Still grinning, the adventurer placed both the blade and the broken tip on the desk.
Milford watched in silence.
At first, nothing happened. Then the fragment moved.
Milford’s eyes narrowed.
The broken tip softened at the edges. Its sharp lines blurred, the tiny piece losing definition until it became a bead of dull gray metal. It didn’t seem to melt so much as reshape itself, gathering into a small, trembling globule before stretching a thin strand toward the broken dagger.
The moment it touched the damaged edge, the entire bead snapped forward like a magnet. It clung to the fracture, wiggled once in a way Milford found mildly unpleasant, then spread across the break. The surface smoothed. The edge sharpened. After several breaths, the dagger was whole once more.
Not even a seam or discoloration remained where the repair should have shown.
Milford leaned forward.
“Oh?” he murmured.
He picked up the dagger and turned it beneath the office light. Carefully, he ran a thumbnail along the restored edge and found it as sharp as if it had never been damaged.
The adventurer nodded, clearly pleased with himself. “They claimed it can use any mortal steel to repair itself,” he said. “Though the worse the quality, the longer it takes.”
“Interesting,” Milford said.
A self-repairing utility blade had obvious value, even if it truly was unsuited for combat. Caravan workers broke knives constantly. So did cooks, porters, hunters, miners, and half the laborers moving along the southern trade routes. If the claim held, the item had the potential to become more than just a novelty.
His gaze sharpened as he examined the handle, then the blade again.
“I don’t see any arrays on it,” he said. “Where could they be hidden?”
It wasn’t uncommon for enchanters to conceal their work. Some buried arrays beneath decorative inlays. Others layered them inside the grip or disguised the lines as polishing marks. The more secretive schools had entire techniques dedicated to preventing imitation. No craftsman liked having his secrets copied by the first rival with sharp eyes and a steady hand.
The blade showed none of those usual signs.
So how did it work?
The adventurer shrugged.
“No idea,” he said. “Figured your people would have a better chance of working that out than me.”
Milford gave a faint nod and set the dagger aside with more care than before.
His gaze shifted to the remaining items on the desk.
“Continue.”
The adventurer reached across and picked up the silver pouch. The thin material crinkled sharply between his fingers, catching the office light.
“This,” he said, giving it a light shake, “they claim is a ration pack.”
Milford’s brows lifted by a fraction.
After the dagger, that felt disappointingly… mundane.
Rations were rations. Every outfitter in the city sold some variation of dried meat, hard bread, compressed grain cakes, or preserved stew cubes. Adventurers complained about all of them and bought them anyway, because hunger was a more persuasive merchant than taste.
Wealthier cultivators, or those backed by reputable organizations, might instead rely on [Grain Pills]. A decent one could sustain a person for days. Higher-quality versions could last weeks or even months, depending on the refinement.
Milford turned the pouch over, studying its strange metallic surface.
The adventurer pointed to the printed text across the front. “The selling point,” he continued, “is that it requires no real preparation or setup. You heat the bag through whatever means you have, wait ten minutes, and it’s ready to eat.”
Milford looked from the pouch to the adventurer.
“That’s all?”
The adventurer’s grin widened.
Milford accepted the pouch and found the instructions were indeed simple.
Heat for ten minutes. Open along the marked line. Consume promptly.
More interestingly, each instruction came with a small illustration, likely for the less educated.
Milford turned the pouch over once more, mouth curving slightly. Then he snapped his fingers.
The fireplace in the corner of the office ignited, flames catching along the prepared logs with a controlled rush of heat. With a casual toss, Milford sent the ration pack across the room, where it landed neatly in the center of the fire.
Both men left the pouch to the flames and shifted their attention to the next item.
The adventurer picked up the longer metal rectangle, the one with the short hilt and finger loop. He held it the way a mage might hold a wand, one finger hooked through the ring while his thumb settled near a raised switch along the grip.
“This one is my favorite,” he said.
He squeezed, and a tiny spark appeared at the end of the device.
Milford’s brow lifted as a thin thread of lightning arced between two small prongs.
He studied it with a silent frown.
The spark was clean, but weak, and he couldn’t ponder what use it might serve. It was far too weak to harm a cultivator. He doubted it would do much more than leave a small burn on a mortal. Against anyone of consequence, it would accomplish little beyond annoying them.
“And what is this used for?” Milford asked. “It seems far too weak to be useful as a weapon.”
