a strange sense of satisfaction.

Of course, this wasn't something I could sell—at least not yet. The people of this city didn't seem ready for magic this advanced, and revealing what I could do would draw far too much attention. No, for now, this was for me. A layer of protection that no one else needed to know about.

I couldn't help but smirk as I held up the tunic, turning it over in my hands. If someone tried to stab me, they'd be in for a rude surprise.

The more I worked with these runes, the more I realized that there were endless possibilities here. The combinations, the potential—it was all starting to unfold before me like a giant map of untapped power. The question was, how far could I take it? How deep could I go before someone noticed?

As I continued to tinker with a few other items, adding smaller, simpler runes for heat control and minor protection, I found myself reflecting on the sheer power that lay beneath the surface of this city. If I could unravel just a fraction of what the elite must know, I could position myself in a way that no one here could touch me. That was the dream, wasn't it? To rise above the fray, to wield enough knowledge and power that you didn't have to play by anyone else's rules.

But for now, I needed to stay low. Keep my head down, learn more, and—most importantly—avoid drawing attention. This city was old, and the power structures were deeply entrenched. You didn't just walk in and start changing the game without people noticing.

I set aside the tunic and stretched, feeling the stiffness in my muscles from hours of concentrated work. My mind was still buzzing with ideas, but I needed a break. Stepping outside, I was greeted by the soft glow of the late afternoon sun. The market was still relatively quiet, the usual energy of the place subdued by the lingering effects of the festival.

As I walked through the streets, observing the way life slowly trickled back into its usual rhythm, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. I was getting closer—closer to understanding this world, closer to mastering the runes, closer to figuring out my place in this strange society.

The lower part of the city had a unique rhythm. As I wandered through the narrow streets, I couldn't help but notice the remnants of the festival still lingering in the air. The scent of yesterday's feast seemed to cling to the walls, the faint trace of spices and roasted meat still detectable. Life was slowly returning to normal, but there was a sort of sluggishness to it, as if everyone was still recovering from the festivities. People moved a little slower, their steps more deliberate, their voices softer as they greeted neighbors or handled routine tasks.

From outside their homes, I got a glimpse into typical Roman family life. Doorways framed small domestic scenes—mothers bustling about with children underfoot, older women preparing food or knitting, men either lounging in conversation or preparing for the day's work. Family life here wasn't all that different from what I imagined it might have been back on Earth, yet everything seemed more structured, more traditional. The women worked quietly, efficiently, always with an eye on the children. Men were clearly the center of the household, discussing matters with an air of authority, while the women operated in the background, just out of the limelight but keeping everything running.

The family dynamic here felt like a throwback to ancient times—because, well, it was. The father was the undisputed head of the house, and daughters… daughters were different. I saw them peeking out from windows, looking out shyly from behind doorframes, always under watchful eyes. It didn't take long to understand that girls in this society were carefully protected, and their movements, relationships, and futures were all very much controlled by their families. The contrast between the freedom of the men and the tight control over the women was palpable, like two different worlds coexisting within the same walls.

As I walked, I found myself drawn to a small tavern that had a younger, more energetic feel to it. The sign above the door was worn but still clear, and from the sounds inside, I could tell this wasn't the usual quiet haunt for older men discussing politics or family matters. This was a place for younger men—people closer to my own age, looking for a break from their responsibilities, a place to complain, boast, and perhaps find some solidarity in shared frustrations.

I stepped inside, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. The smell of cheap wine and worn wood hit me instantly, mingling with the warmth of too many bodies in a small space. The tavern wasn't packed, but there was a comfortable hum of conversation. Men were scattered around in small groups, nursing drinks, talking loudly over the noise, laughing at jokes that probably weren't all that funny. Typical stuff. I figured if I was going to learn more about the social dynamics here, this was as good a place as any.

I found a corner table, ordered a drink that smelled like vinegar but tasted surprisingly smooth, and settled in. I wasn't planning to make a scene—I needed to listen, first. Figure out what was on the minds of men like me, craftsmen and workers trying to carve out their place in this strange, rune-driven society. I listened to snippets of conversation drifting through the room. There were plenty of complaints—about the cost of materials, about how families hoarded their wealth, about the ever-present risks of living in a world where monsters weren't just tales told to scare children but real, dangerous threats.

