Clothing Warehouse - "Gazes That Love You" (1)

"So, Mr. Merchant. What's the reason for dragging yourself all the way to this dangerous spot?"

Hob Goblin asked, puffing on a pipe made from beast bone.

"Hunters are outside right now, ready to exterminate you all. They'll come bursting in any minute."

I cut straight to the point.

"Grrr... What, what'd you say?"

Hob Goblin's hand trembled violently. All his earlier dignity vanished in an instant. He flung the pipe away and spat curses.

"Damn it! Those bastards again! Last month they stormed in and skinned my kin alive! Cruel fucks! Just like bandits!"

Hob Goblin was terrified, like a victim hearing a serial killer was at their doorstep. To hunters, it was just a hunt—but to them, it was a massacre, a catastrophe.

I continued softly, like soothing a frightened customer.

"That's why I'm here. To sell you something that can reinforce your dungeon."

"Reinforce? You gonna send reinforcements?"

"No. Specifically, I'm selling 'ghost stories'."

"Ghost stories?"

Hob Goblin tilted his head. I pulled out my prepared explanation.

"It's a kind of trap—a way to plant invisible minions. When hunters enter the dungeon, the 'rules' I embed will bind them."

"Rules...?"

"For example, 'Make a sound and you die' or 'Look back and you're taken.' The moment they break a rule, even high-rank hunters suffer fatal damage or drop dead on the spot."

Hob Goblin's eyes gleamed. But as a merchant with a conscience, I laid out the drawbacks clearly.

"Of course, there are downsides. If the hunters are sharp and follow the rules, the ghost ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠story does nothing. It's useless."

"...Hmm."

Hob Goblin stroked his chin, deep in thought. A conditional one-shot kill. Risky, but way better odds than facing powerful hunters head-on.

"Fine. That's tempting. If I can screw them over and kill 'em..."

He eyed me with greedy hunger.

"So... how much?"

Here it came. Price negotiation. I swallowed dryly.

Intel said goblins—especially Hob Goblins—were greed incarnate. Money-obsessed, maniacally collecting shiny things. Some even dealt with criminals on the sly.

How much should ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I ask?

No benchmark. No market rate. As I hesitated, a voice echoed in my head.

1 gold for 1 hour?

I quickly did the math. The stealth cloak cost 80 hours. To break even, minimum 80 gold. But I had more days ahead. Time to gouge.

Problem is, how much does this guy have?

Too high, he walks; too low, my lifespan shrinks.

"Uh, roughly how much capital do you have? Just for reference—my ghost stories are 'semi-permanent goods' that last forever once installed, so the price is on the higher side."

I probed arrogantly, testing his wallet.

Hob Goblin snorted and stood.

"Treating me like a beggar? Follow me. I'll show you my treasure vault."

He led me to a rickety wooden door behind the tent. Grand name for a filthy shed next to the trash heap.

Screeech.

Rusty hinges groaned as the door opened. I wrinkled my nose at the stench and peered inside.

And.

"...Gasp."

I sucked in a breath. In the dim warehouse floor, amid junk, gleamed yellow metal. Gold coins. Dozens—no, hundreds. Mixed with jeweled hunter trinkets and mana stones.

This bastard... way richer than I thought.

D-rank boss, dismissed as small fry—but a real whale.

Sensing my greedy stare, Hob Goblin slammed the door shut.

"See? Plenty of coin."

He blocked the door, flexing.

"But I can't give it all. Tribe needs food, supplies."

Firm. No emptying the vault.

But I'd glimpsed that shining 'lifespan' pile.

How to extract it so word spreads I'm the guy who milks deals?

I leaned on my chin, pondering. All at once? He'd bail. Too cheap? Waste of life.

Low entry, long-term drain...

Suddenly, my old life flashed: Korea's broke renter, crushed by deposit and rent. Lightbulb.

"Ever heard of a 'monthly rental contract'?"

"Monthly rental? What's that?"

Hob Goblin blinked. I grinned triumphantly.

"Paying full upfront is a burden, right? Food, tribe expenses."

"Exactly. That's the issue."

