The blue walls of the square wrapped around Kael as he slumped against the Arcane Anvil, one hand gingerly probing the wound on his left shoulder. It wasn’t deep but it stung enough to serve as a reminder that he had nearly lost the duel. So much for slime armor, he thought sourly.

  A soft flutter broke his reverie. Skrindle appeared at his side, wings beating in short, anxious strokes.

  Kael let out a weary chuckle. “So the ‘slime armor’ plan was less than successful,” he conceded, shaking his head. “Fine, Skrindle. You win. We’ll do it your way next time. But don’t forget”—he pointed to his frosted sickle resting a pace away—“Kael’s Sickle of Freezing Death worked splendidly.”

  Skrindle’s eye twitched as he glowered at the shimmering blade. “It’s a small miracle you didn’t freeze your own hand off,” he muttered.

  Kael chuckled low, pushing off the anvil to stand. Kael smirked. “Miracle or skill. Call it what you will.”

  Before Skrindle could conjure a retort, a small commotion caught their attention. Kael peered into the clearing to see the rest of his slimes herding a flamboyantly dressed figure forward. The man wore a feathered hat, though it drooped pitifully under the weight of damp forest air. His eyes darted nervously between the slimes nudging him from behind.

  Kael noticed with wry amusement that a few slimes bore coins half-buried in their translucent forms, small lumps of metal glinting under the morning light. Ah, he mused. A merchant. No wonder the slimes had snagged him easily.

  The man arrived before Kael and Skrindle, swallowing hard under Kael’s measured stare. Myke Keys, for his part, looked every bit the flustered traveler. “Uh, hello?” he managed, voice wobbly.

  Kael regarded him coolly. “If you wanted to claim gold from my domain, merchant, you could have simply asked,” he said. “Though I warn you, I demand fair exchanges.”

  A broad, nervous smile suddenly brimming with the polished cheer of a practiced salesman on Myke. “G-good morning, Master of the Square!” he called, endeavoring a small bow that nearly sent his hat tumbling off.

  He swept off his drooping hat, revealing a sweat-damp brow. “I-uh... well, I’m Myke. Myke Keys. A merchant of the highest caliber! I, uh, service many adventurers and thought a Master such as yourself could use my wares. Truly.”

  Kael perched on the Arcane Anvil. “Many Master customers in your ledger, Myke?”

  “You’d be the first, actually,” he admitted. “But if you’d be so kind as to offer me referrals, I’d be more than happy to extend a special discount to you, good Master. A friends and family rate, if you will!”

  “Well, I do have some gold. And I’m in dire need of raw materials to craft the conventional way; iron, leather, and so on.” He paused, letting his words hang. “Do you have anything useful to offer?”

  He let out a small, uneasy laugh and turned to Kael with a flourish of his feathered hat. “Well, Master,” he began, forcing a confident smirk to his lips. He rummaged inside a small bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a jumble of odds and ends: a battered horseshoe, a cracked lens, a few tarnished coins that weren’t even gold.

  “I find myself at a slight disadvantage. My wares, my main stock, are outside the square with my cart. And I… don’t have much on me at the moment.”

  “Then what good are you to me?”

  Myke swallowed. “I’m more than a mere peddler of trinkets,” he said, infusing his voice with the bright timbre of a salesman. “I am a procurement specialist. If you desire something, I can find it for you for a price. I have contacts, you see—adventurers, crafters, even smugglers if needed. All within reason.”

  Kael slowly straightened, hissing faintly when pain flared in his wounded shoulder. “Good,” he said. “I need fifty iron bars, refined. Not scrap. And fifty pieces of leather prepared for crafting. That is your first task.”

  Myke’s eyes glinted, and he risked a small grin. “Fifty iron bars and fifty leathers. One gold each, Master. That’s a hundred gold total.”

  “A hundred gold,” Kael said. “For all that.”

  “Yes,” Myke answered, swallowing when he saw Kael’s eyes grow distant in thought. “A fair price, I assure you. Quite fair.”

  Kael looked at the slimes with coins not quite gold inside their gelatinous bodies. He inclined his head in agreement. “Fine,” he said at last. “I have enough gold for that.”

  Myke exhaled a breath of relief, only to stiffen a moment later as his eyes drifted to the anvil, a gleaming slab of dark metal etched with runes. “That anvil,” he said quietly, voice tinged with wonder. “It’s… a magical crafter, isn’t it? I’ve heard rumors. Didn’t think I’d actually see one.”

