Dispute at the Stall

The dwarf’s stall was brimming with unmistakable dwarven character. Outside the small tent, a blazing forge radiated waves of heat—one wondered how such a thing could even exist in a place like this. A burly dwarf, shirtless, was hammering away at the forge, his skin a bronzed hue resembling burnished copper or iron. Sparks leapt from his blows and scattered across his body, yet seemed to cause him no harm at all. Each strike made his muscles swell even more impressively, so that he appeared larger and even more disproportionate than usual, his “horizontal to vertical ratio” thrown further off balance.

It was the first time that Teresa and Achille had ever seen one of the legendary dwarves. Naturally, they could not contain their curiosity and stared at him from head to toe, then from toe to head again, whispering to each other in excitement. Everything about the dwarf was novel to them: his height, his sturdy build, his face like a sculpture in copper, and his extraordinary strength and endurance.

Their reaction amused Ince, who reached out to give each child a gentle flick on the forehead, warning, “Don’t stare at people like that—it’s terribly rude.”

That brought Teresa and Achille back to themselves. Achille shrank his head in embarrassment, while Teresa stuck out her tongue apologetically.

Ince led his now well-behaved charges into the dwarf’s tent. Inside, a dazzling array of items hung from every available space—not only weapons, but also grappling hooks and other auxiliary tools, even some farming implements like hoes. Who, Ince wondered, would buy farm tools at such a unique market?

Achille, unsurprisingly, made straight for the sword display, his eyes lighting up as he began to select one after another. Ince stood by, offering guidance with great enthusiasm. Teresa, at first listening to their conversation, soon grew bored and wandered off to admire the other curiosities within the tent. She hadn’t gone far when she suddenly felt a faint warmth on her shoulder. In her mind, a thin, anxious voice called out—

“Hungry... something tasty... delicious...” Upon careful listening, she realized it was the eagle spirit, growing restless.

Can a soul feel hunger? Teresa’s brows rose in surprise, but her hands moved quickly. She tapped her shoulder lightly, channeling her magic. The “blue thread,” which had always looked like an embroidered decoration on her clothing, suddenly came alive! Azure strands emerged from the white fabric, weaving upward and merging on her shoulder, flashing with blue light. In a moment, a blue eagle stood perched on her shoulder, called twice, and immediately flapped its wings, intent on flying out of the tent.

Teresa could sense the eagle’s urgency. She turned, pressed a palm-sized badge into Ince’s hand, and said, “Uncle Ince, my little eagle is hungry. I’m going to see what it’s found to eat. When you and Achille have chosen a sword, let the little wolf bring you to me, okay?”

Without waiting for Ince to reply, she darted out of the tent.

Ince smiled faintly, pocketed the puppet badge, and continued helping Achille choose a sword. It was an old rule at the market: no fighting allowed. With the VIP pass he had given her, Teresa would be safe as long as the market was running.

☆☆☆

The blue eagle moved with astonishing speed. In the brief moment it had taken Teresa to explain matters, it had already vanished from sight. Fortunately, she still shared a mental link with it. After a challenging exchange—since the eagle was newly “born” and its soul grievously damaged, its intelligence was akin to that of a toddler, and its responses often wildly off-topic—Teresa finally discovered what the eagle meant by “something tasty.”

It was a small stall set far from the round tents, lacking even a canopy—a simple “white cloth on the ground” affair. Upon the cloth lay more than twenty multicolored spheres of varying sizes. The largest was about the size of an infant’s head, the smallest no bigger than a fingertip. The larger the sphere, the brighter and more perfect its color and form; the smaller ones were irregular, some barely spheres at all. The stall’s owner was a very young man—though his face was hidden by a full-face smiling mask, his physique and movements betrayed his youth.

At that moment, the proprietor sat cross-legged behind his stall, holding in one hand the blue eagle, which shimmered with metallic luster. He examined the struggling but helpless creature with great interest, paying no mind to the young woman in white robes who was passionately remonstrating beside him—

“…The soul is a treasure granted by the gods, the wealth of the divine. As beings under the great gods, how can we trample upon such wealth? This is an insult to the divine! As far back as the dynasty eight hundred years ago, the law was clear: all living beings must respect one another, and none may seize a soul for personal use. Even though the dynasty has fallen, the empire still upholds most of its laws—including this one. Yet you, not only do you break the law, you even sell ‘Soul Condensation Orbs’—a crime upon a crime…”

Teresa listened to the righteous indignation of the robed woman’s speech, blinked, pursed her lips, and decided to shut her ears to the noise. She stepped forward, squatted beside the stall, and said, “Would you please return my eagle?”