"So my proposal: Pay a small 'deposit' first, then monthly fees. Like a subscription service."

"Subscription...?"

"Simple: Install the ghost story cheap now, pay ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠small ongoing fees. No big lump sum."

His face lit up.

"Oho! Brilliant! No huge outflow now—easy for me!"

Simpleton. Thrilled at short-term savings.

I asked inwardly.

Rental contract okay?

Sarcasm boiled my blood. But I swallowed it. I was the absolute underling here.

Back to business face.

"Deal?"

"Yes! How much?"

"First-timer special: 50 gold deposit. Then 30 gold monthly."

"50 gold..."

He calculated, then nodded. Better than total wipeout.

Good for me too. My ghost stories were D-grade. 50 hours upfront, 30 monthly pension.

"Reasonable. Deal!"

He fetched a heavy pouch from the warehouse.

Clink.

It thumped into my palm.

The pouch's weight felt real. But my lifespan hadn't budged. Per contract, pay the Voice first.

I gripped it tight.

Here. 50 gold offering.

Coins dissolved into light, sucked away like through a straw.

Finally felt alive. Then another message.

"Payment confirmed—time to install. Where? Chokepoint hunters use, or entrance?"

Strategic spots, obviously. But his answer surprised.

"Follow. Got an empty spot."

Back to the tent. Next to it: a tiny clearing.

"Here. Install here."

"...Here? Right by your bedroom?"

"Exactly! If they reach here, I'm in danger. Closest protection!"

"...Ah."

I clicked my tongue inwardly.

Selfish prick.

Minions die? Whatever, as long as he lives. Classic sleazy boss mentality.

But customer is king—even if it's toilet-side.

"Got it. As requested."

I nodded, reached into air, summoned the 'ghost story menu.'

"Check list."

Shrrk.

A translucent hologram unfolded.

Both D-grade. Hunter terms: D-monsters fall to guns. But I knew ghost story grades were different.

Rules.

Ghost stories weren't brute force. Not ghosts swinging knives.

A rule like 'Look back and die' could kill any hunter who turned.

That absolute compulsion was their power.

Both would be solid, but...

I smacked my lips. Blow 50-gold deposit and 30 monthly on both? Amateur hour.

Save one for resale or self-defense.

Watcher. Perfect fit.

Name screamed surveillance. Ideal intruder deterrent.

Then—a fatal flaw hit me.

Wait. Installing turns an area into an anomaly zone.

What if monsters get caught? No friend-foe ID on rules.

Slaughter my customer Hob Goblin mid-hunter hunt? No rent then.

Dead client = upside-down world.

I asked quickly.

Boss, won't this kill monsters too?

"Phew."

Relief. Makes sense—no one buys a weapon that backstabs.

Safety confirmed. Time to brief.

"Got the item: 'Watcher' ghost story."

"Watcher? Like, the one who watches?"

"Close. Once installed, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the area warps into a slightly altered space."

"Warps?"

Hob Goblin's thick brows twitched.

"Yes. Think barrier. Hunters stepping in get trapped by inescapable gazes and rules."

"Oho... Barrier! Like magic!"

"Sort of. Key point:"

I held up a finger.

"It never attacks you or your minions. Only outsiders."

Hob Goblin's grin split ear-to-ear.

"Kehahaha! Perfect! Trap that IDs friendlies!"

He slapped my shoulder.

"Worth every coin! Install now—before they come!"

"Got it. Step back, please."

I cleared Hob Goblin and guards. Empty lot by tent: dirt, scattered rocks.

Deep breath. First live install. Tension prickled my fingers.

Power: Materialize.

Selected [Watcher], targeted the lot.

Vrrr—!

Air hummed. Low tinnitus rattled the cave, deafening.

"Kieek? Wh-what?"

"Ground shaking! Kek!"

Goblins panicked, retreating. I gulped, watching.

Pop—.

The lot twisted. Like ink in diluted paint, gray murk rose from the ground, swallowing surroundings.

Dirt vanished, replaced by alien texture.

I gaped, slack-jawed. Nothing like hunter skills or magic.

"...What the hell is this?"