Terms of Exchange

"Shall we begin negotiations?"

"Ahem. Take a seat."

Bennett pulled out a chair across from Dorkan and sat down.

"First, I'd like to inspect the article in question."

Bennett reached into his subspace inventory, retrieved the handgun, and set it upon the table. The moment Dorkan laid eyes on the Glock 17, his gaze sharpened with undisguised fascination.

Clack, click!

Dorkan handled the firearm with a practiced dexterity that far exceeded Bennett's prior demonstration. His thick, calloused fingers worked in a blur of precise motions, separating the upper slide from the lower frame in a matter of seconds.

Having dismantled the piece to inspect every internal tolerance and machining line, Dorkan gave an appreciative nod and reassembled the components with equal swiftness. The Glock returned to its pristine form in the blink of an eye.

"Are you satisfied with its condition?" Bennett asked.

"Its condition is undeniably superb," Dorkan admitted, resting his palms flat on the table. "What is it you want?"

"I have three conditions."

Dorkan's brow twitched. "Three?"

"First: top-priority supply of all newly developed dwarven weapons, armor, and equipment. Second: the right to receive regular progress reports on that development. Third: an official procurement contract for quarrel heads compatible with my repeating crossbow."

"Ha!" Dorkan scoffed, his bearded face hardening instantly. "You are far greedier than rumor suggested."

"I exercised immense restraint," Bennett replied evenly, "purely out of respect for our mutual friend."

"Restraint? You call this restraint?" Dorkan crossed his arms and glared across the table. "Your demands overstep. It isn't as if we lack firearms entirely. We have analyzed and reverse-engineered broken specimens to forge the very repeating crossbow you rely on today. Furthermore, though classified, other armaments are currently in development. To the Dwarf Kingdom, your find is merely one option among many."

Bennett held his ground without flinching.

"And what have your efforts yielded so far?"

Dorkan's eyes narrowed. "...What are you implying?"

"Balduin test-fired a live round recently to verify this weapon's operational integrity."

Dorkan flinched. That was clearly news to him.

"I compared that shot to the instant a bolt looses from my repeating crossbow," Bennett continued calmly. "My vision couldn't track the bullet's trajectory at all."

"..."

"It gave me a tangible measure of a true firearm's velocity and destructive force. A repeating crossbow is formidable, certainly, but it remains nothing more than a downgraded imitation of a gun. And the reason you produced a degraded copy, despite the kingdom's peerless metallurgy..."

Anticipating the words to come, Dorkan pressed his lips into a grim line.

"...is because you were reverse-engineering scrap metal from the very beginning."

"Ngh."

"Had your artisans studied an intact, fully functional weapon, dwarven ingenuity would have produced something virtually identical to the original. Viewed in that light..." Bennett tapped the barrel resting on the wood between them. "...the value of the firearm I recovered from the dungeon is anything but modest. One option among many? No. It is your only viable option."

Bennett had gleaned a great deal through Balduin over their partnership. Piecing those insights together gave him a clear picture of dwarven political realities. In his assessment, the Dwarf Kingdom desperately needed a working firearm, because they were far from the only power coveting the armaments of the dungeon world.

"Humans, elves, and every other race capable of training master artisans are actively assimilating the artifacts and culture of the dungeon world," Bennett pressed. "And weapons? That is their foremost priority."

Dungeon City's very layout evidenced this shift; dividing districts into precise numerical grids was an urban concept unheard of before the portals opened. Even the tailored business suit Dorkan wore was a direct import of dungeon-world fashion. Artifacts and concepts were crossing over and finding root across the continent. Though the immense technological hurdles slowed their progress, firearms would inevitably emerge upon the world stage. An operational weapon was direct, unassailable military leverage. Neither man needed reminding of the colossal geopolitical voice commanded by whichever power cracked the formula first.

"Considering the stakes, I believe my terms are entirely reasonable."

"...Whew. Fine. We can concede the first condition," Dorkan conceded with a heavy sigh. "But the second—demanding intelligence reports on our classified development? Impossible. That amounts to handing state secrets of the Dwarf Kingdom over to an outsider."

"How can I request new gear if I don't know what's being forged in the first place? Besides, deliveries could easily be delayed—intentionally, depending on someone's political whim."

"Are you questioning the integrity of the Dwarf Kingdom?"

