It wasn’t normal haggling. This was harsher, rhythmic - like someone trying to drill words into stone.
“The Divine will consume all! The end of false flesh is near!”
Ren frowned, pushing off the wall and weaving through the midday bustle. The crowd had already started to split, an uneasy ring forming around a group of four men in tattered grey cloaks. Their hoods hung low, shadows swallowing their faces, but the way their mouths moved in unison was… unnatural.
A shopkeeper, an older man with a wiry beard and sun-darkened skin, stood in the doorway of a spice stall, one hand gripping the doorframe as though for courage.
“This is private trade,” the shopkeeper said, voice shaking but resolute. “We don’t want your madness here.”
The tallest of the hooded men stepped forward. “Your spices will rot. Your coins will rust. The Divine will consume it all… and you.” His hand reached for the merchant’s stock, not to buy but to scatter - Ren could see his fingers curling like claws over a tray of precious saffron threads.
“Hey!” Ren’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Pretty sure that’s not how you shop.”
Four pairs of hidden eyes turned toward him. The chanting stopped. The air seemed heavier.
One of them tilted his head, the motion slow and unnerving. “You carry the scent of… wrongness.”
Ren didn’t like the way that was said.
“I carry the scent of someone who’s going to knock you flat if you don’t leave him alone,” Ren replied, stepping between the shopkeeper and the cloaked men. His right hand drifted toward his new dagger - the polished steel still felt strange compared to his old one, but it was sharp and ready.
The crowd drew back further. This wasn’t going to be settled with words.
The first one moved with sudden, jerky speed - a lunge more like an animal than a person. Ren sidestepped, snapping his arm up to deflect, then drove his elbow into the man’s ribs. A pained grunt escaped, but the man kept coming, swinging a short blade in a wild arc.
Ren’s Threads surged instinctively, golden light flickering along his limbs. Thread Surge - short bursts, don’t overdo it. He remembered Leo’s warning even as his body responded with quickened reflexes.
The second cloaked man circled to flank him. Ren pivoted low, slashing his new dagger across the man’s forearm. Not deep, but enough to make him recoil with a hiss. The metallic scent of blood hit the air.
The remaining two didn’t wait - they charged together. Ren dropped to one knee, snatched a small pouch from his belt, and flung its contents in a wide spray. Fine powdered spice burst into the air - chili, turmeric, and pepper mix - right into their faces.
They staggered, coughing and swearing. Ren used the opening to grab the first attacker by the collar and hurl him into his nearest ally. Both went down in a heap.
The fourth man, still blinking away the spice, reached for Ren’s throat. Ren caught the wrist, twisted sharply, and swept his legs in one fluid motion, sending him sprawling.
The crowd erupted in scattered applause and relieved murmurs. The cloaked men scrambled up, eyes watering, and backed away. One spat something in a language Ren didn’t know, but the venom was obvious. Then they were gone, melting into the maze of stalls.
The shopkeeper exhaled shakily from behind him. “By the gods… thank you, lad.”
Ren gave a small nod, wiping his dagger on a strip of cloth. “They bother people often?”
“Not here. Not until recently,” the man said, glancing warily in the direction they’d fled. “Those words they chant… I’ve heard them whispered in the alleys. Bad omens.”
Ren handed the pouch of spice mix back to the shopkeeper. “Sorry for using your stock as a weapon.”
The man laughed weakly. “Worth every grain.”
A familiar chime echoed in his head.
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[Congratulations! You have reached Level 23] [Stat Growth Applied: +2 Intelligence, +2 Perception, +1 Dexterity, +2 Free Stat Points]
He exhaled slowly, sliding his dagger back into its sheath.
Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got.
Class: Arcane Sommelier
Level: 23
Stats:
- Strength: 11
- Dexterity: 28
- Constitution: 13
- Perception: 42
- Intelligence: 38
- Charisma: 9
- Free Stat Points: 15
Skills: ? Culinary Knowledge
- Flavor Sense II
- Mana Pulse
- Flavor Control
“Not bad… though the free points are starting to stack up. I need to figure out where to dump them before I hit 25.”
He exhaled and closed the panel with a flick of his fingers. The streets around him were still busy with the late-day market crowd, merchants shouting deals, and the smell of spiced meat drifting through the air.