  Kael shot him a sidelong glance, sensing the merchant’s awe. “Yes. My Arcane Anvil. I intend to use it to forge weapons, armor, or whatever else I see fit.”

  Myke’s hands smoothed over the fabric of his fine doublet, regaining his merchant’s poise. “Then I suspect you’ll be needing more than raw materials. Often the difference between a rusty sword and an enchanted blade is… the right recipe.”

  Kael’s eyes narrowed with renewed interest. “Recipes,” he repeated. “You have them?”

  Myke dipped his head in a bow. “A few, Master, yes. My traveling has shown me bits and pieces. Enough for basic enchantments, some cunning trinkets. For a price, I could bring them to you.”

  “Bring them,” he told Myke. “All you have. I’ll judge whether they’re worth the cost.”

  Myke bowed again, his feathered hat sweeping low. “I’ll return with the recipes and your iron and leather. Given the sum needed, I might need a day, perhaps two, to gather it all. But I will deliver.”

  “See that you do. And be punctual, merchant. I don’t tolerate broken promises.”

  “Master, you shall have your goods in the agreed time. There is the matter of an advance,” he began, forcing a casual chuckle. “Surely you can—”

  Kael’s gaze hardened, the quiet menace in his eyes silencing the merchant. “You doubt my honesty?” he asked, voice low.

  A flicker of alarm crossed Myke’s face. He backpedaled verbally, raising his hands in a show of placation. “N-no. Not at all, Master. I’ll gather them first, naturally.”

  With that, he slipped out of the clearing, his footsteps near-silent on the moss. Jello and Mush watched him depart, and only once he had vanished into the forest gloom did the slimes reluctantly return to Kael’s side.

  Kael lowered himself near the Arcane Anvil, wincing as he tried to patch the wound across his shoulder. He pressed a bundle of crushed leaves against the wound at his shoulder, hissing in pain. His slimes, however, seemed utterly unfazed by his discomfort.

  Slorpy, Goober, and Flubs, the trio that had once tried to form a living breastplate, squirmed restlessly beneath Kael’s robes. He fidgeted, trying to gently shove them away, but they clung stubbornly.

  “Off, all of you,” Kael muttered, exasperation shading his words. “I thought we settled that you lot weren’t as effective as we’d hoped.”

  The three slimes exited his robes, yet clung onto his body as though determined to remain.

  Kael drew a breath, steadying himself against the gnawing ache in his shoulder. “Fine,” he muttered, attempting a note of authority. “But at least move around back, will you? I need to breathe.”

  To his surprise, the slimes shuffled obediently across his torso, sliding to the back of his shoulders in a curious, ticklish swarm. Kael let out a sigh, only to feel a sudden pressure increase as more slimes joined the fray. Jello, Mush, and others, each drawn by some inexplicable desire to pile onto him, began scaling up his robes and pressing themselves in a squelching mass against his spine.

  “Wait,” Kael hissed, eyebrows shooting upward. “This isn’t an invitation for all of you!”

  But his words fell on unlistening ears. A half-dozen different slimes perched on his back, forming a layered, wobbling sheet of living jelly. Kael felt their gentle, clinging suction; on him and on each other.

  He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the lumps of translucent bodies quivering. “You’re making a cape out of yourselves?”

  A hush passed through the clearing, broken only by the faint suctioning sound the slimes made as they settled into place. Kael rolled his eyes, then called out, “Skrindle! Come and witness… whatever this is.”

  “What is it now, Mast—” The imp halted mid-sentence, catching sight of the living cascade of slime draped over Kael’s back. His eyes widened.

  “Slime armor didn’t work,” Kael said with a smirk, “so I’ve decided on a slime cape instead. It’s clearly an upgrade.”

  For a moment, Skrindle stared, his elongated mouth widening in disbelief. Then, as though words failed him, he let out a strangled groan. A flicker of an eye-roll crossed his face, and with a dramatic snap of his wings, he vanished in a puff of smoke without so much as a parting remark.

  “Fine,” Kael grunted, rising carefully to his feet. The mass of slimes jostled but stayed put, forming a squishy drape across his shoulders. He took a step, feeling a gentle weighted shift. The slimes let out a chorus of soft squelches, perhaps in agreement, perhaps simply existing. He knew there was no doubt it looked ridiculous, but for now, he could endure it.

  ******

  The day was young when Myke Keys, merchant par excellence, guided his mules away from the square. He perched on his wooden cart, the jingling of a hundred keys the only melody to break the forest hush. His heart pounded with the thrill of an opportunity well-seized.