Dorkan's voice boomed, but Bennett's expression remained placid.

"Even the Dwarf Kingdom has factions and conflicting agendas. Who can predict how those currents might shift?"

"..."

"And regarding the third condition, the supply of quarrel heads—"

Dorkan raised a broad, calloused hand to cut him off. "I heard of that matter from Balduin. Under normal circumstances, it would be strictly forbidden. But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seeing as I'm already swallowing your first two demands, splitting hairs over crossbow bolts seems rather pointless. I accept."

Previously, Balduin had skirted regulations by skimming bolts and replenishing them under the table. Now, Bennett had secured a legitimate, royal-sanctioned procurement channel—not just from Balduin's workshop, but from any dwarven forge across the continent.

"I have a counter-condition of my own," Dorkan added.

"Let's hear it."

"For any firearms or modern weaponry retrieved from the dungeon hereafter, the Dwarf Kingdom retains exclusive first-negotiation rights."

Bennett gave an immediate nod. "Then let us review the terms."

Moments later, two identical contracts detailing the agreement were laid out on the table.

"Is this satisfactory?"

"You will also need to provide an upfront cash payment," Bennett noted smoothly.

Dorkan burst into an incredulous laugh. "Hahaha! You truly are something else. Fine, I will throw in a pouch of gold coins as a signing bonus. Are we finished?"

"Agreed."

Both men applied their signatures to the documents, followed by official personal seals and interwoven mana authentication patterns that bound the agreement legally and magically.

"Balduin's standing will rise considerably thanks to this," Dorkan muttered, tucking his copy away. Since Bennett could not personally oversee every logistical detail, all transactions would inevitably flow through Balduin's workshop.

"That is the benefit of having a good friend," Bennett said.

"Make sure you don't do anything to shame that friend of yours."

"So far, Balduin has done far more shameless things than I have."

Unable to withstand Bennett's deadpan glare, Dorkan cleared his throat and looked toward the ceiling. "Ahem! I shall take my leave first."

The elder dwarf rose and hurried out the door. As Bennett stood to leave, a translucent window materialized before his vision.

Four Dollars?

Rather than puzzling over the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bizarre name, Bennett chose to focus on the four unallocated stat points now resting in his status window. He closed the prompt, pocketed his gold and contract, and set out for his next destination.

"Hello! Welcome to the Dungeon City Branch of the Mercenary Guild! How may I assist you today?"

"I'd like to consign an item for the guild auction."

"Ah, is that so? Our next auction is scheduled just two days from now. Would that timeline suit you?"

It was the familiar female receptionist whose practiced smile greeted visitors at the central counter. Bennett gave a quiet nod.

"Wonderful! As you may already know, guild auctions are restricted to verified guild members for both consignments and bidding. Do you hold an active registration with us?"

Bennett reached into his coat and presented a silver mercenary badge. The receptionist cross-referenced the rough facial description etched on the reverse with Bennett's disguised features, then returned the metal token with a slight bow.

"Identity confirmed, Sir John!"

With his false persona verified, she slid an application form across the polished wood. "Please fill out this consignment form. If you require assistance with reading or writing, I would be glad to help!"

"I can manage."

Bennett filled in the parchment slowly. He used a rough, sloping scrawl completely distinct from his natural handwriting. When finished, he passed the sheet back.

"All done."

"Thank you, let me verify the entry—"

Her cheerful customer-service smile gradually froze as her eyes swept down the page.

"Excuse me... Sir John?"

"Yes?"

"Is this... truly the item you wish to sell?"

The warm facade vanished entirely, replaced by a razor-sharp gaze that warned against trivialities. A faint, prickling ripple of energy washed over Bennett's skin—a subtle pressure confirming she was no ordinary clerk, but a combatant whose capabilities far exceeded typical mana practitioners.

Bennett did not flinch.

Beneath his skin, his Psionic Energy circulated smoothly, effortlessly brushing aside the mana probe. Furthermore, he was entirely serious about putting the item on the block. Sensing his unshakeable composure, the suspicion in her eyes gave way to profound shock.

"Let me confirm this... just one more time."

"Go ahead."

"Is the 'Drake Breath' written here truly the technique I think it is?"

"If you are referring to the introductory mana breathing technique belonging to House Drake, then yes. That is correct."