The adventurer nodded, entirely unoffended. “Aye, it is.”
The man’s grin widened.
“But do you know what one of the most frustrating parts of adventuring is, sir?”
Milford raised a brow. “What is that?”
“Starting a fire.”
Mr. Milford furrowed his brow.
Across from him, the adventurer burst into laughter.
“I know, I know,” the man said, lifting both hands as if defending himself from an accusation. “Seems silly. After all, any cultivator worth his salt can conjure a small flame. Even those without much talent.”
As if to make the point, he raised one finger. A tiny flame appeared above it, weak and wavering, little more than a candle’s glow. It flickered for a heartbeat before he pinched his fingers together and snuffed it out.
“What most civilians don’t realize,” he continued, settling back in his chair, “is that any flame started through spiritual means carries a faint spiritual signature. Not enough to matter most of the time, sure, but some spirit beasts can read that signature. The smarter ones can even learn a person’s strengths and weaknesses from the way their spirit energy expresses itself.”
Milford’s brow rose, and he gave the strange device another appraising look.
The adventurer noticed and grinned wider.
“Something to consider when hunting something clever enough to hunt you back,” he said with a wink.
Milford leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
That was not something most common customers would consider. Then again, common customers were not their primary market.
“Most adventurers stick to mundane methods when they can,” the man went on. “Flint, fire cord, treated tinder. Slow, annoying, and easy to ruin. A tool like this?”
He lifted the sparking device and gave it a small shake.
“Now this is invaluable in the field.”
“I see,” Milford said at last.
Milford’s attention shifted to the next item on the desk.
It was a white rectangle, similar in shape to the firestarter but smaller and smoother, with softly rounded edges and a polished surface. The material caught the firelight with a dull, clean sheen that reminded him vaguely of polished bone, though it clearly wasn’t. Nor was it wood, stone, jade, or any metal he could name.
He picked it up between his fingers and turned it over, searching for markings, arrays, or even a line of text that might tell him what it was, but found nothing.
“Is this another firestarter?” Milford asked.
The adventurer leaned forward and took the object from him with an easy grin.
“Nope,” he said. “But it’s just as useful in its own way.”
He held the device flat in his palm, angled so Milford could see the top edge. With his thumb, he pressed a corner, and a soft click sounded.
A small opening appeared on the opposite side, and a pale pill slid free, dropping neatly into the adventurer’s waiting palm.
Milford’s eyes widened by a fraction.
The adventurer’s grin sharpened, and he pressed the same corner again.
Click.
Another pill emerged.
Then a third.
And a fourth.
Each rolled into his palm with the same clean motion, identical in size and color. It was such a small action, producing such a simple result, yet the reliability of it immediately tugged at Milford’s merchant instincts.
“Now that is interesting,” he murmured. “How does it work?”
The adventurer set the device on the desk and pinched both sides near the middle. A seam appeared where Milford had seen none before, and one entire side swung open on a narrow hinge.
Inside the white shell lay a compact arrangement of interlocking levers, channels, springs, and tiny gears. Pills rested in staggered rows within a crisscrossing track that guided them upward one at a time. When the corner button was depressed, a lever shifted, a gear advanced, and the next pill slid into place.
Milford stared at it in silence.
The concept was almost insulting in its simplicity.
Not because it was crude. No, the workmanship was precise, and the device clearly required careful manufacturing. But the principle itself was so obvious once seen that Milford wondered why no apothecary, alchemist, or blacksmith had ever produced something similar.
“Fascinating idea,” Milford said at last. “But what benefit does it offer beyond convenience?”
The adventurer shrugged and tapped one finger against the open casing.
“Even in a storage ring, pills have to be stored properly, or they lose effect over time. Pill bottles are the typical answer, but they can be cumbersome. Nobody likes fighting with a cork or wax seal when they’re already fighting for their life.”
He closed the panel with a snap and pushed the device back toward Milford.
“In contrast, these ‘pill dispensers’ are supposed to be airtight, watertight, and even spirit-tight.”
Milford picked up the device again, this time with far more interest.
If that claim held, the item had value beyond simple packaging. Pills were expensive because alchemy was expensive, but storage waste formed one of the quiet costs most merchants simply passed on to their customers. A poorly sealed vial could leave half its contents stale before the buyer ever needed them. Humidity, ambient spirit flow, contamination; any number of minor factors could degrade a pill’s potency, and all of it fed into the overall cost of pills on the market.