Ren ducked between a pair of stall awnings, weaving through until he spotted Sinclair leaning against the wall of a low, timber-fronted building, arms crossed.
The older man was watching the square with the quiet focus of someone who’d seen trouble too many times to take a break from spotting it.
Ren approached. “Hey. Got a minute?”
Sinclair’s gaze flicked to him. “If this is about you wanting to buy more strange root vegetables, the answer’s no.”
“Not this time.” Ren shook his head. “I leveled up. Hit twenty-three.”
That got a slight nod. “Good. You’ve been holding your own out here.”
“Yeah, but…” Ren gestured vaguely. “I’ve been sitting on free stat points for a while now, and I’m about to hit twenty-five. You know, evolution time. I want to make sure I’m not walking in blind.”
Sinclair pushed off the wall and motioned for him to walk.
“Then we’ll talk while we move. First thing - you don’t dump points without a plan. The evolution will lock in certain changes depending on where your stats are. You want to shape that outcome.”
“Meaning?” Ren asked.
“Meaning if you want your evolution to lean into finesse and precision, you’ll want high Dexterity and Perception. If you want raw power in your magic or those Threads, Intelligence matters. Constitution’s for surviving bad mistakes - yours or someone else’s.” Sinclair glanced at him sideways. “From what I’ve seen, you’re already building toward speed, control, and sensory awareness. Your dishes - and your punches - hit hard.”
Ren tapped his chin. “So, focus on Dexterity, Perception, and Intelligence?”
“Exactly. But don’t push one so high the others lag. Evolutions tend to favor balanced cores unless you’re going for something hyper-specialized. And remember - once you evolve, reallocating gets… tricky.”
Ren gave a dry laugh. “So I’ve got to gamble on the future me.”
“That’s the game,” Sinclair said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve got two levels to fine-tune. Spend them wisely. And get used to the idea that whatever happens, you’ll come out different.”
Ren raised an eyebrow. “Different good or different ‘I’ve grown tentacles’?”
“Hopefully good. But, well…” Sinclair’s eyes went distant for a second. “Let’s just say I’ve seen some creative failures.”
Ren decided not to press. “Alright. I’ll think it through before I commit. Thanks.”
“Good. Now let’s get back before you find another shady back alley to get into trouble in.”
Trouble.
His mind flicked, unbidden, to Perrin.
They’d taken Perrin straight to one of the local healers the moment they’d arrived. The old woman’s hut smelled faintly of sage and warm clay, shelves lined with stoppered bottles, bundles of dried herbs, and jars full of strange amber suspensions. She had barely looked up from her work when Sinclair explained, just motioning for them to lay him on the low cot by the wall.
Her magic worked fast. A faint golden glow spread from her hands into Perrin’s chest and side, knitting torn flesh and mending cracked ribs in moments. His bruises faded to nothing. The tight hitch in his breathing eased until he was drawing air smoothly again. By the time she stepped back,
he looked like he could have walked straight back onto the road.
But he didn’t.
Even with his body whole, Perrin sat hunched on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped loosely around himself, eyes unfocused. His fingers drummed against his knee in slow, arrhythmic taps. When Ren tried to catch his gaze, it was like looking into glass - he blinked, nodded vaguely, but the recognition wasn’t really there.
Ren crouched next to him. “You good?”
“Fine,” Perrin said. The word came too quick, too flat.
Sinclair’s brow furrowed. “You’re not fine. Your mana flow’s jittering all over the place.”
“I said I’m fine,” Perrin repeated, this time quieter, as if the conversation was already exhausting him.
The healer gave a small shrug when Ren looked her way. “The body’s healed,” she said, “but the rest of him… that’s a deeper wound. Time, or something to anchor him, might help.”
Ren didn’t like the sound of that. Before the expedition, the kid had been one of the most talkative people in the group - even if no one, including Ren, really knew him well. Half the time, you couldn’t get him to shut up. Now he was… still. Too still.
Sinclair straightened. “Keep an eye on him. If this doesn’t pass in a few days, we’ll have to try something more direct.”
Ren nodded, though the knot in his chest didn’t ease. Perrin might have been stitched back together on the outside, but something from that expedition was still gnawing at him from the inside.