  He tugged at the reins, urging his mules forward until they came upon a rocky outcropping nestled among twisted pines. The air smelled of fresh earth and stone. Myke brought the cart to a halt with a gentle click of his tongue, then hopped down, kicking up a small cloud of dust around his boots.

  “An ore vein,” Myke murmured, eyes alight with ambition. He grabbed a pickaxe from the cart, running a hand over its handle with practiced familiarity. “Now to gather the fifty iron bars the Master wants.”

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  His laugh echoed against the craggy bluff. It was a half-mad, triumphant sound, brimming with the sort of glee only a cunning dealmaker might know. Rolling up his fine sleeves, already stained from earlier exploits, he attacked the stone with vigor. Each strike of the pickaxe rang out sharply, resonating through the air.

  Stone and rubble chipped away, revealing flecks of raw iron ore glittering under the sun’s beams. Myke exhaled, sweat beading along his brow, but a feverish joy lit his face. With each chunk of ore he pried from the rock, the coin jingled in his thoughts. A gold per bar, an absurdly profitable arrangement.

  “Mules,” he called after a while, his breath coming in short gasps, “hope you don’t mind the extra load. But rest assured, we’re all getting fat on this.” He paused to wipe his brow, shaking a bit of stone dust off his feathered hat. “Though I suppose it’s me who’ll be thriving, and you two will remain—well, mules.”

  He snickered at his own joke, then set back to work, hacking out enough ore to fashion the bars Kael demanded. The clinking sound seemed to mingle with his muffled humming, an exuberant melody of greed.

  Hours later, with the cart laden in part with newly gathered ore, Myke again took the reins, his body aching but his spirit unbroken. Next came the hides, refined leather, the Master’s second request. Fifty pieces at a gold each, he mused, shaking his head in wonder. What a fool, that Master, if he truly pays such a price.

  A little more traveling brought him into a dense forest glade, awash with birdsong. Myke carefully set his cart aside, ensuring the mules were tethered near a patch of grassy ground. From beneath the seat, he produced a pouch of coins, feeling the faint warmth of magic thrumming through each piece: Coinshot, his prized merchant skill.

  He stepped lightly among the ancient oaks, searching for nimble shapes in the undergrowth. Foxes, swift and cunning. Their pelts would fetch a good price in any human market, but here, in the Master’s domain, they served a different purpose.

  A sudden rustle and Myke snapped his head toward the sound, eyes narrowing. In a fluid motion, he flipped a copper coin between his fingers, the enchantment prickling his palm. With careful aim, he hurled it through the air. The coin glowed a faint blue and struck a darting fox with uncanny force, the impact swift and silent.

  Myke grinned, the exhilaration of the hunt dancing in his eyes. “That’s one hide,” he whispered, retrieving the fallen creature. He repeated the process, stalking through the brush, flicking coins with deadly precision until his pouch was lighter by a fair number of copper pieces. But the spoils grew—fresh hides that he’d soon tan and refine into the leather Kael demanded.

  Near midday, the merchant returned to his cart, a sackful of fox pelts carefully stored. He eyed the modest mound of ore and the animals, calculating how much leather he could glean. Fifty, indeed, he thought, lips twisting into a wry grin. A gold per bar, a gold per hide—Kael’s terms were a gold piece for each. Madness, Myke thought, or maybe the best deal of my wretched life.

  The memory of rumors gnawed at his mind as he took up the reins again, guiding the cart onto a winding path. He’d heard talk in the taverns: Masters of the Square rarely bothered with copper or silver. They were too insignificant for their grand calculations. Some said they only traded in gold, or higher still, platinum, or that whispered prize… diamonds. He let the daydream wash over him. If I can charge a gold apiece… well, perhaps next time, I’ll demand two gold. Or more.

  A snicker escaped him, echoing through the still afternoon. Already, Myke Keys imagined himself rolling in mountains of coin, forging a name among the merchant circles. And all it took was a Master lacking any clue of real pricing.

  “Yes,” he murmured under his breath, casting a sidelong glance at the ore-laden cart. “Let that Master gather all the fortunes and kills he likes. I’ll be there to lighten his purse. Every. Single. Time.”

  ******

  The next day broke with a soft dawn that found Myke Keys once more at the threshold of Kael’s square. The merchant’s cart rattled under the weight of iron bars and bundled leathers, each stack carefully procured and readied for sale. The mules brayed, weary from the haul, and Myke adjusted his flamboyant hat, trying to muster the confidence that had begun to slip through his fingers.

