Selling (Somewhat) Magic Goods in Arknights

[Paracsus]

A Whole New World

Arno arrived without fanfare.

One moment, he had been staring at a screen too late at night, half-asleep and barely processing the music in the background. The next, the world tilted—not violently, but decisively, like a book being closed.

He didn't fall through a wormhole, or die in a sudden attack or simply meet God, or any of the traditional isekai tropes. No, those would have been preferable since they would have at least given him a sort of key to what happened.

Instead, he woke up on the side of the alley.

Cold stone pressed against his palms when he tried to push himself up. The air smelled wrong—sharp, metallic, threaded with something faintly acrid. He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. This wasn't his apartment.

This wasn't a dream.

Dreams didn't ache like this.

When Arno finally lifted his head, the sky above him was unfamiliar. Too wide. Too clear. Structures rose in the distance—tall, angular buildings layered with lights and signage that had an unfamiliar alphabet, but one that he could somehow read perfectly.

Lungmen.

The name bounced in his mind without context or explanation. He didn't question it just yet. Questioning came when he had the time and headspace to think.

A shape loomed beside him.

Arno turned, heart hammering, and froze.

A cart stood there as if it had always belonged, its wooden panels unscuffed, its metal fittings dull but solid.

His phone was gone.

His bag was gone.

Everything he owned—except the clothes on his back—had been replaced by this.

He stood slowly, muscles tight, and approached the cart. The moment his hand brushed the latch, a sensation pressed into his awareness. Not a voice. Not words.

This is yours.

The door opened.

Inside was space. Too much space. Warm light spilled outward, revealing shelves already stocked with goods. Food. Medical supplies. Household items. All simple. All mundane. All very, very real.

Arno stepped back, breathing hard. "No," he said, because saying it out loud made it more solid. "This isn't real."

The world did not respond.

People passed nearby—citizens going about their day, not looking at him, not reacting to the impossible arrival that had just occurred. To them, the cart was ordinary. To them, he was ordinary.

That scared him more than panic would have.

He closed the cart.

When he opened it again, the interior was unchanged.

Night came. Then in the morning, hunger followed. Thirst after that.

Eventually, survival won.

Arno sold his first item that day: a bottle of juice, priced low enough that the buyer didn't hesitate. The coins felt heavy in his palm. Real.

That night, he slept inside the cart.

He didn't sleep well.

---

Learning Curve

The cart taught him nothing directly.

That became clear within the first few weeks.

It didn't offer instructions, or a ledger, or a system window floating obligingly in his vision. There were no levels to grind, no quests to complete, no rewards that announced themselves with certainty. If there were rules, they existed the way city ordinances did—visible only after violation.

Arno learned by repetition.

He learned first that the cart favored necessity over comfort. Food always came plain: rough bread, dried meat, rice packed in coarse sacks, bottled juice with barely any sweetness. Nothing spiced. Nothing indulgent. Even hunger relief felt deliberately unromantic.

That, at least, made sense.

Pricing taught him restraint. Setting prices too high dulled demand, but worse, it dulled the cart. The next morning's stock felt thinner, the shelves arranged with less patience, as if correcting him. Pricing too low created different problems. People lingered. Bought more than they needed. Returned too quickly.

The cart disliked that.

When Arno ignored the warning and sold three bundles of dried meat to the same customer in one afternoon, the next day's restock replaced meat with more bread instead. Less valuable. Slower to move. A nudge, not a punishment.

He stopped pushing.

He learned that stock did not accumulate. Unsold goods vanished overnight unless the cart deemed them worth repeating. Meat never spoiled, but it also never carried over. Bread was always fresh. Juice bottles were always sealed. The cart wanted turnover, not hoarding.

That rule extended to money.

Coins stored inside the cart remained. Coins carried on his person felt… heavier. More real. When he tried to leave a portion inside overnight, he woke to find the amount unchanged, but the cart's hum uneasy. He learned to keep his earnings with him.

