A Fledgling Peddler’s First Venture

The biting chill of an early winter morning, sharp as a frozen blade, effortlessly pierced through Rachel’s thick, dark grey cloak. She pulled down the wide hood, obscuring the unremarkable face of “Gray Goose,” leaving only the slightly stern lines of her jaw and her tightly pressed thin lips visible. The monotonous crunch of her leather boots echoed on the gravel path leading to the Stone Creek Town market.

Stone Creek Town, a small settlement not far from the Lockwood domain, was modest in size yet reasonably prosperous. As Rachel stepped through its entrance, however, the bustling din that greeted her carried an unusual undertone of oppression and chaos.

The market sprawled across a fairly open plaza in the town’s heart. Stalls stood shoulder to shoulder, their vendors’ cries rising and falling, while the air itself was a thick blend of burnt bread, pungent cheap tobacco, the earthy smell of livestock, and an… indescribably murky aura.

Rachel’s gaze sharply cut through the crowd. She noted the faces of many town residents, bundled in thick cotton clothes or fur-lined jackets, meticulously choosing their daily necessities from the stalls. Far more numerous, however, were the figures huddled in corners, wrapped in tattered blankets, or aimlessly wandering at the edges of the throng.

Dressed in rags, most wore scraps of cloth too flimsy to ward off the biting wind, their faces etched with the fatigue of long journeys and the gauntness of hunger. Their eyes were either vacant or filled with a pervasive wariness and unease. Men, women, the elderly, and children with small, blue-tinged faces clung tightly to their adults.

Like heavy shadows, they clung to the periphery of the otherwise somewhat orderly market, silently proclaiming the distant disaster unfolding.

‘Refugees…’

Rachel murmured inwardly, her brow furrowing almost imperceptibly beneath the shadow of her hood. The scene she had witnessed in Iron Anvil Town was repeating itself here, even more densely. Clearly, the disaster in the North was far graver than she had anticipated.

Suppressing the heaviness in her heart, Rachel tightened the coarse cloth bundle on her back, which contained over a dozen Heatstones she had crafted herself. She needed to find a suitable spot to begin her first venture as “Gray Goose.”

On the edge of the plaza, near the entrance to a narrow alley where sewage flowed freely, lay a small patch of ground barely large enough for one person. Rachel squeezed into the space, disregarding the wary glance from a nearby vendor hawking poor-quality leather goods. She unslung her bundle, spread it on the ground, and then meticulously arranged several Heatstones upon the cloth.

Unlike the other vendors, she did not shout herself hoarse, merely clearing her throat before calling out to passersby:

“Heatstones! Affordable, effective Heatstones! Banish the cold, essential for winter!”

Her voice, not particularly loud, was quickly swallowed by the surrounding clamor. Occasionally, someone would be drawn by the word “Heatstone,” pausing to cast a glance, but as their eyes fell upon the bare, dull grey iron pieces, adorned only with simple silver markings, their interest instantly waned, and they would shake their heads and move on.

“Excuse me, young man, how much for these Heatstones…?”

A middle-aged man, bundled in a threadbare cotton coat and with a nose reddened by the cold, shuffled closer, rubbing his hands as he inquired.

“Five copper coins each.”

Rachel stated her carefully considered price. This was less than a quarter of the market price for a standard Heatstone, a cost she believed would be sufficiently appealing.

“Five copper coins?”

The man’s eyes widened, then he offered a bitter smile.

“Young man, this item of yours… it looks far too crude. Five copper coins are enough for my family to buy black bread for two days.”

Shaking his head, he sighed and walked away.

Subsequently, several other individuals, better dressed and appearing to be town artisans or small shopkeepers, came to inquire, but their reactions were largely similar. They either found the price too high or deemed the item too rough and crude to be worth it.

The morning passed, and Rachel’s stall remained entirely deserted. Not a single Heatstone she had brought was sold. Her initial confidence was slowly extinguished by the cold reality. Rachel crouched behind her stall, her brow furrowing tighter and tighter beneath the hood.

Why? The effect was clearly good, and the price wasn’t expensive, so why did no one show any interest? Had her judgment been flawed from the very beginning?

Just as Rachel’s internal turmoil grew, pushing her almost to question her entire endeavor, a cheerful female voice rang out before her stall:

“Hey there, little brother, business not doing so well, huh?”

Rachel’s head snapped up.

