Whispers of the Old Merchant

The old man looked up from the edge of his busted cart, eyes wide with disbelief and gratitude. His hands trembled as he clutched his side, but a smile still managed to break through the grime on his face.

"You alright, old-timer?" the MC asked, brushing dust off his knuckles, casually stepping over a pirate groaning in the grass.

"I... I think so," the man panted. "Thought that was it for me. You came outta nowhere like thunder. Never seen anyone move like that."

The MC just shrugged. "Guess it was a good day for a walk."

The old man chuckled, wheezing slightly. "If I had anything worth giving, I'd give it. All I've got is a spare set of clothes—bit dusty, but they might suit you better than the blood and rags you're wearin'."

The MC looked down at himself—shirt torn, dried blood flaked along his ribs. "Heh. Fair trade for three pirates."

From the cart, the old man pulled out a neatly folded bundle: a dark linen shirt, reinforced pants, and a worn but solid travel cloak. He tossed it over with both hands. "They were for my grandson. He never took to traveling. Think they'll fit a hero better."

The MC caught them with one arm and nodded. "Thanks. I'll make sure they see the world."

He knelt beside the overturned cart, eyeing the broken axle and scattered goods. "Mind if I help get this back in shape?"

"You've already done more than enough," the old man said, blinking.

"Yeah, well… I like fixing things after breaking a few."

The MC rolled up his sleeves and set the clothes aside for later. "Alright, let's patch this thing up."

The cart's axle had cracked, one wheel half-detached and buried in the dirt. He crouched low, brushing away splinters and checking the support beams. Nearby, Tsuki scurried over, hopping up onto the cart's edge with big, curious eyes.

"Hey, careful," the MC muttered. "This thing's seen better days. Kinda like me."

Tsuki tilted his head, then mimicked the MC by pressing a tiny paw against the cart's frame—pushing with all his strength. It didn't move, but his serious effort made the old man chuckle from behind.

"Heh… your little friend's got spirit."

The MC smirked. "He's been through a lot. Mentally, physically… and spiritually." He paused, giving Tsuki a knowing look. "Especially after some… intense sparring recently."

Tsuki froze, ears twitching violently. His whole body went rigid as if reliving a traumatic memory. Then, with a horrified shiver, he dramatically turned away, as if refusing to be associated with whatever "training" he'd heard echoing in the night.

"See?" the MC grinned. "That's PTSD if I've ever seen it."

While the old man laughed, the MC got to work. He found a piece of spare wood from the cart's undercarriage and used a sharp rock to carve and shape a makeshift axle pin. He jammed it into place with his bare hands, sweat glistening on his arms as he worked the joint into alignment. The wheel creaked back into place with a satisfying thunk.

"Alright, not perfect, but she'll roll."

Tsuki, now recovered from his flashback, hopped up and dramatically wiped imaginary sweat from his brow—then climbed onto the cart and gave it a proud tap, like a foreman approving the work.

"Show-off," the MC muttered with a smirk.

The old man, eyes misty, gently patted the repaired cart. "I thought I'd have to leave everything behind. You've given me more than help, son. You gave me my journey back."

The MC nodded and looked out at the road ahead. "Well, sometimes the best thing we can do… is keep moving."

As the last of the cart repairs were done, the old man brushed off his clothes and gave the wheel a test spin. It creaked, but held firm. Satisfied, he turned to the MC with a curious glance.

"Say… you got a place to stay down in Ardenwave?"

The MC blinked. "Not really. Been sleeping under trees, dodging boars, and, uh… sparring."

The old man raised a brow but wisely chose not to ask. Instead, he gave a warm chuckle. "Well then, consider this your lucky day. I run a small inn down by the eastern docks. Nothing fancy, but it's warm, quiet, and no one asks questions unless they're paying for the right."

The MC nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and caution. "Sounds like a dream compared to pine needles in my spine. I might take you up on that."

"Good," the old man said, starting to gather the rest of his scattered goods. "You've earned it."

The MC leaned back against the cart, stretching out his tired arms. "Mind if I ask where you came from? Before this forest detour?"

"Ah, Virelan," the old man said with a sigh, like someone who had just left a palace full of gold and snakes. "City of sky-towers and scholars. Looks like heaven from the outside. But once you're inside…" He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "Everything's a game. Everyone's a player."

"Corruption?"

"Whispers, bribes, secrets in scrolls… they're not training mages there, son. They're training politicians with fireballs."

The MC let out a quiet laugh. "Sounds like the kind of place where even your shadow's got an agenda."

The old man smirked. "Exactly. That's why I trade and move. Virelan to Ardenwave. Fancy lies to brutal honesty. Keeps me balanced."

The MC looked out toward the far-off sea horizon, wind brushing through the trees above them. "Ardenwave, huh… Guess it's time I saw what the world looks like with both eyes open."

The cart creaked into motion again, Tsuki jumping onto the back with a dramatic little pose. Their path was set—downhill, toward the unknown bustle of a city filled with secrets, pirates, and more stories waiting to be written.