One table in particular caught my eye. A group of craftsmen sat there, their hands rough and their clothes marked with the signs of hard work. They were talking in low, frustrated tones, and from the way they kept glancing around, I could tell they were griping about more than just the usual fare. I nursed my drink a little longer, listening carefully before deciding it was time to make a move.

With a bit more confidence than I probably felt, I got up and approached the table. "Mind if I join you?" I asked, flashing a friendly smile. "I'll cover the next round."

They exchanged glances, the universal language of men deciding whether or not to let a stranger in on their complaints. But the mention of free drinks won them over. They motioned to an empty seat, and I slid into it, ordering another round for the group.

As soon as the drinks arrived, I leaned back, listening more than speaking. "Long day?" I asked, keeping it light, knowing the best way to get people talking was to ask simple questions and let them fill the silence.

One of the men, a heavyset blacksmith with arms like tree trunks, grunted. "Long life, more like," he muttered, taking a deep swig from his mug.

"That bad?" I prompted, raising an eyebrow.

"It's the women," another man, younger and leaner, said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "They're all locked up, kept under the thumb of their families. How's a man supposed to find anyone when you can't even get close to them?"

I nodded, showing sympathy. It was a common complaint, and it lined up with what I'd seen outside. "Daughters are tightly controlled, huh?"

"Controlled?" The blacksmith laughed, a rough sound. "That's putting it lightly. You'd think they were made of gold, the way their fathers guard them. Can't look at a girl without her old man breathing down your neck."

Another man chimed in, older, with lines of frustration etched into his face. "It's always been that way. Fathers control everything—their daughters, their futures. They marry 'em off to whoever can offer the best deal, the most security. Love doesn't come into it."

I kept nodding, encouraging them to keep talking. It was fascinating, listening to these men gripe about their lack of access to women, and how they were trapped in a society that dictated every aspect of their personal lives. I could see the frustration brewing beneath the surface, a frustration they shared with many other men in this city.

"It's not just that," the younger man added, shaking his head. "It's the monsters. The stronger the creature, the more valuable the meat, right? You've heard about the health benefits, yeah? Eat high-level monster meat, and it can heal wounds faster, make you stronger—even stop aging."

I raised an eyebrow at that. "Stop aging?"

"That's what they say," he shrugged. "But who's going to test that theory? The problem is, hunting monsters is a damn dangerous job. You can't go after high-level beasts without the right protection, and that protection doesn't come cheap. You either need the best runes or you risk getting killed."

"Or worse," the blacksmith added darkly. "You go out there without real protection, and you're as good as dead. I've seen it. Idiots who think they're tough enough to take on a monster without the right runes or weapons. They don't come back."

I leaned in slightly, feigning casual interest while my mind raced. So the higher-level monsters were not only dangerous but valuable. The rich, of course, would have access to the best runes, the best protection, and the best food. And this wasn't just any food—it was something that could potentially enhance strength, speed up healing, and possibly even stave off aging. It was a form of power, literally consumed by those who could afford it.

"I take it you guys don't get a lot of fresh meat, then," I said, keeping my tone conversational.

"Ha! Fresh meat?" The younger man snorted. "We're lucky if we can get our hands on a few scraps of regular beast, let alone monster meat. That's for the wealthy, the ones with connections and deep pockets. Meanwhile, we're stuck with whatever we can catch—or afford."

"And the guilds make sure of that," the older man muttered, his eyes narrowing. "They control the hunts, control the markets. It's all rigged in their favor. You want monster meat? Better be ready to pay a fortune for it."

I took a slow sip of my drink, thinking. It made sense. The rich stayed rich by controlling the flow of power, whether that power was in the form of magic, wealth, or even food. And here I was, trying to find my way in a city where power was everything, and those who didn't have it were left to scrounge for scraps.

But power came in many forms, didn't it? And knowledge—knowledge was power too.

I smiled at the men, thanked them for the conversation, and left the tavern with more than just a buzz from the cheap wine. I had information now, insights into how this world worked. The social dynamics, the value placed on monster meat, the importance of runes and protection—it all played into the larger game I was slowly beginning to understand.

As I walked through the darkening streets, the conversations from the tavern swirled in my head. The world was dangerous, yes, but the rewards were immense. And I was no fool—I knew the risks, but I also knew how to mitigate them.

