The Curved Blade
A tattered tent, wholly out of place among the ruined offices, fluttered alone in a space without wind.
A fluorescent light blinked in the dark, and beneath it sat a man who seemed to have slipped free of time's weathering.
Behind him hung an assortment of grotesque wares: books thick with mold, a sword rusted and warped along one edge, bloodstained armor of unknown origin, and a wooden doll grinning with uncanny malice.
His grayish skin was rough and dark, like stone that refused the light—a bloodless hue, the flesh of someone who had endured decades without sun in the putrid air of the underground. In places the skin rose in scales; elsewhere old wound-scars remained stuck on like dried hide. From beneath it, arms so thin the joints stood out in stark relief jutted forth.
What he wore could no longer be called clothing—mere scraps of cloth, a rag so thick with centuries of grime, mud, and dried blood that dark crimson stains layered over it like years themselves. Thin legs stuck out from under the rags. Sparse black-gray hair covered his head, and from within it half-lidded eyes glinted with secretive light.
His eyes were deeply sunken, and from his toothless mouth he muttered without pause—as if talking to himself, or conversing with a host of ghosts all at once.
It was as if the world itself warped around that single spot.
The Merchant opened his mouth toward Minel.
An ancient underground smell wafted forth.
"Ooooh. A newbie who still reeks thickly of the outside. And yet you already have a skill—impressive. Heh heh heh. You're a rare one, even for us."
He was alone by any measure, yet he referred to himself as "we."
The Merchant's voice was soft and oily, yet held no emotion whatsoever.
Hina stood at a careful distance, wary.
As Minel approached, the Merchant sniffed the air.
"The scent of Wildness. How long has it been since we've met someone on the 1st Floor with so strong a reek? We'll have to bring out the things we don't usually show. Heh heh heh."
The Merchant looked at him with greedy eyes, as if he had already taken the exact measure of Minel's purse.
Neither human nor monster.
Minel thought of an NPC from a game.
"Got weapons?"
The Merchant grinned.
"Cold weapons or firearms—which do you prefer? Tell us what you want."
"Cold weapons and firearms?"
"Indeed. Which would you like?"
The veteran had held a blade in his right hand and a gun in his left. With the blade he had slain monsters; the gun he had aimed at Minel.
A gun is stronger than a blade. It kills enemies easily and quickly. If it worked on monsters, he wouldn't have failed to use it on them.
"Cold weapons for monsters, firearms for people?"
The Merchant rubbed his hands together with a dry scrape and slowly nodded.
"You've grasped it with a single question. Correct. Firearms don't work well against monsters blessed by the dark. We're already looking forward to how often we'll be seeing you. Heh heh heh."
Based on everything so far, the best way to understand the Backrooms was as a game.
PVE: cold weapons.
PVP: firearms.
Was that the way to see it?
What should he buy?
Minel looked back at Hina, and she spoke quietly.
"Our party only ever bought guns and bullets. We never purchased a blade."
So they had been hunting people on purpose. They must not have planned to face monsters themselves.
Was specializing in only one the right call? If he didn't know the answer, it was best to follow the veteran for now.
Minel decided to purchase both firearms and cold weapons.
"What weapons do you have?"
The Merchant snapped his fingers. The tent's form suddenly shifted. Like a butterfly spreading its wings, the interior expanded two or three times over, revealing a host of goods. Inside, countless items were crammed as if forced in, ignoring the rules of space. From the deep dark, all manner of weapons jutted their heads into view.
The Merchant extended a finger like a twig and pointed to a sword. The greatsword hanging as if leaning against the wall looked heavy enough to tear the ground by weight alone. Countless cracks gaped like teeth along the blade, and in every fissure red rust clung as if blood had soaked in.
"A sword said to be forged from a dragon's spine. Each swing, they say, makes you feel again the agony the dragon felt as it died. But if you have the strength, it's a fine deal."
The Merchant's finger moved. Beside it lay a large, knobby mace—the weight of stone, with dried scraps of flesh hanging from every spike driven into it.
"That one… is the hammer once used by a bishop who went mad trying to imitate the judgment of God. The reek of blood is thick in it. Even we haven't dared touch it yet."
On a small display stand beside them, daggers were arranged: a black-bladed dagger of silver that gave no light, a poison blade twisted as if melting, and a set of needle-thin assassin's stilettos without sheaths.
"These are for, heh heh heh, more refined customers. Quiet death, a night without traces—useful when you need to pierce a heart. Set weapons are not sold separately."
In a corner of the wall stood a bow as well. The taut string was a beast's sinew, and the arrows were carved not of iron but of bone shards.
"That bow belonged to a hunter of the haunted woods. Can you hear it still whispering something? For dealing with monsters firearms won't touch from range, a bow is most suitable."
Descriptions of many more weapons followed. The Merchant was a born storyteller. Even simple weapon descriptions held a pull that made the listener focus of their own accord.
