Timur's great-great-grandfather was a dungeon merchant. He died peacefully in his sleep.

Timur's great-grandfather was a dungeon merchant. He died in the dungeon, selling until the last minute.

Timur's grandfather was a dungeon merchant. He died with his son and grandson by his bedside.

Timur's father was a dungeon adventurer. He sought fame and glory with his sword. He died drunk, broken, and penniless.

—

“Seventeen cores? Are you fucking with me?”

It was easy for emotions to run high between two guys, alone, surrounded by the tension of a dangerous dungeon. The meager light that their two torches carried valiantly tried to hold back the surrounding darkness. Every so often, a monster's roar or hiss would break the silence, far enough to not be an immediate problem but close enough that they could become one at any time. It was enough to unnerve even seasoned adventurers.

At least Timur could comfort himself with the fact that he was the one who held the sword. For now at least.

“Think of it this way,” Timur said, trying to look reasonable. “You won’t find any weapon better than this on the second floor. With this sword, you can probably hunt another twenty or maybe even thirty monsters. That's thirty cores, twice what this sword costs.” He held the sword at an angle, letting it glint in the torchlight. “Look at the edge on this blade. It's good for a while, at least. Heck, you can even sharpen it once you get back to the surface, and it'll last you another couple of raids. Sure, you could save money by buying a new sword on the surface, but that means time lost and paying the dungeon fee all over again. Buying here is a net gain, trust me!”

In situations like these, Timur found that his best move was usually just to keep talking. The adventurer could take that time to calm down, and if Timur was lucky, one of his words might strike a chord and make the adventurer see things his way.

The adventurer's eyes narrowed, either with disbelief or shrewdness. In the dim light, it was hard to tell.

”I don't trust you,” he spat out. “You're just trying to cheat me!”

“Hey, look. I get it. Dungeon merchants don't have the best reputation. But you gotta understand I want your business again in the future. We can work with that. How about this? I'll do 16 cores. I risked my neck to come all the way here! That's gotta be worth something, right?” Timur said.

The adventurer started to speak again, then paused to think through what Timur had just said. Timur sensed that he was starting to give.

“10 cores. I could buy the same exact sword on the surface for 5 cores. Take it or leave it,” the adventurer grumbled.

The dangerous part of the transaction was now over. Most people didn't haggle before using violence.

“Right, you seem like a [Tanker] who knows the value of a good sword. I like [Tankers]! One of them saved my hide a few months ago! How about 12 cores? That’s a 50% discount!” It was a bit of an exaggeration to say 50%, but Timur doubted this particular adventurer sweated over those kinds of details.

The adventurer paused for a few moments before replying. The torch flickered and accented the creases on his face.

“Fine. 12 cores. Deal.” He reached back into his pack, pulled out a bag of cores, and started counting out the correct amount.

“I promise you, this is the best sword you'll find in the entire dungeon! It’s sharper than your mother-in-law’s tongue and twice as deadly,” Timur winked as he watched the cores leave the bag.

The adventurer chuckled darkly. “Said like a man who hasn’t met my mother-in-law.”

Soon, he had counted out 12 cores, and the trade took place. Timur grabbed a pack of nuts from his pocket and tossed them to the adventurer.

“An extra thank you, from me.” Timur smiled.

“Sure, thanks.” With the new sword and pack of nuts, the adventurer started walking away.

With only a single torch instead of two, the darkness crept that much closer to Timur. It was time to move on.

—

Timur completed the same quick inspection of his inventory he did after every transaction. He counted out five flasks of water, twenty-seven packets of dried nuts, and four canteens worth of tobacco. Nothing was missing, which was good. Thefts were not unheard of, and the sneakier adventurers could move in ways Timur just didn’t have the stats to detect.

If everything went well, he could sell all of that for at least another five monster cores. The nuts and water were loss-leaders, Timur would underprice them to get adventurers to open up to him. The real prize was the tobacco. It was the ideal combat drug; if the adventurer made it back to the surface, they could cure the after-effects with the mildest of healing treatments from the town's [Healer].

Stolen story; please report.

Adventurers often had to go days without sleep in the dungeon. Tobacco helped with that. Some adventurers even swore that it made them sharper before fights, which was a somewhat doubtful statement Timur did nothing to counter. Either way, Timur wasn't going to have trouble selling it.

But his best customers for the drug were deeper down in the dungeon, where even high prices seemed cheap compared to what higher-level adventurers could rake in. If he went down to the fourth floor, his wares might fetch as much as ten monster cores. That was double what he would get here on the second floor, but it came with a proportional increase in danger.

Life as a dungeon merchant was like that. Everything had a balance, and everywhere Timur went, risk and reward were two sides of the same coin. No reward came without some risky strings attached. And very few risks were bereft of reward.

Today felt like a low-risk day. He had already sold the sword for an eight-core profit. It was his biggest profit from a single item, ever. An image of the puddle he saw before meeting the adventurer flashed across his thoughts. It was bright red; a bad omen. While the Raiden dungeon was a relatively safe five-floor dungeon, some adventurers or merchants loved pushing their luck and exploring deeper than their strength allowed. When that happened, things could get ugly.