By the time the day wound down, I felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. It had been a full day—satisfying, even. I'd made solid progress in my work, repairs flowed smoothly, and I'd unraveled a little more of the rune grammar that fascinated me. But there was always more to learn, more to prepare for. While I had figured out how to layer protective runes into my tunic and gear, the nagging question remained: was it enough? Sure, I'd managed to get my protection runes to shield against basic threats, but in a world filled with deadly monsters, it was time to figure out how my creations stacked up against the high-end, professional armor crafted by master runeweavers.

Tomorrow, I'd head to the upper levels of the city, where the wealthier classes lived and shopped. There, I'd find the high-level armor shops and compare what they sold to the makeshift protection I had infused into my clothes. I needed to know if I was walking around in rags or if I had actually tapped into something valuable. The difference could mean my survival.

That night, as I lay down on the mat in the back room of my shop, the soft hum of distant city life lulling me to sleep, I couldn't help but reflect on how much had changed. I'd gone from a blind date with a mysterious woman to a craftsman navigating the intricacies of runes in a world that seemed ripped from the pages of ancient history. It was strange, sure, but satisfying in ways I hadn't expected. My mind buzzed with possibilities as sleep eventually took over.

--

The next morning, after a steady stream of customers had come and gone from my shop, I decided it was time. I'd made enough sales for the day, and now I needed answers. After shutting up the shop, I grabbed my best crafters' tunic—though it wasn't much—and headed out. My goal was to make it to the upper levels of the city, where the real money flowed. If the lower city was all grit and survival, the upper city was luxury, the kind of place where the rich wore their wealth like armor, both figuratively and literally.

The streets narrowed as I moved upward, with steep stone staircases winding through the terraced city, pushing closer to the top. The sounds of hammers and the clinking of iron gradually faded, replaced by quieter, more refined conversations and the rustling of finer fabrics. As I walked, the people around me grew better dressed—noblemen in long, flowing robes, women in intricately designed garments that seemed to shimmer under the sunlight, and children with clean, polished shoes running ahead of their parents. I could feel eyes on me, my rougher clothes clearly marking me as an outsider. But I didn't care. I wasn't here to fit in; I was here to gather information.

Eventually, I found myself in a district that screamed wealth. Ornate signs hung from gleaming shop fronts, and the buildings themselves seemed to be carved from the most pristine marble and stone. This was where the elite lived, where armor wasn't just a necessity—it was a status symbol. A sign of power.

One particular shop caught my eye. It stood larger than the others, its wide glass windows displaying sets of armor that looked almost mythical. Breastplates with runes etched in gold, greaves and vambraces that shimmered with a faint glow, and helmets that seemed designed for both protection and intimidation. If there was any place to compare my rudimentary rune work, this was it.

I approached the shop, already feeling the weight of the judgmental stares from passersby. As I reached for the door, a large man in an ornate tunic stepped in front of me, blocking my path. He was tall, broad, and clearly a professional at making people feel unwelcome.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension as he looked me up and down.

"I'm here to look at your armor," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

The man's eyes flicked over my outfit—simple, practical, and definitely not the fashion of the upper district. He scoffed. "This isn't the kind of place for window shopping, friend. If you can't afford anything in here, I suggest you move along."

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Of course, he assumed I couldn't afford anything. And, well, technically he wasn't wrong. I probably couldn't. But I wasn't here to buy—I was here to learn. Still, the dismissiveness in his tone grated at me. "I'll be the judge of that," I said, stepping forward, trying to make it clear I wasn't about to be intimidated.

The bouncer's arm shot out, blocking my way. "Look," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "I'm not in the mood to deal with craftsmen playing pretend. You're out of your league. Take your wares back to the lower city."

A few bystanders had stopped to watch the exchange, their curiosity piqued. I could feel the weight of their gazes, the subtle judgments rolling off them like a bad odor. I took a deep breath, realizing that making a scene wouldn't do me any favors here. Fine. Today wasn't about proving myself to these people—it was about gathering information. If they didn't want my money, then so be it. I could find another way.

With a tight smile, I nodded and backed away, feeling the bouncer's smug satisfaction as I left. He had his little victory for the day, but it wasn't over for me.