The sweet, sticky timbre of her voice immediately caught the stall owner’s attention. He looked up at Teresa; the eyes behind the mask gleamed with interest, silently examining her for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Your little pet tried to eat without paying.”

His deep, magnetic voice was strangely pleasant. Teresa reached out and flicked the eagle’s head with a finger. Though its metallic body ensured the gesture had little effect, the chastened eagle immediately drooped its wings and bowed its head in submission—a posture it had learned after many “loving corrections” from Teresa.

With the eagle subdued, the stall owner lost interest. He prodded and poked the creature, as if hoping to provoke it, but the eagle only glared at him indignantly, not daring to make a move. Laughing, the proprietor deftly produced a soul orb, no bigger than a thumbnail, from who-knows-where and popped it into the eagle’s beak. “Lucky little thing,” he said.

The eagle glanced at Teresa. Only when she nodded did it swallow the orb and emit an excited screech.

For the two crouching at the stall, the gesture was perfectly normal. For the robed young woman standing nearby, however, it was a tremendous shock.

“You—you—you, wicked alchemist!” she cried. “How can you imprison a soul in such an evil, artificial vessel and use it as you please? This is evil! This is blasphemy against the gods! You deserve judgment!”

At these words, Teresa glanced up at the young woman. Though well-developed, she judged the girl to be no older than sixteen or seventeen—a time of life when one is surest of being right.

Teresa picked up a small orb, placed it in her palm, and said, “This isn’t a ‘Soul Condensation Orb.’ It’s a ‘Demon Hunting Sphere.’ Even at official trade fairs, these things are openly for sale. Dear sister, it’s not shameful to mistake one thing for another. But if you accuse someone wrongly and then refuse to admit your mistake or apologize, then I really have nothing more to say to you.”

The young woman, thus confronted, was rendered speechless. Her words stuck in her throat; she clenched her fists and trembled with rage.

Teresa, seeing the source of the noise finally silenced, turned back to the stall owner and asked the price. The young man regarded her with a peculiar look, then replied with a smile in his voice, “The biggest are two hundred gold coins, the next best one hundred, then fifty, twenty, ten, and the smallest five.”

Teresa nodded slightly at the prices. Though a bit high, they were generally reasonable. She picked up the largest “Demon Hunting Sphere,” intending to probe it with her mind and experience the sensations described in books—“as if falling into hell, or ascending to paradise, as though reliving countless lifetimes.” Just then, the stall owner said, “That one’s sharp—you’re too young to play with it. If you’re curious, try a smaller one.”

He reached out with a remarkably beautiful hand, took the “Demon Hunting Sphere” from her, and replaced it with one about the size of an egg—worth about twenty gold coins.

Rather than immediately trying the sphere, Teresa found herself staring at the stall owner’s hand, her gaze lingering. For some reason, that perfect hand struck her as oddly familiar...

But if she had seen such a flawless hand before, surely she would remember it well. Why couldn’t she recall?

As she puzzled over this, a sudden sense of danger swept over her. Instinctively, she rolled to one side—just in time to hear a sharp “crack” beside her.

Righting herself, she looked back. The white-robed young woman was being held aloft by the collar by a figure in black, face and body completely shrouded. The woman clutched a short whip, revealing that she had tried to attack Teresa moments before.

“Unauthorized assault. Offenders will be expelled,” the black-clad figure announced in a chilling voice—clearly an enforcer of the market’s rules.

“Let me go!” The woman, for some reason unable to move, could only cry out, “Grandfather, grandfather, help me, grandfather…”

At that, the black-clad figure carried her off with a few swift leaps, vanishing into the distance.

Teresa touched her nose and pursed her lips. “So delicate… Whose child is this? Her guardian must be terribly unlucky.”

With that, she bent to select a few “Demon Hunting Spheres” from the stall.

The stall owner, amused by her comment, ruffled her hair and laughed. “You’re just a child yourself—how old are you to be calling someone else’s kid a child?”

“Hmph. If you grow up in body but not in mind, what else are you but a child?” Teresa rolled her eyes, picked out a bird-egg-sized sphere and several of the smallest ones, and tossed down a sack of coins.

The proprietor didn’t bother to count it, simply stowed the sack in his robe.

Teresa cast a longing glance at the largest spheres, then steeled herself, scooped up her eagle, and dashed off at speed—afraid that if she lingered a moment longer, she really would be unable to tear herself away.

She ran so quickly she did not see the stall owner watching her retreating figure, nor did she hear the soft, amused words murmured behind the smiling mask—

“Teresa… what an interesting little thing you are…” (To be continued)