The confrontation in the Academy Forge was a distillation of the entire Kingdom's social order: aristocratic entitlement meeting calculated commoner ingenuity. Cassian, the silver-braided noble, stood amidst the coal dust and cooling steel, effortlessly wielding the bastard sword Daemon had spent ten hours forging. The blade's Damascus pattern, shimmering with complex beauty under the dying light, captivated the noble's eye, making him blind to the true nature of the transaction.
"This is too good for an orphan," Cassian repeated, his voice smooth with unquestioned authority. He didn't ask; he commanded. "Sell it to me. Now."
Daemon, wiping the last traces of soot from his hands, adopted the perfect guise of a talented craftsman who knew his worth but was terrified of standing up to his betters. He allowed a flicker of genuine distress—a practiced emotion—to cross his face.
"Noble Cassian, please forgive my presumption," Daemon began, his voice lowered, laced with the necessary tremors of deference. "I, ah, I do apologize, but I simply cannot. Not this one."
Cassian's eyes narrowed, shifting from admiration of the sword to contempt for its creator. "Cannot? You have a full rack of those crude daggers. Do you think you can play games with me, peasant? This is a privilege I am granting you, not a request."
"It's not a game, Noble," Daemon insisted, shuffling his feet and bowing his head slightly, ensuring his dark hair obscured his calculating eyes. "It is… it is my best work. The Damascus pattern—you see the complexity of the folding? I achieved it using only scavenged material. I do not know if the quality of the iron will allow me to replicate this specific fold again. It is, to me, irreplaceable."
Daemon understood the psychological leverage perfectly. In the Kingdom of Berlin, prestige often trumped function. A common, well-made steel blade would always be judged inferior to a blade with striking aesthetics, regardless of the material's magical potential. The nobles coveted the symbolism of rarity. They were not simply buying a sword; they were buying a unique piece of art that only a singular talent could produce. Daemon needed to drive the perceived value—the scarcity—to its absolute zenith. He was gambling on Cassian's innate greed and arrogance.
One of Cassian's companions, a heavier noble with a cruel smirk, stepped forward. "Irreplaceable? It's still common iron, orphan. We have blades forged from elemental mythril and dragonbone. Don't mistake pretty folding for worth. We're offering you credit, which is more than you've ever seen."
"Mythril, yes, Noble, they are stronger," Daemon conceded immediately, his voice meek, confirming their premise while simultaneously undermining it. "But Mythril blades are common among the great houses. This blade is unique. It is a testament to the fact that even common iron can be made beautiful. It is an artifact of pure, rare skill. I was hoping to keep it, perhaps to study the fold patterns further, for my runic work."
By mentioning runic work, Daemon gave the sword a false academic value, confirming to the nobles that the item was indeed special, a potential key to a secret formula. The combination of artistry and implied knowledge was toxic to the noble mindset. They had to own it to maintain their superiority. Cassian's hand tightened around the hilt. He was no longer interested in a polite purchase; he was seizing an asset.
"Enough of your groveling artistry," Cassian snapped, his facade of condescension cracking under the strain of his desire. He slammed the sword onto the workbench, the sound echoing sharply. "I have wasted enough time. You will sell it. Name a price high enough to make you forget you ever made it, and do it now, before I decide to simply take it and award you ten credits for your service."
Daemon, calculating the optimal price point—one that would sound outrageously greedy, yet still affordable to a Ducal son—pushed the final boundary. He took a deep, shaky breath, projecting fear as he named a sum that was approximately ten times the cost of a standard Academy-issued sword.
"Noble Cassian… if I must part with my best work," Daemon whispered, forcing the number out as if the words physically pained him, "I would need two thousand credits."
The effect was instantaneous and explosive. Cassian's face flushed crimson, a wave of aristocratic fury washing over him. The entourage gasped, not at the amount, but at the sheer audacity of the commoner to demand such a sum. Two thousand credits was enough to buy a small shop in the merchant district.
"Two thousand credits?" Cassian roared, tossing his head back with laughter that was sharp and utterly devoid of humor. "You truly are a thief, orphan! You dare to name such a price for scrap iron and bone? You have no notion of value! I should have Veridian whip the ambition out of you!"
Cassian raised his hand, and Daemon instinctively flinched and retreated a step, reinforcing the image of a terrified, defenseless victim. This surrender was the final, necessary theatrical flourish.
The noble stood over the workbench, his rage palpable, before finally mastering himself. He knew he could not walk away; the sword was too beautiful, too unique. He would possess it, but he would not let the peasant win the negotiation.
Cassian reached into a hidden pouch on his belt, withdrew a hefty leather purse, and slammed it onto the workbench next to the Damascus blade. The sound of hundreds of small, metallic discs clattering inside was the sound of Daemon's freedom.
"Listen, thief. I will not pay your outrageous ransom," Cassian hissed, his eyes narrowed with menace. "I am buying this at the price I dictate, which is generous beyond measure. You will take this, and you will be grateful." He counted out the small, copper-and-silver credits with deliberate slowness, making Daemon watch every coin. When he finished, he scooped up the remaining credits and returned them to his pouch.
"That is one thousand five hundred credits," Cassian announced, his voice ringing with absolute finality. "It is far more than you deserve, and you will bow and thank me for the opportunity to have your junk carried by a noble of the Blood. Do you understand?"
Daemon immediately executed a low, deep bow, his head almost touching the workbench, his hands grasping the heavy purse as if it were a fragile bird. "Yes, Noble Cassian! Thank you! Thank you for the generous compensation! I am truly grateful for your patronage!"
Cassian laughed—a dismissive, triumphant sound—and picked up the bastard sword. He sheathed his own weapon, tucking the new, beautiful blade into his belt. "Now, get this rubbish out of my sight. And next time, know your place." He swept out, followed by his snickering entourage, leaving the heavy scent of arrogance and expensive cologne behind.
Daemon remained bowed until the footsteps faded. He slowly straightened, his face instantly clearing of all fear and gratitude, leaving only the cold, sharp focus of the analyst. He did not look at the door. He looked down at the heavy leather purse.
Internal Analysis:
* Goal: Acquire capital to secure long-term resource access.
* Target Price: 2,000 credits.
* Resulting Income: 1,500 credits.
* Negotiation Outcome: Complete success. The psychological victory was total. Cassian believes he bullied the price down by 25%, establishing his dominance. Daemon, however, sold common iron for the price of a small fortune, securing a strategic asset—capital—in exchange for a functional, replaceable weapon.
* Strategic Deployment of 1,500 Credits: This amount was transformative. The initial 150 credits from the Goblin mission were wiped out by the Forge access and Zian's fee. Now, Daemon had a massive surplus.
He tucked the purse securely into his belt. The days of basic, nutrient-starved meals were over. He could now allocate credits to better sustenance, allowing his magically augmented metabolism to function at peak efficiency. Crucially, he could buy prepaid Forge time, advanced runic materials, and secure access to the restricted library sections—the true sources of power.
He walked over to his remaining weapons: the daggers and the slim single-edged blade. He had only sold the high-profile bastard sword. The others, easily concealed, were kept. He had enough raw materials from the Goblin haul to forge two more swords and several more daggers, ensuring a continuous supply of income for the next few months, all while maintaining his facade as the humble, intimidated artisan who was occasionally bullied into selling his work.
The system had tried to crush him with contempt. Daemon had simply used that contempt as a market force, turning aristocratic arrogance into cold, hard currency. He was ready for the next step.