A compact field container that solved those issues had merit.
Still, Milford set the device down and folded his hands.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Though I doubt most would ever have enough pills to worry about such a thing.”
The adventurer’s grin returned, wider this time.
“What if I told you each one comes stocked with [Lesser Stamina Pills]?”
Milford stilled.
Then, slowly, he set the dispenser down.
“I would say whoever is selling them is a fool.”
The adventurer laughed.
Milford did not.
Even [Lesser Stamina Pills], common as they were, still required ingredients, labor, and quality control. They were the cheapest stamina restoratives sold in bulk to adventurers and sect members, but that did not make them easily available to most people.
Even if the dispenser itself was inexpensive to manufacture, which Milford doubted, the margin loss should have been crippling.
Unless…
Unless the Nexus Hub could produce [Lesser Stamina Pills] cheaply enough that the old pricing assumptions no longer applied.
He wasn’t sure which possibility was more unsettling.
Piece by piece, the shape of the Nexus Hub’s strategy became harder to ignore.
Every minor annoyance. Every accepted inefficiency. Every place where merchants like Milford built their margin because customers had no better option.
His mouth curved faintly.
They were playing a dangerous game, in more ways than one.
Yet…
“And the last?” Milford asked.
His gaze slid to the final items on the desk.
Two artifacts rested side by side, each with a flat glass face and several raised buttons. They were clearly a matched pair, and their rugged casings seemed built from the same material as the dispenser, though tinted a mild yellow.
The adventurer’s smirk took on a mischievous edge as he stood and picked up both devices.
“See for yourself.”
He twisted a small knob on one of them.
A sharp hiss crackled from the artifact, like dry cotton popping in a flame. He handed it to Milford but kept the second for himself.
Then he turned and headed for the door.
Milford raised a brow. “Going somewhere?”
The man only gave him a wink before opening the office door, stepping out, and closing it softly behind him.
For a moment, Milford waited in silence, frowning at the door.
Then the artifact in his hand crackled once more.
“As you can see,” the adventurer’s voice said from the device, slightly distorted but perfectly recognizable, “these artifacts act as alternatives to communication jades. Though with one difference I’m sure you’ve already noticed.”
Milford’s frown deepened as he examined the object. Another helpful pictogram had been imprinted on the back, and he depressed the side button exactly as depicted before speaking.
“They have no spiritual signal,” he said.
“Correct!” came the immediate reply. “And no signal means they can’t be tracked or blocked by the usual interferences, natural or otherwise. I doubt most wards can even detect them. I’m sure you can imagine what uses something like this might have.”
Milford could.
Which meant others would as well.
Even if not a single one of the previous items found its market, he knew without doubt these devices would be all over the city in a matter of weeks.
His mind raced ahead despite himself. Secure caravan coordination. Discreet communications. Field teams. Deep routes where jade signals became unreliable. Private auctions. Courier networks. City Watch operations. Espionage.
Especially espionage.
This was not merely a means of communication. It was a gap in the assumptions every security formation in the city had been built around.
The possibilities unfolded one after another, each more valuable and more dangerous than the last.
He pressed the button again.
“What is the range and limitations?”
The door to Milford’s office opened once more, and the adventurer walked back in with the same loose, careless ease.
Milford lifted his gaze from the yellow artifact in his hand. The device sat light in his palm, plain and almost unassuming, yet the implications behind it continued to unfold in increasingly uncomfortable directions.
The adventurer shut the door behind him and gave a small shrug. “Unfortunately, these artifacts don’t have nearly the range of a communication jade. Only a couple of kilometers at most. They need to be charged regularly after use, too, though the store claims that can be done by leaving them in the sun for an hour or two.”
Milford turned the device over, thumb brushing across the raised buttons.
“I see,” he said.
Not a replacement for a proper communication jade network, then. But that didn’t mean they lacked value. That range would still cover most caravan formations, field teams, warehouse crews, gate runners, estate security details, and so much more.
Yes.
There was a market.
Several, in fact.
“Regardless,” Milford continued, setting the yellow artifact down with care, “I can see why they caught your eye.” His gaze swept across the collection of strange objects laid out across his desk. “I am surprised you could afford all this, however. Even with the stipend I supplied, I can’t imagine such things were cheap.”
The adventurer’s grin widened.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” he asked.
Milford tilted his head.
The adventurer flicked his hand, and a small leather bag appeared atop the desk with a soft thump.
