Osamaru Ta
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(AS) B3 - Lesson 24: “An Eye For Business."
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 04:04:03 +0000 UTCThe shop’s air was thick with incense and dust, the haze catching in the shaft of sunlight that fought its way through a grimy window. Shelves lined the walls in ramshackle tiers, every surface cluttered with old spirit talismans, cracked pottery, and yellowed scrolls bundled in rough string. Behind the battered wooden counter, a tired man hunched over a ledger, his hair sticking up at odd angles, stubble grown out to a rough dusk shadow. Heavy-lidded eyes squinted through a set of brass-rimmed appraisal glasses, their lenses magnifying the glint of a fist-sized golden core resting on a velvet cloth.
He turned the gem this way and that, making notes in a crabbed script before finally setting it down with a click. “Peak-[Golden Spirit] Neoptera,” he declared, voice dry as sand. “Purity’s eighty-four percent. Not bad.” He flicked a glance up at Hugo, lips twisting in a humorless smile. “Seven hundred.”
Hugo’s face didn’t move, but the frown behind his eyes deepened. “You trying to insult me or just see if I’m stupid?” He leaned in, voice flat but carrying just enough edge to cut. “I could get three times that at auction.”
The broker gave a quiet, breathy laugh, setting down his pen. “If you had the connections to get it to auction, you wouldn’t be here, would you?” He scratched his jaw, glancing at the thickset guard standing by the door. “Think of it as a convenience fee. I move the product, take the risk… keep my silence.” His hand flicked dismissively. “Seven fifty. Take it or leave it.”
A little dance, Hugo thought, and flared his mid-[Golden Spirit] cultivation, letting the pressure fill the small space like a shifting storm. Shadows crawled into the corners, dust motes dancing on unseen currents. The broker’s expression never changed, but at the edge of his vision, the guard at the door let his own power roll forward — heavier, sharper, the unmistakable weight of a peak [Shackle Breaking] cultivator. The warning was clear as steel.
The pressure swept away Hugo’s own like a heavy wind blowing away fog. Yet Hugo’s thin smile never wavered. “You know what?” He reached for the core, fingers closing gently around the warm, humming gem. “I think I might just try my luck somewhere else.”
The broker’s hand clapped down atop Hugo’s, grip wiry and iron-strong. “Nine fifty,” he said, eyes narrowing. “And a contract. If you come across more of this quality, you bring them to me first. Otherwise, you’ll find my ‘silence’ a bit harder to buy next time.” He waited, lips pursed.
Hugo looked at the man, then at the guard, then back. For a heartbeat, only the faint tick of the shop’s ancient clock broke the silence.
He smiled, letting a flash of old bandit confidence curl his mouth. “Deal.” He shook the broker’s hand, firm and quick. “And I’ll take one of those storage rings, too. Fifty off the top, right?”
“Fifty,” the broker echoed, already fishing a ring from a tray beneath the counter. “Don’t lose it, and don’t come back complaining if it’s got a few quirks. I don’t run a charity.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Hugo slipped the ring on, feeling its weight settle on his finger like an old friend. He then counted out the crisp, cool spirit gems into a small pouch, and with a flick of his wrist, they vanished into his new ring.
He didn’t look back as he left, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
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Halirosa’s streets pulsed with the nervous energy of a city perched on the edge of change. The usual melody of hawkers and wagon wheels was sharper than before — merchants barking over each other to entice travelers weighed down with packs, city guards in pairs weaving through the crowd, their gazes quick and wary. The air itself seemed to hum, every step and shouted bargain carrying a faint current of worry.
Hugo moved through the press with measured purpose, the pouch of spirit gems tucked safely away from sticky hands in his new storage ring. His thumb rolled over the slick surface of the ring, almost as if to convince himself it was real. Its storage was small, barely the size of a travel backpack, but not long ago, the thought of spending fifty spirit gems on something so trivial would have been laughable. Even now, knowing the gems were technically Alpha’s, Hugo felt a faint thrill of pride each time his finger traced the engraved rune along the band.
He glanced at a passing stall lined with stacks of dried fruit and charmed trinkets, and for a brief moment, caught his reflection in a polished kettle. The man looking back at him was older, sharper, but there was a glint of something new in his eyes — ambition, maybe, or the simple relief of no longer scraping for copper every day.
It still amazed him how much a single leap up the cultivation ladder changed everything. A [Silver Spirit] core might pay a month’s rent, if you knew where to sell it. Even a low purity [Golden Spirit] core could buy half a shopfront, if you played your cards right.
Hugo grinned, tucking his hand into his coat as he slipped past a shouting spice merchant. Even the smallest victories felt enormous these days. He might owe Alpha for the head start, but if things kept going this way, he’d soon be able to afford more than rings and small comforts.