  “I’ve brought the iron, Master Kael,” Myke announced with a grand sweep of his feathered hat. “Fifty bars, as promised, and fifty refined leathers, plus,” he paused, pulling two tattered books from his cart, “Weapons Training Books Volume I and II. I found these just beyond the threshold of your domain.”

  Myke opened the first page of the fighting manual and it read: For Master Kael.

  Kael’s dark gaze lingered on the pages, then slid to the crates of ore and hides. “Excellent,” he said. “Give me the books. And unload the goods by the anvil.”

  Myke nodded, beginning to offload the crates of iron bars and bundles of cured hides. The anvil’s dark runes shimmered faintly in the low sun, and Kael watched each item placed at its base with an appraising eye. Myke’s heart thrummed with both apprehension and excitement. If Kael paid in full, that was a fortune in gold.

  “I’ve your iron bars, refined into the shape you ordered, as well as the leathers. That… should be a total of one hundred gold, by our arrangement?”

  “Yes, yes. But I have something in mind first.”

  He exhaled, a short, controlled breath. “Fifty daggers,” Kael intoned. At once, the runes flared, and a cascade of metallic shapes manifested in midair, clattering onto Myke’s cart. Gleaming daggers in neat piles, each blade flickering with an unearthly sheen.

  “W-what’s this?” Myke stammered.

  Kael’s expression did not change. He repeated the motion, this time murmuring softly. With a dull thud, fifty sets of leather armor joined the pile, folding atop the daggers like so many hides of a freshly butchered beast.

  Kael turned to the merchant, gesturing to the mountain of forged goods. “Now,” he said softly, “I will sell these daggers and that leather armor back to you—one gold each.”

  Myke’s mouth fell open. A thousand unspoken thoughts churned behind his eyes. On any human market, such mundane daggers or leather sets were worth a handful of silver each, not gold a piece.

  He tried to compose himself, clearing his throat. “Master, that’s—

  “Is that not the best price, Myke? If an iron bar costs a gold, surely a forged weapon would cost more. I am giving you an excellent price, am I not?”

  “It… well…”

  “Or are you less than truthful, merchant?”

  “Blobber, come here,” Kael commanded. One of the slimes slithered forward, unveiling several coins stuck in its transparent body—copper discs, a few silver pieces, glimmering with lesser luster than gold.

  “And what,” Kael asked, quiet venom in his words, “are these?”

  “Coppers and silvers,” he admitted at last, his voice cracking. “They’re… smaller denominations, used by humans for day-to-day trade.”

  “That was your opening price, was it not? A gold per bar, a gold per hide.” There was a mild, mocking edge to his voice, as though he found the entire affair half-amusing, half-contemptuous. “No mention of smaller coins.”

  Myke could only nod, flustered. The Master had turned the tables, using Myke’s own trick against him.

  “So you lied,” Kael said, an edge creeping into his tone. “Now tell me, truly: what would those bars and leathers, or these daggers and armors, fetch in your world of coppers and silvers?”

  Myke swallowed. His shoulders slumped, the grand illusions of wealth unraveling under Kael’s scrutiny. “A plain dagger might be… five silver, maybe up to ten silver if well-forged,” he confessed. “A set of leather armor… about the same.”

  Kael cast a measuring gaze upon him, and without warning, flipped ten gold coins into Myke’s arms. They clinked against Myke’s chest as he scrambled to catch them. “Then we’ll call it even,” Kael declared. “Take those daggers and armors with you. Sell them however you wish.”

  Myke stared at the coins, relief and disappointment warring in his eyes. Ten gold total was a fair sum, but nowhere near the fortune he’d imagined. Still, it was not a pittance. If he sells the forged weapons and armor, he would get at least five more gold.

  He mustered a shaky smile, bowing deeply. “You truly are a fair Master, Kael,” he offered, trying to salvage pride in his honeyed tone. “I shall bring another load tomorrow, as you request.”

  Kael nodded, turning his attention back to the anvil, as though Myke were a distant afterthought. “See that you do,” was all he said.

  ******

  Kael lay sprawled upon the earthen floor of his shelter, the damp earth and woven twigs his only bedding. The lingering pain in his shoulder still ebbed and flowed, but the recent victories and defeats left him too weary to do more than rest. His thoughts drifted between half-dreams—the ceasefire, the duel, Myke’s cunning bargains, the humming walls of his square.

  A soft crackle of sorcerous air snapped him awake. He opened his eyes to see Skrindle hovering just above his head, wings beating faintly.