Ownership mattered.

Time inside the cart moved differently, but not kindly. Sleep restored his body, but not his nerves. Hunger dulled without disappearing. Fatigue softened, but mental strain lingered. Whatever force governed the cart preserved functionality without mercy.

It wanted him operational.

Arno mapped Lungmen slowly. Not by landmarks, but by tolerance. Streets where guards passed regularly. Alleys where merchants could stay unbothered for hours. Corners where people bought food quietly and left without comment.

He stayed away from crowds.

Food attracted attention. Necessities always did.

Customers rarely spoke, but when they did, Arno listened. About shortages. About raids. About days when patrols tightened or vanished entirely. He learned which rumors preceded trouble and which were just noise.

The cart seemed to approve of caution.

On days when he closed early because the street felt wrong, the shelves the next morning felt stable. Full. Predictable. On days when he stayed too long out of stubbornness, something was always off—less juice, more bread, stock that sold slower.

He learned to trust instinct over profit.

The first real test came when a man tried to force a bulk purchase. Meat. Enough for resale. Arno felt the pressure immediately—an internal resistance, the cart's awareness sharpening.

"No," Arno said, calmly.

The man left angry. The cart settled.

That night, Arno realized something important.

The cart was not a store.

It was a filter.

It distributed only what the city could absorb without disruption. Food that filled bellies but didn't change power. Supplies that patched wounds but didn't win fights. Enough to survive, never enough to dominate.

Arno lay on the narrow bed, staring at the warm-lit ceiling, and understood that this phase—this quiet, grinding routine—was intentional.

The cart wasn't waiting for him to succeed.

It was waiting to see if he could be trusted not to break the balance.

So Arno sold bread.

He sold juice.

He sold meat and bandages and soap.

And he learned how to stay invisible.

---

Two Months After Arrival

Two months was enough time to learn which streets in Lungmen were safe, and which ones only pretended to be.

Arno parked his cart where he always did—half a block from the tea shop with the flickering sign, close enough to the foot traffic to matter but far enough from the main road to avoid attention. It wasn't a prime location. That was the point.

The cart looked ordinary, if a bit large. Wooden panels, reinforced corners, a metal-rimmed wheel on each side. The kind of carriage a traveling merchant might have used decades ago. People glanced at it and decided it wasn't worth more thought than that.

Arno lifted the latch and opened the side panel. The interior unfolded into something that still unsettled him, even after two months. The space stretched deeper than it should have, wide enough to stand in without crouching, shelves extending back into a dim, warm-lit corridor.

He didn't think about how it worked.

Thinking too hard about the cart had taught him that much.

The shelves were already stocked when he woke up that morning. They always were.

Simple things, as usual.

Food came first. Dried meat sealed in plain paper. Rough bread loaves that tasted better when warmed. Bottles of juice, faintly sweet and faintly artificial. Hard candies and soft ones, individually wrapped.

Below them were medical supplies. Clean cloth bandages. Adhesive strips. Alcohol wipes. A mild herbal salve that smelled faintly of camphor and mint. It worked—he'd seen it work—but it never did anything dramatic.

That seemed to be a pattern.

The rest of the shelves held odds and ends: soap bars, candles, matches, sewing kits, spare buttons, cheap notebooks, pencils, hand towels, playing cards. Items that filled small gaps in people's lives.

Arno sold what the cart gave him.

He didn't know why it chose these things. He didn't know if it would ever choose differently. Once, early on, he'd tried to ask.

All he got was a prompt in his head, telling him to not question it. Repeated queries only got either the same answer, or silence.

So he'd stopped asking.

He arranged the goods carefully, hands steady from repetition. Two months of this had taught him that consistency mattered. The cart never reacted to enthusiasm, or ambition, or clever ideas. It reacted to routine.

Sell. Restock. Sleep. Repeat.