A figure stood before her stall, casting a slight shadow. The person wore a faded, heavily worn wool cloak, clearly oversized, which nearly enveloped their small frame entirely. Their hood was not drawn, revealing a slightly disheveled pink twin ponytail.

Miriam!

Rachel’s heart practically ceased beating in that instant! Her entire bloodstream seemed to rush to her brain, only to freeze solid the next second!

‘How could she be here?! Is she here for revenge… No, she didn’t recognize me! She thinks I’m just a fledgling peddler!’

Forcing herself to calm down, Rachel lowered her eyelids, fixing her gaze on the cloth bundle on the ground, using every ounce of her strength to keep her voice steady.

“…No, not very well.”

She felt a pang of guilt, daring not to meet Miriam’s eyes, fearing Miriam would see through her disguise.

Simultaneously, Rachel sensed a chilling, almost tangible gaze from a dark corner nearby, instantly locking onto Miriam—it was Ruby, hidden in the shadows.

Miriam, however, remained completely oblivious. She crouched down with keen interest; her 145cm height made the action appear somewhat childish, yet her scrutinizing gaze was remarkably seasoned.

She casually picked up one of Rachel’s cold Heatstones, weighing it in her hand while examining the simple alchemical array etched onto its surface.

“Tsk, the craftsmanship is quite solid. Though the array is simple, it’s neatly carved, and the energy conduction circuit seems fine.”

Miriam’s tone was highly professional as she focused a faint wisp of spiritual energy onto her fingertip and gently tapped the Dusk Crystal at the Heatstone’s core.

Hum…

Within the Dusk Crystal, a faint, grayish-white glow began to flow, emanating a weak yet distinct warmth.

“Oh? The effect is actually quite good?”

A flicker of surprise crossed Miriam’s eyes.

“What did you use for the core? It doesn’t look like a standard magic crystal… The energy fluctuations are peculiar, but it definitely works.”

“Just some scrap materials…”

Rachel mumbled in response, momentarily unsure of Miriam’s intentions.

“Oh, a trade secret, then I won’t pry.”

Miriam smiled as she set down the Heatstone, dusted her hands, and looked at Rachel, who was still keeping her head down, diligently playing the part of Gray Goose.

“Little brother, first time out peddling on your own, right? Must be puzzling why your wares aren’t selling?”

Rachel paused for a moment, then hummed in affirmation.

Miriam chuckled, her smile holding a touch of knowing shrewdness, yet devoid of malice, resembling more a senior guiding a junior.

“The reasons are actually quite simple, about three points.”

Miriam held up three fingers, waving them slightly before Rachel.

“First, pricing.”

“For commoners, your price is still too high. They would rather endure the cold by layering more ragged clothes or huddling together for warmth than spend that money on a crude-looking item whose lifespan is unknown. For them, money is for survival, not for luxury.”

“As for truly wealthy individuals—such as the town steward, a small mine foreman, or a slightly more prosperous artisan shop owner—five copper coins is far too cheap.”

Miriam picked up the Heatstone, tapping its crude exterior with her finger.

“Most people believe cheap goods are inferior. What’s more, your item looks so unappealing; carrying it would be a loss of face. They’d rather spend a bit more on genuine Heatstones, beautifully adorned with polished gems and exquisite packaging. For the wealthy, appearances matter far more than a slight price difference.”

Rachel’s brow, hidden beneath her hood, furrowed tightly. Miriam’s words were incredibly insightful. She had indeed overlooked these aspects, mistakenly believing that a low price alone would guarantee sales.

“Second, as I mentioned before, is presentation.”

Miriam continued her critique without reservation.

“Your Heatstones are just bare iron plates, their edges not even polished smooth. Those who know might recognize them as Heatstones, but others would simply assume they’re scrap metal found somewhere. Magic items, especially practical trinkets aimed at those with a bit of disposable income, demand good presentation! You need to package them, even if it’s just wrapping them in a clean piece of coarse cloth or crafting a simple wooden casing. At the very least, they should appear as a product, not refuse.”

Rachel instinctively touched the dull grey Heatstones within her bundle, acknowledging their rough texture and utter lack of refinement.

“Third, and most crucial,”

Miriam raised her third finger, her tone turning serious.

“Your product range is too limited. While Heatstones are certainly in demand this season, they are not a necessity. For commoners living hand-to-mouth, they are a luxury; for those with a bit of spare cash, they are merely an added comfort, something easily forgone. Selling only this makes your appeal far too weak.”

