Murphy was somewhat taken aback by this forward and unreasonable manner – after all, it was his first encounter with such behavior. But then, fireworks and firesticks – no, dynamite and muskets – were currently exclusive to Viscount Reed's jurisdiction, a unique one-stop shop sort of deal.

Thus, Murphy set the price, confident that every Earth-transplant has dipped into the "mark up thirty percent then discount twenty percent" scheme, so it was about time to bamboozle the naive and foolish folk of this other realm.

"Yes, yes," Murphy asserted with an untouchable smile, once again channeling the spirit of a seasoned sales representative, "Selling them to you, two distinguished Dukes, naturally comes at cost price, with just a bit of labor fee tacked on."

"Each blast packet (dynamite) goes for five gold coins, buy ten get one free. Launchers (muskets) are one gold coin apiece, get a barrel of magic powder (gunpowder) and a bag of iron shot free for every hundred purchased. Magic powder and iron shot are bundled together: one barrel of magic powder is enough for a thousand firings and more, just ten gold coins each, and the shot comes free with purchase."

Once Murphy finished, Raventa's eyes began their measurements, calculating the cost. It didn't seem too expensive at one silver per musket.

But what Raventa didn't realize was the small snare Murphy had laid – the attrition rate for unused gunpowder was startling on the battlefield, discounting those batches lost to dampness. Even in its current powdered form, wind or a shaky hand could hasten the depletion.

After some swift mental math, Raventa, still oblivious to the trap, looked to Arwin. "Seems reasonable to me. What do you think?"

Flexing his prosperity, Arwin, who usually flitted between second and first places for wealth in the duchies, simply nodded and brazenly inquired, "How much do you have on you right now?"

"Duke, you're most generous!" Murphy threw him a thumbs-up. Western Duke McGrumpypants, started with a flicker of bewilderment, wondering if this savvy young spell-slinger was duping him outright.

Of course, Murphy remained blissfully unaware of the stone-faced duke's internal drama and light-heartedly declared, "Currently, we have five hundred blast packets, fifteen hundred launchers, and ample iron projectiles. As for the magic powder…" He continued candidly, "All magically endowed folks in the viscounty (a bit of a fib) are working overtime to meet current demands, rest assured."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Weapons, once in others' hands, were bound to be replicated—a fact Murphy and the dukes knew all too well, unmentioned though it was.

Whether it was mystifying names or pointless runes, these were just roadblocks to delay the inevitable.

Murphy figured, with the gunpowder formula clenched tightly in his hand, there was no fear of firearm imitation. And crafting the black powder fell upon his utterly loyal demon troopers.

If it were any human in charge, Murphy's assurance might waver, for humanity is ever so bribable. But demons? Who among the humans would stand a negotiation with demons rather than contemplate fleeing or fighting...

Satisfied, Arwin stroked his beard amiably, a stark contrast to his earth-shattering persona, and affirmed, "Excellent, we'll take everything you've got now. As for those being produced…" His eyes sharpened, hinting at a threat. Murphy perceived a clear message: the duke pondered whether he would play war merchant and sell muskets to both sides of the fray.

"Rest assured, Dukes, we only need to keep a minimal number for defense. The rest is all yours."

"We support the notion of 'try before you buy,' as well," Murphy finished with a down-to-earth grin.

Murphy's inherently charming face, coupled with an affable smile and a dose of interworld sales tactics, soon had the old coots' money in the palm of his hand.

The deal was swiftly clinched, elders eager to engage in their grand slam without debasing themselves with layaway schemes. Contracts were signed, and even a further fifteen hundred muskets were reserved—not for lack of production capacity or financial woes on the dukes' part, but because they wished to keep the secret weapon from the kingdom's grasp. All they needed was to secure the musket brigade's safety on the battlefield to keep the secret safe.

With an accord in place, Murphy didn't hesitate. He stripped off his cloak to confess a string of unassuming cloth pouches.

Arwin repressed a chuckle at the prepared spectacle. It appeared their young salesman had long anticipated their agreement.

Content with the transaction, Murphy generously added the sequence of plain-looking space pouches to the deal, each of the quality reaching the 'fine' (blue) criteria. While the dukes hardly lacked such trappings of spatial magic, their officers did—a welcome boon for rewarding hardworking subordinates without appearing miserly.

With both dukes ready to roll up their sleeves for a fight, the mastermind Mr. Murphy was already bidding adieu, leaving all the goods and instructions behind, and after hands-on demonstrations with two apprentices, he light-heartedly left the united army camp, his pockets heavy with six thousand five hundred gold coins (including advance payment), bound for Viscount Reed’s domain.

Now, all that remained was to watch and wait, playing the wallflower and ensuring his own lands stayed unconquerable while maintaining the guise of indifference.