The first customer arrived just after noon, a courier with tired eyes and a scraped palm.

"Bandages?" the man asked.

Arno nodded and held one up. "Cloth or adhesive."

"Cloth."

He paid, left, and didn't look back.

That was most transactions. Quiet. Efficient. Forgettable.

Arno preferred it that way.

By mid-afternoon, he'd sold half the bread and most of the candies. The juice went faster on humid days. The soap sold well when rumors of inspections spread. He didn't know why the cart stocked what it did, but he was learning when people wanted them.

That felt important.

Every so often, Arno felt the cart shift beneath his feet—not physically, but conceptually. A low hum, like something paying attention. Watching numbers he couldn't see. Counting progress in a way that never quite surfaced.

It didn't tell him how close he was to anything.

But sometimes, after particularly good days, the shelves felt… fuller. More stable. As if the cart approved.

He tried not to think about what that might mean.

A Lungmen Guard patrol passed by in the early evening. Arno kept his eyes down, hands busy rearranging stock that didn't need rearranging. The cart's hidden mechanism stirred at the edge of his awareness, ready to fold in on itself if he needed it to.

He didn't.

The guards didn't stop.

Good.

As the sun dipped and the streetlights flickered on, Arno began packing up. Unsold goods went back onto the shelves. Nothing ever spoiled. Nothing ever carried over unless it was meant to.

When he closed the cart, the space folded inward. From the outside, it became smaller, simpler. Just another locked carriage parked against the curb.

Inside, the light warmed. A narrow bed. A small table. A kettle that always had water.

Home.

Arno sat down, exhaled, and counted the day's earnings. Enough to eat. Enough to restock tomorrow.

Enough to keep going.

Somewhere, deep within the cart, something shifted—slowly, patiently—waiting for him to reach whatever invisible line it had drawn.

Arno didn't know what came after.

He just hoped it wouldn't demand more than he could give.

---

AN: Hello! My name is Paracsus, and this is my first fanfic on this site. This is also the first longform fanfic I have ever made, so please tell me if there are any points in this fic where I can make some improvements. I am also just a casual player of Arknights so I don't wanna force Arno (my OC) to be forced to deal with the crazier stuff this game has, like the Collapsals, the Dragon Gods, Kazdel, and Priestess. I just wanna have him dip into the street level stuff and keep the story somewhat simple.

I've written the first few of these chapters a looooong time ago, and only just decided now to finally post it after sitting on this for more than a year now. After some major revisions and touching up. Gonna post the others later, and I'm only doing this as a hobby so I won't have an exact posting schedule.

Anyway, this fic was inspired by a handful of other shopping fics that I have read before. Those namely being:

Corner Case, by Kencord
What Are You Buying?, by Infonticus
Late Night Diner at Rhodes Island, by setarium
The Traveler's League: The Merchant, by WolfSpatial; and
Multidimentional Merchant, by Wrathkal

Major shout out to these fanfics and the writers who made them, I highly recommend watching these if you can. Thank you!

 

[Paracsus]

Learning the Shape of the Days

The first week taught Arno that panic was expensive.

Not in currency, but in energy, in attention, in the way Lungmen noticed things that moved too fast or hesitated too long. He learned quickly that the city did not reward urgency. It tolerated it, sometimes, but it remembered.

So he slowed down.

He spent the earliest mornings inside the cart, sitting at the narrow table while the city woke outside. The interior adjusted itself to him without comment. The kettle heated when he touched it. Water refilled overnight. The bed remained made unless he slept in it. His clothes, once placed on the small shelf built into the wall, were clean when he reached for them again.

There was no abundance on display, no excess meant to impress. The cart provided what he needed within reason, as if it were unwilling to invite curiosity even from him.

Arno tested its limits only once.

On the fourth day, after waking with a dull ache behind his eyes, he asked aloud if there was medicine.