Yet strangely, Minel could not hear the words. From the start, one weapon had seized his attention.
"What's that?"
Where Minel pointed, a glass case gave off a faint rainbow light. Inside lay a single curved blade that looked unsettling at a glance. Black metal shards wound around the edge, soaked through with oil black as pitch, warping even the air around it.
On the Merchant's face—always smiling—a flash of alarm appeared. The kind, soft manner of speech vanished completely.
"We have no intention of selling that here… We don't know why either, but we believe… someday, it will find its master on its own."
The Merchant lifted a cloth with a black, withered hand and covered the glass case. It felt as if showing it at all had been a mistake.
An item even an NPC was reluctant to part with.
Minel spoke at once.
"I want that."
The Merchant clung to the glass case with his fingertips.
"This blade has watched us for a long time. Some nights it has appeared even in our dreams. It whispers as if it knows our soul. Someday…"
Minel had no interest in the Merchant's theatrics. He ignored the words and quietly stepped forward.
The lamp flame inside the tent wavered faintly, and the air warped as if some presence were about to awaken.
Could an NPC truly refuse to sell something? If that were possible, there would be no reason to be so protective of the goods. A simple "no" would suffice.
With conviction, Minel cut the Merchant off.
"Give it."
"…"
In that instant, something inside the glass case rattled with a crack, and a fracture spread. The curved blade had moved of its own accord. It held a chilling will, as if it had chosen its master—as if it had been waiting.
The Merchant pressed his lips together as if to stop Minel again. Minel's hand was faster than his mouth.
Tak.
The moment he reached out, the curved blade's hilt slid into his grip, and at the same time the lamp went out in an instant.
The Merchant fixed a strange gaze upon the curved blade in Minel's hand. Blood beaded at the corners of Minel's mouth, and his eyes seemed to stare blankly into empty air. The curved blade pulsed quietly in his grip like a heartbeat. A glaze-black light flowed over the edge, and the moment he saw it, Minel's fingertips went cold.
The Merchant's pupils turned toward Minel. He licked his lips once with a black tongue, then spoke low.
"It seems the curved blade has taken a liking to you as well, so we have no choice. But you must pay a fair price to take it."
"How much?"
"Fifty Blood Crystals."
The Merchant stared fixedly at Minel with an anxious face. His eyes seemed to ask whether Minel would truly spend fifty Blood Crystals on a single weapon.
Minel called up the sense of his inventory. Feeling carefully, he could tell he had fifty-four Blood Crystals in total.
He needed both firearms and cold weapons—was spending fifty on a single blade right? But Minel did not want to put the blade down. Though it was the first time he held it, it fit his hand perfectly. It felt like reclaiming a third arm he had lost.
"What firearm can I get for four Blood Crystals?"
The Merchant shook his head vigorously, as if he had been waiting for this. A faint joy tinged his face.
"Regrettably, the cheapest is five."
"…"
"It's a revolver you have to reload every shot, and the cylinder only holds two rounds. What's more, its power won't properly pierce a steel plate. Hide behind a chair instead of a desk and you won't hit your enemy—and it jams so often you wouldn't believe it. On top of that, the margins are so thin we can't even throw in the free bullets we usually include with a firearm purchase."
A relentless stream of thoroughly realistic complaints. He suddenly seemed like a modern salesman. And he wasn't talking up how good the gun was—he was listing how bad it was. Earlier he had spun myths for every weapon on his own. A stark contrast to how he had been praising his wares.
The Merchant worked his tongue again, spittle flying.
"Weapons should cost at least ten Blood Crystals, customer. Only then will they be usable on the 1st Floor."
In other words: if you want a firearm too, don't spend fifty on a cold weapon.
Judging by that look, he desperately wanted Minel to buy the curved blade anyway—but Minel thought coldly.
No matter how fine a cold weapon he used to carve through monsters—if he couldn't properly face people, everything would be taken from him in the end. There was no knowing how long empty bluster would hold. Especially in these bizarre Backrooms, full of all kinds of skills.
What he had learned through the veteran was the balance of cold weapons and firearms.
Regrettable, but this was the right thing to give up.
Minel held the curved blade out toward the Merchant again. The Merchant smiled brightly and quickly reached out both hands to take it.
"What's that?"
But then Hina, who had been watching quietly until now, spoke. Where her finger pointed, a single gun lay tossed carelessly about.
But something was strange. The pattern engraved on the barrel matched perfectly the design that adorned the curved blade.
Minel's hand, extending the curved blade, stopped. The Merchant's faint smile vanished in an instant.
"It's a set. Like the daggers earlier."
"…"
"Say it. It's a set, isn't it?"
The moment the question ended, the Merchant's lips trembled slightly. That face alone made it clear. He had kept silent because he didn't want to hand it over, no matter what.
Minel drew a deep smile across his face, while the Merchant's expression darkened in a hurry.