He turned up a quieter lane, footsteps echoing against sun-baked stones. Alpha’s drone materialized on his shoulder in a shimmer of hard-light wings and digital noise, the little drone’s red eye bright with curiosity. “So,” Alpha began, “Would the core really fetch so much more at auction, or was that just for the drama?”
Hugo grunted, rolling his wrist in a so-so gesture. “Technically, sure. On a good day, I might have gotten double — maybe even close to your three times if the right buyer got desperate. But between the auction house’s cut, the city’s taxes, the bribes just to get a good lot placement… the difference isn’t as big as it sounds.” He shrugged. “I get the money now, no waiting, no hassle. The broker probably keeps a few gems for himself, too. Everyone wins.”
Alpha’s drone bobbed thoughtfully, wings fluttering. “So why’d he pay so much, then? He could have lowballed you out of the shop.”
“Easy,” Hugo said, pausing to let a street sweeper pass. “With the clans running east to the Radiant Sea, everyone’s hungry for resources — spirit beast cores, rare herbs, anything that can be turned into pills or artifacts. A core like that? Refined properly, it could jumpstart a young master’s cultivation or tip a sect contest. The real power players are paying premiums for first dibs.” He smirked. “And I don’t blame him for keeping a few ‘fees’ for his silence. A smart man knows when to play it safe.”
Alpha let out a soft, digital hum of approval. “So, with nine hundred left, is that enough for what we need?”
Hugo did a quick calculation, his fingers tapping against his thigh. “Should be,” he said. “A mortal shop in a decent part of the city runs ten, maybe twenty gems a month. If we want to sell to cultivators — actual cultivator goods, not just trinkets — we’ll need a better spot. That means a hundred, maybe two hundred a month, up front. Licenses from the Guild and City Council — fifty to a hundred. And another fifty for the greased palms that make the paperwork move.”
Alpha’s eye brightened, antennae twitching. “How do you know all this? You don’t strike me as the bureaucratic sort.”
Hugo slowed, the question drawing a shadow across his face. For a moment, he just watched the crowd, his eyes distant. “My mother used to run a tea shop,” he said at last. “Specialized in spiritual teas and infusions. I grew up learning the ropes — how to haggle, what bribes to pay, when to step back and when to stand your ground.” His voice softened. “I was supposed to take over, before… before she got sick.”
A hush fell between them, the market’s distant noise growing sharper, then fading into the background. Alpha shifted his weight, digital empathy coloring his next words. “Do you think the property is still there?”
Hugo’s head snapped up, a slow grin splitting his face — genuine, bright, younger than he’d looked in years. “You know what? There’s only one way to find out.”
He set off down the avenue, toward a certain section of Halirosa he had avoided for years.
——————————————————
Hugo’s steps slowed as he turned onto the old lane, memories unfurling with each footfall like petals in the morning sun.
Then froze, a frown forming on his lips.
Once, this neighborhood had bustled with quiet, unassuming energy: low-ranked disciples in patched robes bargaining over penny herbs, old women gossiping on worn stoops, the ringing laughter of children echoing from the Hearthmother Orphanage’s wide yard. The scent of his mother’s simmering teas had often floated over the street, braided with incense from the temple and the tang of spirit-infused noodles from Mrs. An’s noodle stall. It had never drawn the city’s highborn, but it was home, and its simple comfort had given even the most world-weary cultivator a place to exhale.
Now, the street looked hollowed out by time and trouble. Half the shops bore shutters warped with rot or were papered over with city notices. A faded charm above a cobbler’s door fluttered listlessly, its sigils bleached to near-invisibility. Here and there, a building had been outright abandoned, windows missing, doors ajar, and only the occasional wild weed dared curl up through the cracks in the cobblestone. The orphanage was one of the few holdouts, its paint bright and gardens still neat, the laughter within muted but steady. The temple’s gates gleamed with fresh polish, a flicker of warm light visible through the open doors. Across the street, the old mage’s supply shop looked exactly as Hugo remembered — always a bit disheveled, always with a line of trinkets and faded spell scrolls tumbling from the windows — but no worse for the years.
He paused in front of what had once been his mother’s pride. The hanging sign still swayed above the door, though the painted teapot had faded beneath a new layer of lacquer and a clumsily scrawled alchemical symbol. The windows were clean, the trim repainted in a fresh green. Someone had replaced the herb beds out back with tidy rows of more medicinal cultivars: nightleaf, pale blossoms, the tiny blue flowers of bone-mend root. It looked well-kept, even loved, and Hugo felt a pang of both gratitude and regret.