The pressure in his head returned, not painful but firm, directing him toward the shelves near the rear of the space. A small packet sat there, unremarkable and sealed. He took it, followed the instructions printed in plain text, and the headache faded over the next hour.

He did not ask again.

Instead, he observed.

The cart never gave him luxuries. Meals were filling but repetitive. The lighting remained warm but subdued. There were no windows inside, only a sense of time passing conveyed by subtle shifts in brightness. When he slept, he slept deeply. When he woke, his body felt rested in a way that bordered on unnatural.

It did not make him stronger. It did not make him faster.

It simply kept him functional.

That, he learned, was valuable.

During the first month, he moved the cart often. Different streets. Different districts. He paid attention to how long people lingered, which patrols doubled back, where vendors were tolerated and where they were pushed out. Lungmen was not hostile to commerce, it was greatly welcomed. However, it was also territorial about space.

He watched other merchants as carefully as they watched him.

Most sold specialized goods: electronics, cooked food, trinkets, services. His cart stood apart by virtue of its generality. He offered nothing rare, nothing that undercut existing businesses too aggressively. When confronted, he deferred. When questioned, he answered briefly.

He learned that selling bread early in the morning drew a different crowd than selling it near dusk. That bandages sold best near transit hubs, while soap moved faster in residential areas. That candies worked as impulse purchases, especially among workers too tired to care about nutrition. Even with this knowledge, Arno chose to stay where the middle to lower class citizens were. Doing so allowed him to gain a decent customer base without feeling threatened by more opulent rivals.

He adjusted prices slowly, in increments small enough that no one complained.

Coins accumulated in a compartment beneath the counter, while bills stayed under in a safer place. The cart accepted them without ceremony, sliding them away into a space he never accessed. When he needed money, it returned exactly what he required. Never more. Never less.

That bothered him less as time went on.

By the middle of the second month, Arno stopped thinking of his life as temporary.

That realization unsettled him more than his arrival had.

He developed habits. He woke at the same hour each day, even when he did not need to. He cleaned the cart's exterior every third morning, wiping dust and grime from the panels so that it blended better with its surroundings. He rotated his stock according to patterns he could not fully explain but trusted anyway.

Some evenings, he sat inside and listened to the city through the cart's walls. Traffic. Voices. Distant sirens. Music bleeding from open windows several floors up. The city felt layered, compressed, constantly negotiating with itself.

He did not miss his old world the way he thought he would.

That absence felt like something he would examine later, when survival no longer required his full attention.

Customers began to recognize him.

Not by name, at first. By presence. By reliability. By the fact that he was there when expected and gone when he was not. A woman who worked night shifts bought juice from him twice a week. A delivery runner preferred his bandages over the ones sold near the main road. A pair of students stopped by for candy on Fridays.

They did not ask where he came from.

He did not offer.

When the cart folded inward at night, it did so completely. From the outside, it appeared locked, dormant, indistinct. Inside, Arno prepared meals, washed his hands, and sat at the table with nothing to do but think.

That was when the weight of it pressed in.

He thought about how the cart never malfunctioned. How the goods replenished without explanation. How the space inside remained stable regardless of where he parked. He thought about how the city had accepted him without resistance, as if he had been accounted for long before he arrived.

He did not feel watched.

He felt tracked.

Not in a threatening way. In the manner of infrastructure. Like a utility quietly measuring flow.

When those thoughts became too heavy, he slept.

By the end of the second month, Arno had chosen his street.

Not because it was optimal, but because it was predictable. The buildings cast long shadows in the afternoon. Foot traffic followed a rhythm he could map in his head. Patrols passed without variation.

The tea shop owner had stopped commenting on his presence. That, more than anything, marked his success.

On the morning he realized he no longer flinched at the sound of armored boots, Arno paused with his hand on the cart's latch.

He stood there longer than usual, aware of the way the city's air moved around him, aware of the fact that he knew how to live here now.

The cart waited.

Whatever came next would come when it was ready.

