By 4:45 AM, the shop was already humming. Herbert started barking orders, rattling off the inventory of "Helga's Weapon Shop."
"Listen close, Skinn—Arthur. Iron longswords are three silvers. Bronze daggers are eight coppers. Magic-infused maces are ten silver, and don't you dare touch 'em. We got twenty-two axes in the rack, fifteen bucklers in the cellar, and..."
He went on for ten minutes, a dizzying list of prices and items. He stopped, looking at me with a smug grin. "Well? You going to write that down, or just stare at me with those big, empty eyes?"
"No need," I said, crossing my arms. I tapped my temple. "Longswords: 3 silver. Daggers: 8 copper. Maces: 10 silver You've got fifteen bucklers, but three of them have rusted rivets in the back-left corner of the cellar. Anything else?"
Herbert's jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit the anvil. He blinked at me, his eyes flickering with a reluctant spark of admiration. In a world where men were mostly used for heavy lifting, a guy who could remember a ledger by heart was apparently a freak of nature.
"Lucky guess," he muttered, though his tone was less aggressive. "Come on. Eat before the Mistress opens the front."
Breakfast was a culinary war crime. It was a piece of bread so dry it could have been used as a whetstone. I had to dunk it into a bowl of "soup" that was essentially lukewarm water with a single, lonely grain of salt floating in it. The tea tasted like someone had boiled a lawnmower's clippings.
I choked it down. Every bite. In New York, I would have complained to the health department. Here? It was fuel. I needed every calorie if I was going to survive long enough to figure out how to get a woman to hug me without getting my head caved in.
As I finished the last of the "grass tea," I looked toward the front of the shop. I could hear the city waking up—the clatter of armored boots, the high-pitched laughs of noblewomen, the sheer power of the matriarchy.
I reached into my pocket and touched the screen of the phone. 10 VP. "Okay, Venus," I whispered, my heart beginning its familiar, terrified thumping. "I'm going to work. I'm going to learn. And as soon as I see a chance... I'm going to buy something that makes 'Skinny Boy' the most dangerous man in Athens."
The shop doors swung open at 6:00 AM sharp, letting in a gust of fresh air and a woman who looked like she had been sculpted out of moonlight and bad attitudes.
She was young, maybe my physical age, but she carried herself with the terrifying confidence of someone who could turn me into a localized grease spot with a snap of her fingers. She wore a deep indigo mage-robe that was slit dangerously high on one side to reveal flawless legs, leather-bound boots, and her hair was a shimmering cascade of silver pinned back by a ruby clip.
This was a Mage-Candidate, a future powerhouse on her way to the Academy. And she was my first customer according to Herbert who bowed his head and never made eye contact to the mage.
"You," she barked, pointing a manicured finger at me. "The twig behind the counter. Show me your best enchanted daggers. My staff is being repaired, and I need a sidearm for the Academy entrance exam."
I froze. My brain, usually a fine-tuned machine of New York cynicism, suddenly blue-screened. Don't look at the slit in the robe. Don't look at the ruby clip. Don't look at... anything.
"Y-yes, M-lady," I stammered, my voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear. I reached for a small, silver-filigree dagger. "This is... uh... it's pointed. Very sharp. Good for... pointing at things."
As I laid it on the counter, she leaned in. Not just a little bit. She leaned way in to inspect the craftsmanship.
Suddenly, my world was 90% her. She smelled like a bouquet of wild lilies and expensive vanilla—a scent so intoxicating it should have been illegal. But to my internal alarm system? It was the smell of a nuclear meltdown.
My lungs decided to go on strike. I stopped breathing. My face didn't just turn red; I'm pretty sure I turned a shade of purple usually reserved for dying stars. I felt the heat rising from my neck, my skin prickling with the phantom memory of seventy years of hives.
The Mage frowned, pulling back and sniffing her own sleeve. Her beautiful face contorted into a mask of pure annoyance. "What is wrong with you, boy? Do I smell like a rotting swamp-ogre? Why are you turning into a beet?"
"I... I..." I gasped, clutching the edge of the wooden counter for dear life.
"You look like you're looking at a pile of fish guts!" she snapped, her eyes sparking with literal blue mana. "I am Lady Seraphina of the House of Vane! I didn't spend three gold on rose-water baths to have a scrawny shop-clerk treat me like a plague carrier! You stupid, ugly, little peasant!"
"I'm sorry!" I squeaked, finally finding a microscopic amount of oxygen. I looked at the floor, my heart drumming a heavy-metal solo against my ribs. "Please, M-lady! It's not the smell! It's... it's the beauty! I'm from the slums down south. The beggar's village. I've never... I've never been this close to a Goddess—I mean, a woman like you. My brain... it's not used to it."
The anger in her eyes flickered. It didn't disappear, but it shifted into something else—haughty, aristocratic pity. She let out a long, dramatic sigh, the kind that only beautiful twenty-year-olds can pull off.
"Oh. You're one of those," she murmured, her voice softening just a fraction. "Starved of culture and sight. I suppose a common rat like you would be overwhelmed by the presence of a Mage."
She reached across the counter. My internal sirens went from "Warning" to "Imminent Impact."
"Don't worry, little rat," she said, her lips curving into a smug, condescending smile. "I won't turn you into a toad for your ignorance."
And then, she did it. She patted my shoulder. Her bare palm made contact with the thin fabric of my tunic, the warmth of her hand seeping through to my skin.
[NOTIFICATION: INTENSITY DETECTED!]
[BONUS: PHYSICAL CONTACT (PAT) +50 VP!]
[CURRENT BALANCE: 60 VP]
The notification popped up in my mind's eye like a neon sign, but I didn't have time to celebrate. The moment she touched me, my nervous system decided to shut down the entire power grid. My eyes rolled back into my head. My knees didn't just buckle; they dissolved.
"Arthur?!" Herbert's voice roared from the back, but it sounded like he was underwater.
I hit the floor with a dull thud, my last conscious thought being: At least I didn't break out in hives. Also... vanilla is a really nice way to go.
Darkness. Total, silent darkness.