  “Master,” the imp began, a sly grin tugging at his small mouth, “you’ve unlocked something new.”

  Kael shifted upright, wincing as his shoulder reminded him of the sword’s bite. “Another achievement?” he asked, voice husky from half-sleep.

  Skrindle nodded. “Novice Craftsman. For forging a hundred items on that Arcane Anvil. All your attempts combined, it seems you’ve crossed the threshold.” His eyes gleamed with mischievous excitement. “And you know what that means.”

  Kael, trying to hide his curiosity, gave a soft snort. “I suppose you’ll tell me.”

  With a flourish, Skrindle jammed his clawed hand into his ear, an absurd gesture that made Kael arch a brow and pulled forth a small hammer. At first glance, it appeared an ordinary blacksmith’s tool, until one noticed the faint runic lines etched along its handle, glimmering in the lantern light.

  “The Blacksmithing Hammer,” Skrindle announced, grandly spinning it in the air. “It allows you to repair metal objects magically. It is limited though, once the runes on her hammer extinguish, it takes a whole day to recharge.”

  Kael sat up straighter, holding out his good hand. Skrindle placed the hammer in his palm, and Kael felt a subtle thrum of power in its heft. The handle, wrapped in worn leather, fit snug in his grip. He gave it an experimental swing and felt surprising balance.

  “Not too bad indeed,” he mused. “And it could serve as a weapon in a pinch. We’ll see just how often these resources get spared, I suppose.”

  Skrindle settled onto a protruding root, folding his translucent legs in a mock imitation of Kael. “You may progress further along the Crafting skill tree now, Master. More recipes, more artifacts.”

  Kael turned his head toward his orb, resting on a heap of straw near the shelter’s entrance. The faint, steady glow it usually gave off had changed, streaks of gold coursing across its surface like veins of molten metal. A ripple of energy spilled into the air, making the hairs on Kael’s arms rise.

  “Why gold?” Kael asked, nodding toward the orb’s swirling luminescence. “Did it finally decide to adopt a more impressive hue?”

  Skrindle gave a short cough, as though remembering some crucial piece of lore he’d neglected. “I almost forgot,” he said, forcing a wry grin. “Your square has reached the threshold for Ascension.”

  “Ascension,” Kael tasted the word as though it were bitter on his tongue. “And what, exactly, is that?”

  “If you pass the Ascension Trial, Master, your square gets out of the Introductory level and moves on to Bronze. Higher rank means better potential—more mana, more treasure, a bigger domain.”

  “But the trial is no mere formality. You must face off against another Master who is also at the threshold. You and your foe’s squares are teleported side by side, and for a single day, you battle to the death. Whichever Master kills the other ascends.”

  A chill seemed to pass through the clearing. Kael sank onto a low stump, orb cradled in his hands. He recalled the budding friendship with Rova, the alliance with Lira, and the mild sense of kinship in the weekly gatherings. Could they be forced into this? Could he?

  “You’re saying,” Kael began slowly, “that I might have to fight Rova, or Lira, or some other newcomer. Fight them to the death, just to lift my square’s rank from Introductory to Bronze?”

  “It’s possible,” Skrindle said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, “so long as they aren’t in the same conclave. But yes, you could be forced to war against a friend. Such is the merciless system we serve.”

  Kael’s eyes flicked over the orb again, its golden shimmer forming runes that quietly shaped into a question: Would you like to undergo Ascension? The words pulsed, enticing and ominous.

  He placed the orb at arm’s length, letting his slimes crowd around it protectively. The golden luminescence pulsed, bright as a beacon, then dimmed. His voice was soft when at last he spoke. “I won’t ascend,” he said, a quiet edge underlying the words. “Not now.”

  “I have enough challenges in this square without inviting a second Master to murder me right now.”

  Skrindle studied Kael’s eyes, his usual snark falling silent. “As you wish,” the imp said softly, casting one last glance at the golden runes. “Ascension can wait, though not forever. Sooner or later, the system will call again.”

  “Let it call,” Kael murmured, half to himself, letting the glow fade from his vision. “I’ll answer in my own time.”

  ******

  Square: Unknown

  Master: Kael

  Difficulty: Introductory

  Conclave: Clockwork Assembly

  Treasure: 1020 Gold

  Residents: 4 Ice Slimes Lvl 1

  8 Green Slimes Lvl 1

  1 Green Slime Lvl 2

  1 Will-o-wisp Lvl 1

  Kills: 10 (Ready For Ascension)