Miriam’s analysis was clear, incisive, and entirely from the perspective of a seasoned merchant. Rachel’s heart was a tangle of emotions, feeling both the sting of being exposed and the undeniable truth in Miriam’s words.

“Then… what should I do?”

Rachel finally looked up, her gaze beneath the hood carrying a clear plea for guidance as she met Miriam’s eyes.

Miriam gazed at the “young man” before her, noting their clear yet somewhat stubborn eyes, and in the depths of her amber pupils, a fleeting, almost imperceptible trace of wistfulness seemed to pass. After a moment of silence, the teasing edge in her voice softened, replaced by an almost imperceptible gentleness.

“It’s simple. First, re-evaluate your pricing. Don’t try to appeal to everyone. Either make them cheaper—three copper coins, or even two—for high volume, specifically targeting struggling artisans or peddlers who are truly suffering from the cold and have a little spare cash, making them feel it’s worth gritting their teeth to buy one. Or, raise the price to ten or even fifteen copper coins, then find a way to sell them to those ‘respectable people’ who value appearances. I suggest the latter; it’s more troublesome, but the profit margin is greater.”

“Second, spruce up your Heatstones properly. Find some smooth, thin wooden pieces or clean, thick cloth to make simple casings. In short, make them look like legitimate goods.”

“Third, don’t just sell Heatstones. If I’m not mistaken, you made these yourself, didn’t you? I could tell at a glance. I suggest you develop several more products. Think carefully about what your customers truly need.”

Rachel listened intently, committing these suggestions firmly to memory. These pieces of experienced advice were invaluable to her.

“Why… are you telling me all this?” Rachel couldn’t help but ask, her voice carrying a well-placed mix of confusion and gratitude.

Miriam paused, then her face settled back into that slightly detached, habitual smile. She stood up, the hem of her large cloak swaying, her gaze seemingly passing through Rachel to some distant place.

“No particular reason.”

Miriam’s voice was soft, laced with an indescribable complexity.

“It’s just seeing you tinker with these things yourself, then clumsily try to sell them… it reminds me of a friend. She used to… always love to mess around with strange gadgets herself, then enthusiastically try to sell them, and the result was…”

Miriam shrugged, her smile tinged with both nostalgia and resignation.

“Pretty much like you now, hitting a wall. And I’d always have to clean up her mess.”

Rachel froze for a moment, then understood who Miriam was referring to.

Gina, the alchemist who had died due to the Cult’s experiments, and also Miriam’s close friend…

Rachel’s heart felt a complex mix of emotions in that instant.

Miriam, however, remained oblivious to the storm raging within the “young man” before her. She adjusted her large cloak, her gaze sweeping over the numb faces of the refugees in the market, her brow furrowing slightly as her tone became serious and low.

“Alright, little brother, heed my advice.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice further.

“Earn enough for your journey and quickly leave Stone Creek Town. This place… it won’t be safe to stay much longer.”

“…Why?”

Rachel looked up, her gaze beneath the hood questioning.

“You’ve seen it yourself, the refugees are increasing.”

Miriam gestured towards the huddled figures.

“The patrol’s manpower isn’t nearly enough, and security is worsening day by day. Theft, robbery, and even worse things could happen at any moment. I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning, heading further south. If you still want to continue your small business, you’d best find another place.”

She paused, looking at the crude Heatstones on Rachel’s stall, then added.

“Also, remember to get yourself something for self-defense. These are troubled times; luck alone won’t suffice.”

With that, Miriam lingered no longer. She pulled up her cloak’s hood, obscuring half her face. She nodded to Rachel, then turned, her small figure enveloped in the oversized cloak, and quickly merged into the bustling crowd of the market, soon vanishing from sight.

Rachel stood rooted, gazing in the direction Miriam had disappeared. The early winter wind, carrying dust and withered leaves, whipped against her cloak, rustling loudly.

From the shadows, that cold vigilance slowly receded with Miriam’s departure, yet Ruby’s presence became even clearer, conveying a silent inquiry.

Rachel took a deep breath of the cold air, mixed with dust and the scent of despair. She slowly crouched down, beginning to pack away the unsold Heatstones one by one.

Her first venture had ended dismally, but it wasn’t without its gains.

She had learned her shortcomings and the harsh realities of the market.

More importantly, Miriam’s warning weighed heavily on her heart.

Stone Creek Town, and indeed the entire area surrounding the Lockwood domain, was likely on the verge of chaos.