It occurred to Timur that he could go home happy now, and live to sell another day. And that's exactly what he did.

Packing up his wares, he started his journey back through the dungeon, taking care to avoid areas where he sensed danger. It was unnerving walking in darkness, with nothing but the soft plops of Timur's steps to keep him company. The Raiden dungeon had a unique scent. Although it was dry and dusty, it smelled like a mix of stagnant water, moss, and leaves. Timur found comfort in this smell. After all, in the time he had spent in the Raiden dungeon, the worst that had happened was meeting a couple of unworthy adventurers who took and didn't give.

As Timur made his way through the dungeon, the sounds of distant fighting echoed in his ears. It was too dark for Timur to see anything properly, but he could hear the fights well enough to give them a wide berth. There was always a chance of another monster that would be attracted to the sound and find a weak, snack-worthy dungeon merchant served on a silver platter.

On the first floor, Timur found a couple of beginner adventurers and offloaded his remaining wares at a modest discount. So, he now had a ten core profit for the day and a total of fourteen cores. It was a far cry from what he could have sold the tobacco and nuts for on the deeper floors, but it was a heck of a lot safer.

The first floor was just as dark as the second floor. As Timur made his way to the exit, a snarl suddenly erupted from his left.

Timur whipped his torch around to light the area and found himself face to face with a Hirose. They were stout hippo-like beasts that usually didn't bother humans. But today, Timur was looking at a Hirose with a bloody snout. The beast was about the height of his chest, but was easily three to four times heavier than Timur. Its charge, if it decided to perform one, would be devastating.

Frozen still, Timur really regretted selling that sword. While he was sure even a couple of weak slashes from him wouldn't make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, he would feel a lot better if he had something other than his sharp tongue to use as a weapon.

The staring contest between Timur and Hirose went on for what felt like minutes. Despite the blood dripping down, Timur couldn't feel any hostility coming from the Hirose beast in front of him and so he did what any logical person would do. He whispered the names of his ancestors.

His father, when he was still alive, had told Timur that there was power behind words. And even among words, names held the most power. Timur's name meant “iron” in the Antias tribe. When he had come of age, he was meant to take a true name. Unfortunately, his father had passed on by then. So Timur was stuck with his newborn name. His father had been given a true name of “Ludo” or “famous warrior.” Perhaps that's why he became an adventurer.

Timur found comfort in these names. Although he had outgrown myths and fairy tales, he wasn't too old for a bit of ancestral superstition. His father had promised that his ancestors would look after Timur if he spoke their names, and eventually, speaking their names felt like second nature while alone in the dungeon.

After a couple of names, the Hirose turned its head, grunted, and ran off. Free from what was about to be certain death, Timur gave thanks to his ancestors and continued on to the exit with shaky legs. Even though his knees felt weak, his steps had a bit of an urgency to them.

At the exit, Timur basked in the sunlight for a moment before greeting the town's guards.

The one on the left, Banut, had been in the town when Timur first arrived. He was a giant of a man and acted exactly the way he looked. Any adventurer that tried to be smart with him was met with a slap and sometimes, especially when he was in a bad mood, a fist.

“Hey Banut, how's your day going?” Timur called out while tossing him a monster core.

“Not great,” Banut huffed back.

Timur was one of the rare few people who had put in the work to be on good terms with Banut. At first, Banut had treated Timur like the other dungeon merchants, someone whom he had to keep a close eye on for tax collection. Then, about six months ago, Timur noticed that Banut was starting to stay late at the town's tavern, so Timur did too, and started buying Banut drinks when opportunities presented themselves. The guardsman seemed grateful for the companionship and the free drinks, as well as the excuse of spending more time at the tavern.

Timur never asked him about why he frequented at the tavern so often, and just kept buying more drinks. Soon after, Banut stopped searching Timur every time he came out of the dungeon. Instead, he would just take a nominal single core as Timur's tax, even when the letter of the law called for significantly more.

Lyr was like that; a frontier dungeon town where adventurers and merchants could find holes in the lax governance structure. Established only a couple of years ago, it didn't have a real government yet. Instead, the town made do with its magistrate and a couple of guards. They'd collect a flat fee from anyone looking to enter the Raiden dungeon, and a twenty percent tax whenever someone left the dungeon with any type of gain.

The guard on the right was a different story. Lean and gaunt, Caen was exactly what his name implied. “Caen” meant fighting and battles. Although Timur had seen Caen plenty of times around the town, the two never progressed beyond the nod-thy-head-and-say-hello phase of their relationship. Still, he seemed to have an unspoken agreement with Banut. If Banut wanted to collect less in taxes from Timur, Caen apparently wasn’t going to get in his way.

Whatever motivation he had for it, Caen's perpetual scowl couldn't damper Timur's mood. He had made a nine-core profit for the day. It wasn't the most he ever made, but it had been a good day. And the best way to cap off a good day was an ice-cold lager at the town tavern.