The sun had long vanished behind the hills, leaving behind a bleeding horizon of purples and ember-orange. Stars slowly began to freckle the sky as the cart creaked along a dirt path flanked by tall grass and whispering trees. Tsuki had dozed off in the straw pile at the back, occasionally twitching from a dream—most likely a sparring one.

The MC walked beside the old man in silence, the soft thud of his boots syncing with the wooden wheel's rhythm. A peaceful moment. But curiosity stirred.

He glanced over. "You never told me your name, old man."

The merchant looked ahead a while before replying, like he was picking the right moment to share it. "Hmm… suppose you've earned it." He gave a faint smile and held out his hand, weathered and calloused from decades of trade.

"Solomar Ven."

The MC raised an eyebrow. "Solomar?"

The merchant nodded, adjusting the reins slightly. "A name from the old tongue. 'Sōl' for sun, 'mar' for journey. My father picked it from a sailor's tale. Said it meant 'one who carries the warmth of trade across long roads.' Thought it might bring me luck. I've been hauling goods ever since."

He chuckled quietly. "Some say it sounds too poetic for a man who sells salted fish and woven baskets. But names shape us, don't they?"

The MC looked forward, thoughtful. "Solomar Ven… Has a nice weight to it. Like a merchant who could trade with kings and still haggle for onions."

Solomar barked out a laugh. "Exactly! That's the balance. Shine just enough to get noticed—but not so much they think you're easy prey."

The night wind picked up, carrying the scent of distant saltwater and blooming wildflowers. Above them, the stars multiplied, and somewhere in the distance, the soft roar of Ardenwave's coast whispered welcome.

The MC smiled faintly. "Solomar, huh. Alright. I'll remember that."

Solomar tapped his chest proudly. "Just don't forget it when you're rich and famous, kid."

They walked in silence again, comfortable now. The road stretched on, but for the first time in a while, it felt like the world was opening up ahead—full of new names, new stories… and a warm light in the distance.

As the fire crackled softly under the silver gaze of the moon, the old man, Solomar, leaned against a log, pipe in hand and eyes reflecting the distant stars.

"Ever heard of the Twin Horn Bargain?" he asked, his voice low and deliberate.

The MC shook his head, poking at the fire with a stick.

Solomar smiled. "Thought so. Most haven't. It's not the kind of tale you find in books—it lives in the hush of trade routes and in the mouths of old men like me."

He took a long drag, then exhaled the smoke slowly.

"About twenty years ago, deep in the Greywild, two ancient beast-lords ruled—a twin-headed ram known as Vel'Zharok. Each head spoke with a mind of its own: one honest, the other deceitful. Traders who stumbled upon its domain could ask for a single blessing—wealth, protection, knowledge—but only if they could answer both heads' questions without contradiction. Fail, and you'd vanish, cart and all."

The MC raised a brow. "Sounds like a gamble no sane man would take."

Solomar chuckled. "Aye. But I was younger, dumber, and chasing riches back then. I tried my luck. First head asked me, 'What is your greatest strength?' I said, 'My tongue—I trade with it, I lie with it, I soothe with it.' The second asked, 'What is your greatest weakness?' I said the same."

The fire popped.

Solomar stared into it for a long second. "They laughed. Not just laughed—howled, like thunder in the trees. I thought I was done for… but instead, they let me go. One of them muttered, 'Honest about lies. That's rare.' When I got back to my wagon, it was overflowing with silk and rare spices. Never found the Greywild again."

The MC sat silently for a moment, then smirked. "So, you lied your way into a fortune."

Solomar grinned. "No. I told the truth so well, it felt like a lie. That's the trick in this world."

Tsuki let out a small sneeze, curled up beside the fire, adding a soft comedic beat.

"Do you think the beast is still out there?" the MC asked.

Solomar blew out the last puff of smoke. "Maybe. Or maybe it's in us all—two voices arguing what we're worth."

The night grew quiet, the only sound the occasional crackling of the fire as it settled. The MC, still curious, leaned back, staring at the stars above.

"Solomar," he began, his voice thoughtful. "Do you think it's worth chasing the impossible? Like you did with the Twin Horn Bargain? All those risks… for what? A fortune?"

Solomar was silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if weighing his response against the flames.

"Risk…" he began slowly, "Risk is the price of growth. Without it, you're just drifting—like a ship without a sail. It's only when you push against the wind that you find out what you're really made of. Maybe you'll break, maybe you'll get lost, but sometimes… sometimes you find treasures that are worth far more than gold."

He paused, giving the MC a look that felt like it reached deeper than words.

"Like the truth of yourself," Solomar added softly, almost as an afterthought.

The MC absorbed the weight of those words, feeling a strange sense of calm amidst the uncertainty of the world. He nodded, then relaxed into the warmth of the fire.

"Well, I suppose we'll see, won't we?" he said, giving a small, tired smile.

Solomar chuckled under his breath. "Ah, we will indeed. Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow's a long day, and we've got a whole port city to conquer."

The MC settled down beside the fire, Tsuki curled up on his chest. The world around them seemed to fade, the sounds of the night blending into a serene quiet as the old man's words lingered in the air.

With one last glance at the stars above, the MC closed his eyes, letting sleep claim him, knowing that whatever the next day brought, he was ready to face it.