As I continued walking through the district, I spotted several other armor shops. This was clearly where the elite came to outfit themselves for hunts or battles. The craftsmanship was unparalleled, and the runework was intricate, shimmering with power. But as I watched from the windows, I noticed something else—most of the runes were basic.

Oh, they were beautiful, no doubt about that. And the materials were top-notch—gleaming metals and rare fabrics woven into the armor—but the actual magic? It wasn't as complex as I had expected. Heat resistance, basic deflection spells, protection against cuts and bruises. None of it was on the level of the layered defenses I had been working on in my shop.

And that's when it hit me—I might actually be onto something.

These high-end shops were selling status more than functionality. Yes, their armor was powerful, but it was only accessible to the rich. The kind of protection I had started to infuse into my tunic—runes that could repel fire, blunt force, and blades—wasn't common. Not even here. And that meant there was a market, an opportunity for someone like me who understood both the practical and magical aspects of runeweaving.

However much I wanted to just walk into those high-end shops and start throwing my weight around, I knew better. Appearances mattered here. In a place where people valued surface over substance, looking the part was just as important as having something real to offer. If I wanted to slip past the bouncers and snooty gatekeepers, I needed to look like I belonged. And that meant dressing the part.

But I wasn't about to spend a fortune on new clothes—no, there had to be another way. I figured there must be a place in the lower city where the castoffs of the rich end up—torn or worn clothing that's seen better days but could be salvaged. Secondhand shops in the middle levels were a treasure trove if you knew how to look, and if I could get my hands on the right pieces, I could repair them to be as good as new. Or, even better.

I made my way down a level, descending into the market district where the air was a mix of sweat, spices, and the constant chatter of bargaining. The streets here were narrower, darker, with fewer of the refined storefronts and more haphazardly arranged stalls. This was the grit of the city, where people haggled over half-eaten loaves of bread or secondhand sandals like they were rare commodities.

After wandering through the maze of vendors, I finally found a small shop tucked between two crumbling buildings. Its sign was barely legible, but the piles of old, worn clothes spilling out into the street gave it away. Inside, the shop was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and the smell of fabric that had been left too long in dark corners. The shopkeeper, a woman with a severe expression and a habit of looking at you like you'd just insulted her ancestors, gave me a once-over the second I walked in. Great, another suspicious stare.

Ignoring her judgmental gaze, I sifted through the racks of clothing, finding a few tunics, cloaks, and sandals that once must have graced the shoulders and feet of the upper class—before they were deemed unfit for their delicate sensibilities. Most of the items were torn, faded, or fraying at the edges. Perfect. The more damaged, the cheaper.

When I brought my haul to the counter, the shopkeeper raised an eyebrow. "You really gonna spend money on these rags?" she asked, clearly incredulous.

I nodded, keeping my tone neutral. "They've still got life in them."

She shrugged, handing them over with a final glance that said, "You're crazy, but it's your money."

After parting with more coins than I would've liked, I returned to my shop with a bag full of torn and stained clothing, determined to transform them into something that would pass for high-class attire. The key wasn't just in the repairs—it was in the magic.

I set to work, using the new grammar I'd unraveled from my time in the library. The process required precision, but it wasn't just about fixing the clothes—it was about imagining them as something better. I carved a sequence of repair runes onto a board of wood, creating a magical workspace. Each rune was carefully etched to correspond with a different part of the process: one for stitching, one for cleaning, another for reinforcing the fabric itself. I placed the tunic on the board, focusing on the image of it repaired, clean, and vibrant.

As I channeled my mana into the runes, a soft blue light began to pulse from the board. The runes glowed brighter, enveloping the tunic in a faint, shimmering aura. Slowly, the fabric began to mend itself—the frayed edges tightening, the holes closing as if they'd never existed. When I picked up the tunic, it looked better than it had ever been, the fabric soft but durable, the colors richer than before.

I repeated the process for the rest of the outfit, repairing the sandals, the cloak, and even a belt that had been on the verge of disintegration. By the time I was finished, I had a full outfit that wouldn't look out of place on the wealthiest men in the upper city.

When I tried the clothes on, I barely recognized myself. Gone was the scrappy craftsman in rough, practical clothing. I looked like someone who belonged in the finest shops, someone who had money and influence. It was almost unnerving how much a few changes in fabric could affect the way I carried myself.