At the same time, Bennett placed a bound bundle of parchment onto the desk.

"This is...?"

"Everything required to cultivate Drake Breath is recorded in these papers. If verification is necessary, feel free to examine it."

"...Please wait here for a moment."

She hurried away from the counter and vanished through an inner door. Moments later, she returned and gestured toward the staircase.

"The Branch ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Head wishes to meet with you personally. Please follow me."

"Understood."

Ascending the stairs behind her, Bennett cast a casual glance down at the ground floor. Dozens of armed mercenaries packing the expansive hall were staring up at him in stunned silence. He had deliberately spoken the words Drake Breath in a clear, carrying voice. Within the hour, the rumor would tear through every tavern and guildhall in the city.

Bennett suppressed the smirk tugging at his lips.

This is only the beginning.

He could not dismantle House Drake overnight. But chipping away at their foundation, humiliating them publicly, and bleeding their prestige was entirely within his power. The more he rattled their cage, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the more desperate—and vulnerable—they would become.

"Right through here, please."

The receptionist ushered him toward a heavy set of double doors. From within rolled an imposing, dense aura that commanded immediate respect. Bennett subtly tilted his head; the mana signature felt oddly familiar, as if from someone he had crossed paths with years ago.

"Branch Head, your guest has arrived."

Bennett stepped into the spacious office, his eyes narrowing slightly.

I thought so.

"Welcome!"

A broad-shouldered, muscular man surged up from behind the mahogany desk and strode over with heavy, confident strides.

"I am Dawson, head of this Dungeon City Branch. I might be bound to paperwork these days, but in my prime, I ran the field with the best of them."

The man had once fought on the same battlefields as Bennett, serving as a tactical field commander for the Mercenary Guild. Dawson was recognized across the continent as one of the guild's premier combat authorities, with confirmed cultivation reaching the Elite Rank. In a trade where the overwhelming majority could not grasp mana at all, an Elite warrior was a walking catastrophe.

"John. Silver Rank Mercenary."

"According to the archives, you've been inactive since wrapping up a contract several years ago," Dawson observed, leaning against his desk.

"Personal matters required my attention. I took employment alongside an associate I met during that commission."

"If it isn't an imposition, might I ask what sort of work that entailed?"

"It was outside guild jurisdiction. I oversaw security transport for a merchant company."

"Hmph. Fair enough."

Dawson looked back and forth between the parchment and Bennett's face. True to his Elite standing, a cold, piercing light gleamed in his eyes as he attempted to read Bennett's vitals and posture, but even that penetrating aura failed to see through Bennett's disguise.

"And you came to auction Drake Breath?"

"Yes."

"Pardon the bluntness, but I have to ask: how does an ordinary Silver Rank mercenary manage to get his hands on an heirloom of House Drake?"

Dawson's skepticism was entirely warranted. Silver Rank proved a mercenary was competent and experienced, but only within the mundane boundaries of standard guild work. Drake Breath, by contrast, was a jealously guarded core asset of the oligarchs ruling Dungeon City. Even if categorized as an introductory mana breathing technique, all the crude, cobbled-together breathing manuals circulating in the outer city combined could not compare to it. For a solitary Silver Rank to casually drop it onto an auction block was bordering on madness.

"I acquired it in a dungeon."

"A dungeon, you say..." Dawson's brow furrowed.

It sounded like an excuse, yet it was far from impossible. Skirmishes between the noble factions within the hazardous ruins beyond the portals were commonplace.

"...I will need to verify the manual's authenticity myself."

"Be my guest."

Dawson picked up the manuscript and closed his eyes. After a brief, measured pause—

Vwoom!

A distinct, resonant pulse of mana flared throughout the room as Dawson guided his core along the documented pathways. The air grew heavy, humming with the unmistakable cadence of draconic power.

"...It's authentic."

Bennett, wearing John's rugged visage, gave a mild shrug. "I'm not crazy enough to attempt fraud against the Mercenary Guild."

"That is a rather rich statement coming from a man consigning this to an open guild auction..." Dawson shook his head, then leveled a stern, unwavering glare at Bennett. "Are you truly going through with this?"

"I am. I need an immense sum of coin."

"Very well!"

Dawson seized the heavy iron seal from his desk and brought it crashing down onto the consignment registration.

Thump!

"The auction convenes two evenings from now."