“But the truth is, all of this combined cost less than a couple of mid-grade spirit stones.”
For a moment, Milford simply stared at him.
Then he reached forward, drew the pouch open, and looked inside.
Spirit stones gleamed back at him. Not a small amount, either. Most of the small fortune he’d provided remained untouched, neatly gathered in the same bag he’d sent out that morning.
Milford stared into the pouch for a long moment.
Long enough that even the adventurer began to glance around nervously.
Then, finally, Milford tugged the bag closed with one smooth motion.
Before either man could speak again, a rich aroma filled the office.
Both men turned toward the fireplace.
The silvery package had swollen in the coals, its surface puffed outward like a stuffed cushion. A red stripe now ran along its length, exactly where the pictogram instructions had indicated it would appear.
Milford lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.
The fireplace extinguished, and the flames collapsed into harmless embers. Another gesture drew the swollen package out of the ash and floating across the office into Milford’s waiting hand.
He expected heat, yet the silver pouch was only warm to the touch.
His brow lifted a fraction as something thick sloshed inside.
The adventurer waved a hand, and two simple bowls appeared on the desk. Nothing ornamental, just cheap, plain ceramic that had clearly seen plenty of use.
Milford gave him a dry look.
The man grinned shamelessly.
At least they were clean.
Milford sighed, found the marked line along the package, and pulled the top apart as depicted.
Steam burst free, and the smell intensified so sharply that even the adventurer’s smile faltered for a moment as his stomach betrayed him.
Pork. Herbs. Slow-cooked marrow. Savory broth thickened with vegetables and spices. It was immediately apparent that this was no bland travel ration meant simply to fill the belly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Milford tipped the pouch and poured equal portions into the bowls. A rich, thick pork stew spilled out, smelling as though it had spent half the day simmering in a kitchen rather than sealed inside a silver pouch and tossed into a fireplace.
Milford looked at the adventurer.
The adventurer looked back.
Each picked up a spoon.
Only a few moments later, both bowls had been scraped clean.
Milford set his spoon down with care and leaned back in his chair. The adventurer, lacking any such restraint, tipped his bowl to catch the last smear of broth before pushing it aside with a satisfied sigh.
“I could get used to that,” the man said. “Sure beats those dry, nasty things your people sell, Boss.”
“Indeed,” Milford replied, his tone flat.
His gaze had already returned to the empty silver pouch.
This was not a travel ration.
Not in the way Halirosa understood the word.
A cheap, stable, easily transported meal that required no cookware, no preparation skill, and little more than fire or sunlight to make palatable.
If these could be produced in volume, caravans would buy them by the hundreds. Adventurers would buy them. Soldiers would buy them. Miners, labor crews, river crews, pilgrims, messengers, and anyone else forced to spend time away from civilization would buy them.
And once they tasted one, they would never want to return to anything else.
Milford folded his hands and turned back to the adventurer.
“I must say, you’ve given me several things to think about.” His tone remained composed, but his mind was already moving through trade routes, supply contracts, caravan outfitters, military buyers, and every supplier who would panic the moment these goods spread. “As always, thank you for your time.”
He picked up the pouch of spirit stones and tossed it back across the desk.
The adventurer caught it with one hand, brows lifting.
“Keep the rest as payment,” Milford said. “I’ll be in touch later. I may have other jobs for you.”
The man laughed and swept his hand over the pouch, sending it back into his storage ring. “Understood, Boss. Pleasure doing business with you, as always.”
Milford nodded and waved him away.
The adventurer stood, leaving everything he had brought neatly arranged on the desk. Then he turned and made for the door.
When it closed behind him, silence returned to the office.
Milford sat for several moments without moving.
Then he rose from his desk and crossed to the window.
From there, the Golden District spread out beneath him. Lanterns glowed along the polished streets below. Noble estates rose in ordered tiers beyond them, each wrapped in walls, wealth, and the quiet arrogance of people who believed their place was permanent.
Milford stared down at them all with mild disgust and sighed.
He ran one hand down his face in a tired motion.
As his fingers passed over his features, they changed.
The scholarly merchant’s face softened, shifted, and rearranged itself. By the time his hand fell away, Milford Shipping Company’s beloved president was gone.
In his place, Seeker’s mouth curved into a slow grin.
“Well now, Mr. Alpha,” he murmured, eyes glinting faintly in the window’s reflection. “I wonder how much longer you will continue to surprise me.”