He reached out, hand hesitating above the latch, then drew in a breath and pushed the door open.
A bell chimed, high and oddly cheerful. The scent inside was strange — a sharp blend of medicinal dust and something astringent, not quite able to banish the phantom memory of jasmine and ginger. The shop itself was almost shockingly empty: shelves along the walls, but most were barren, save for a handful of vials clustered near the counter and a dusty row of paper-wrapped bricks on a back table. Here and there, cobwebs glimmered in the sunlight. Hugo frowned, running a finger over a shelf and coming away with a thin film of dust. This wasn’t a shop where goods moved quickly. No, this was a place where goods barely moved at all.
From behind a bead curtain at the rear, a clatter of glassware sounded. “Be right there!” called a voice — young, bright, and edged with a manic cheer. “Don’t touch the green jar! Or the blue one! Or — just, um, just don’t touch anything yet!”
A moment later, a woman all elbows and energy emerged, her white alchemist’s coat carelessly buttoned over a faded yellow dress. Her wild mop of black hair looked as though she’d run fingers through it one too many times, and a faint streak of green powder dusted her cheek. But her eyes were wide, sharp, and undeniably clever. She nearly bounced to the counter, beaming at Hugo.
“Welcome to — oh, you’re new! Wonderful!” she trilled. “Welcome to the Verdant Crucible! Alchemy for all ailments, herbal tonics, charms, pills — ah, have you tried our headache powder? Or the focus draught? Or — wait — are you here for the bone-mend? Perhaps you need something a little stronger? Maybe something for heartbreak?” Her hands moved in a blur, pulling jars, unstoppering vials, her mouth moving nearly as fast. “We’ve got soul-bright elixirs — those are for clarity! Or, uh, maybe you’re interested in the all-purpose Vitality Pill — highly recommended by three out of five healers in the northern quarter, or so my last supplier claimed!”
Hugo blinked, trying to edge a word in. The woman kept going, barely seeming to breathe. “There’s also a new batch of jade-root powder, though the efficacy is still unproven — oh, and don’t mind the slight tingling, it’s probably not a side effect, but rather a feature, really, and —”
He held up a broad hand, stopping her mid-ramble. “I’m not looking for anything in particular,” he said, his tone calm but firm, like a man used to wrangling over-eager merchants. “Just browsing.”
The alchemist’s smile froze on her face. Her eyes narrowed, her entire demeanor snapping from frenetic friendliness to a sudden, flat chill. She clicked her tongue. “I see…” She turned away and muttered half to herself, half to the empty shelves, “I told myself, don’t buy the cursed shop. But no, the rent’s cheap, the garden’s full of rare herbs, and how bad could a little history be?”
She snatched a jar off the counter, spun it in her hands, and then continued her muttered tirade as if Hugo wasn’t there. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. Should’ve stayed in the market district. Who buys a shop with this kind of record? Idiot, that’s who.”
Hugo frowned. “Cursed?”
The woman whipped back around, expression twisted somewhere between frustration and a plea for understanding. “Cursed, yes! You haven’t heard?” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though it carried easily in the empty shop. “Eight times in fifteen years, this place has changed hands. Eight! And every single owner — starting with the first, poor woman — either died of some strange fever, got run out by ‘bad luck,’ or disappeared entirely. Every time someone tries to make something of it, something goes wrong. If it wasn’t for the herb garden, I’d never have bought it. But it was so cheap! I thought ‘Bah, superstitions. No curse can stand against a proper cleansing, right?’ I even had three different priests in here, twice! But no — no customers, no sales, just endless, empty days and a reputation blacker than demon bile. Ridiculous!”
She tossed her hands in the air, pacing behind the counter, half talking to Hugo, half to herself, half to the vials lined up behind her. “Real curses leave traces — resonance, bad energy, sick spirit flows. But this? Nothing. Just bad luck and old wives’ tales! People are fools, is what it is.”
She seemed to forget Hugo’s presence, now fully ensconced in her rant, muttering to a mortared pestle and waving a spatula at an invisible adversary. “And if one more person comes in here ‘just browsing,’ I swear I’ll sell the place to the next spirit-hungry rat who walks in.”
A soft, digital chuckle sounded from Hugo’s shoulder. Alpha’s drone, perched like a particularly smug parrot, flashed a mischievous red light. “Well,” Alpha whispered, only loud enough for Hugo to hear, “looks like this might be easier than we thought. What’s a little curse to a pair of enterprising new owners?”
Hugo allowed himself the faintest of grins, eyes flicking over the dust-dulled shelves, the garden glimpsed through the back window, and the determined, eccentric woman pacing behind the counter.
For the first time that day, hope flickered in his chest.