I wasn't just David Goodchild, craftsman and outsider. I could be anyone I needed to be.

Later that day, I made the climb back to the upper city, retracing my steps through the winding streets. This time, though, the reactions were different. People didn't look past me or through me—they looked at me. Not with disdain, but with respect. Even some of the women, usually shielded and guarded, cast glances my way, as if sizing me up. It was amazing what a little polish could do.

As I moved through the upper levels, I blended seamlessly into the crowd. The stares I had gotten just yesterday were now replaced with nods of acknowledgment, as if I was one of them. The shops that had once seemed closed off to me were now within reach. And this time, no bouncer was going to stop me.

I headed straight for one of the high-end armor shops, stepping through the open doorway with an air of confidence I hadn't felt before. Inside, the place was immaculate, every piece of armor displayed like a work of art. There were breastplates lined with intricate runes, gauntlets that gleamed under the soft lighting, and helmets that looked both terrifying and majestic. But as I examined them more closely, I realized I had been right all along.

The armor, while visually stunning, wasn't as advanced as the rune work I'd been perfecting. The protection runes were basic—fire resistance, blunt force deflection, the usual fare. But none of it was particularly innovative. The wealthy paid for looks and prestige, not for function. They didn't need advanced magic—they needed to look untouchable, even if they weren't.

As I examined a particularly ornate set of greaves, a voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Can I help you, sir?"

I turned to find a shopmaid standing nearby, a pretty young woman dressed in a flowing tunic. She smiled warmly, though I could tell she was gauging my worth with a practiced eye.

"I'm just looking," I replied, offering her a polite smile.

She glanced at the greaves in my hand. "That set is quite popular with the elite. Provides basic protection against most common threats—blades, blunt force, even mild magical attacks."

I nodded, pretending to be interested. "I see. And what about more advanced protections?"

Her brow furrowed slightly. "Advanced protections? Most customers are satisfied with what we offer."

Of course they are. I smiled inwardly. "Still, I imagine there's a market for something... more powerful."

She hesitated for a moment before answering, clearly unsure how to respond. "Well, if you're looking for something more... specialized, we do have private consultations for custom orders. But they're quite expensive."

I smiled, nodding as if that was exactly what I expected. "Thank you for the information. I'll consider it."

As she walked away, I continued examining the armor, memorizing the protection runes on display. They weren't difficult to understand, but I could see where improvements could be made—how I could take them to the next level.

By the time I left the shop, I felt more confident than ever. My work was on par with the best this city had to offer—if not better. And while the rich were content with their pretty, overpriced armor, I knew there was a market for true protection. I just had to find the right way to introduce it.

For now, though, I was satisfied. I had the knowledge I needed. And when the time was right, I would make my move.

But first, I wanted to get some of that high-level meat into my diet. The health benefits were too tempting to pass up. I could feel the toll that this new world, with its constant grind, was starting to take on my body. A boost from some of the local creatures' magical properties? That would be ideal. Hell, if it reversed my aging a little, I wouldn't complain. Not that I'd ever say it aloud, but turning back the clock sounded just fine.

On my way back down from the upper levels, I had a different objective. I'd passed a scrappy little armor shop earlier—a place I'd bet most of the upper-class wouldn't even glance at—and that's exactly where I was headed. If I wanted armor that would last, I needed to start with something simple and build it up. I could layer it with my own enhancements, make it far superior to anything these vendors were pushing to the public.

As I entered the shop, I couldn't help but notice I was causing a bit of a stir. My repaired, nobleman-like outfit made me stick out like a sore thumb in this rough-and-tumble place. I could feel their eyes on me, a mix of curiosity and suspicion. The shop itself was dimly lit, cluttered with racks of worn leather, dented metal, and a smell that could only be described as a combination of sweat and oil. Not that I minded. This was exactly the kind of place where I could find something basic enough to modify myself.

I approached the counter, and the shopkeeper—a man with a face like a leathered prune—perked up the moment he saw me. His eyes gleamed in a way that screamed "easy mark."

"Ah, good sir! Looking for something special today?" His voice oozed a little too much enthusiasm, and I could already see the wheels turning in his head. He was sizing me up, probably calculating just how much extra he could tack onto the price tag for whatever piece of junk he was about to offer me.

I gave him a tight-lipped smile. "I'm looking for some hunting armor. Leather, maybe with a few metal reinforcements. Something basic, but functional."

He nodded vigorously, gesturing me toward the back of the shop where a mismatched collection of armor sets hung from rusty hooks. "Of course, sir! We have just the thing! This piece here—genuine leather, reinforced with the finest iron. A favorite among hunters and adventurers alike."

The set he pointed to was... fine. Well, it would be fine once I stripped it down and rebuilt it properly. The leather was worn in places, scuffed from what I assumed was either battle or neglect, and the metal sections were hardly "the finest iron"—more like whatever was left in the blacksmith's scrap pile. The chest plate had metal ribs stitched into the leather, offering some basic protection, while the shoulders and forearms were padded for mobility. Functional, but generic. Exactly what I needed.

And just as I expected, the price he quoted me was outrageous.

"Only thirty copper pieces, sir," he said with a grin, as if he'd just offered me a discount on the crown jewels.

I raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress my irritation. Thirty copper for this pile of scrap? Not a chance. I wasn't about to throw my money away just because he assumed I didn't know any better.

"Thirty?" I scoffed, folding my arms. "This isn't worth half that, and you know it."

The shopkeeper blinked, surprised at my sudden change in tone. Clearly, he hadn't expected someone dressed like me to haggle like a commoner.

"Twenty copper," I continued, "and that's me being generous."

"Twenty?" His voice cracked, and he looked around as if expecting someone to jump in and save him. "Sir, I assure you—"

"You assure me of what?" I interrupted. "That this armor has seen better days? That it's barely worth the iron holding it together?" I gave the chest plate a little tap for emphasis. "I know junk when I see it, and I know what it's worth. You can either sell it to me for twenty, or I can take my business somewhere else."

The room went silent, the few other customers in the shop pretending not to listen, but I could see them glancing our way. The shopkeeper hesitated, clearly torn between making a sale and holding onto his dignity. In the end, money won.

"Twenty-five," he said finally, his voice deflated.

I smirked. "Deal."

We shook on it, and just like that, I walked out with a general set of hunting armor. Leather, patched together with bits of metal, nothing fancy—but that was the whole point.

Once I was back in my shop, I laid out the pieces of the armor on my workbench. The set wasn't bad, for what it was. The chest plate was the most solid piece, reinforced with thin iron ribs that ran across the torso. The shoulder guards were padded with layers of leather for mobility, and the greaves were functional—if a little stiff. The gauntlets, though, were worn almost to the point of being useless. I could see where the previous owner had tried to repair them but failed miserably. No problem. I could fix all of that.

First things first, I stripped the armor down to its core components. I carefully removed the weaker metal sections, replacing them with reinforced pieces I'd been working on. The leather, while functional, needed some serious magical reinforcement. Time to break out the new rune sequences I'd been working on.

I began etching the protective runes directly into the leather, taking extra care with the placement. These weren't just any runes—I'd adapted them from the more complex rune structures I'd been studying. They were designed to respond to blunt force, heat, and even some lower-level magical attacks. As I worked, I imagined the armor reacting to an oncoming blow—hardening in the exact spot it was hit, deflecting the impact. It was all about focus. Imagination and mana. The two were becoming inseparable the more I worked with these runes.

Once the armor was fully engraved, I infused it with mana. The runes lit up with a faint blue glow, shimmering across the leather as the magic settled into the material. It was working.

I tested it by lightly tapping the chest plate with a hammer, watching as the leather hardened momentarily at the point of impact before returning to its flexible state. Perfect.

The gauntlets were next. I reinforced them with more durable materials, adding layers of protection without sacrificing mobility. Once I was done, the entire set looked almost brand new. But more importantly, it wasn't just armor anymore—it was a personal shield. A layer of protection that would activate only when needed, keeping me safe without drawing attention.

By the time I finished, the sun had already set, and the streets outside had quieted down. I cleaned up my workspace and sat back, admiring my handiwork. The set was complete, and it was far superior to anything I could've bought in those upper-level shops. The best part? It was mine—every stitch, every rune. The work of my own hands.

I leaned back in my chair, satisfied. But I wasn't done yet. If this city ran on power and appearance, I was getting closer to mastering both.