Until then, Arno sold what was placed in front of him, slept when night arrived, and learned the shape of his days by repeating them.

In Lungmen, that was not complacency.

It was competence.

---

What Appears After Closing

The change did not happen while the cart was open.

Arno noticed that first.

He had closed at the usual hour, folding the awning inward and locking the exterior panels until the cart looked like any other unattended carriage resting against the curb. The street outside continued its evening rhythm without acknowledging him. Lights flickered on in the surrounding buildings. The tea shop's shutters came down with a metallic clatter. Somewhere farther down the block, a radio played low music distorted by distance and walls.

Inside, the cart gave him something new.

It appeared without much fan fair, but Arno noticed it immediately since it occupied a previously empty space. It was not much to look at, simply a cardboard box without any brands to indicate where it came from. Arno cautiously grabbed the box and shook it a few times, as if that sound would tell him if the contents were dangerous.

It did not.

He stepped fully inside and let the door close behind him. The sound sealed with a soft, final click that carried more weight than usual.

The familiar rows of food, medical supplies, and household items remained exactly where they had been that morning. Bread still sat on the middle shelf. Bandages remained stacked in their neat rows. Candies, soaps, and bottled drinks occupied their usual places.

But now, he had something new. Opening the box yielded two new items that he had never seen before.They were not highlighted. They did not glow. If Arno had not already known the cart well, he might have missed them entirely.

The first item inside the cardboard box was a small, decorative box, pale cream in color with soft pastel patterns along the edges. Inside were six individually wrapped candies, each square and wrapped in wax paper stamped with a simple emblem. Butter candies.

The second was a slim package no larger than a deck of cards, decorated to resemble a cigarette case. Inside were sugar sticks shaped and wrapped like cigarettes, their tips faintly tinted pink. Sugarettes.

Between them lay a folded slip of paper.

Arno did not touch anything at first.

He stood in the center of the cart, letting his breathing slow, letting his eyes move deliberately from one object to the next. He had learned early that the cart did not reward haste. It did not respond to panic. It simply waited.

Finally, he picked up the paper.

The texture was thicker than normal receipt paper, slightly fibrous, like something meant to endure handling. The writing was printed in clean, plain lettering.

Butter Candies
Consumed orally.
Effect: induces a state comparable to light rest and recovery.
Duration: approximately three hours.
Aftereffect: increased fatigue once the effect concludes.

Below that, separated by a small line:

Sugarettes
Ignitable sugar sticks.
Produces scented smoke upon use.
Effect is non-harmful and temporary.

There were no prices. No warnings beyond what was stated. No explanation for why these had appeared now.

Arno folded the paper and set it on the table.

He sat down, hands resting flat against the wood, and stared at the new stock. His first instinct was caution. He had survived two months by respecting limits he did not fully understand. New items meant new variables.

But the cart had not given him anything dangerous before.

And the paper had been clear.

He reached for the butter candies.

The box was light, the cardboard firm. He opened it carefully and unwrapped one square. The candy was pale yellow, faintly glossy, and smelled like cooked sugar and dairy. He placed it in his mouth and let it dissolve slowly.

The effect was subtle at first.

Warmth spread through his chest, not heat exactly, but a loosening sensation, as if tension he had not noticed was being unwound. His shoulders relaxed. The faint ache in his wrists from setting up and tearing down the cart each day receded. His breathing deepened without effort.

It did not feel like stimulation.

It felt like relief.

Arno leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly. The cart's interior seemed sharper when he opened them again, colors more defined, edges clearer. The fatigue he had carried since morning receded, replaced by a sense of physical readiness, like waking from a short nap that had been timed perfectly.

He stood and walked the length of the cart, testing his balance, his awareness. Everything responded as expected. There was no disorientation, no rush, no artificial sharpness.

Three hours later, the effect ended.

It was unmistakable.

The warmth faded first. Then heaviness settled into his limbs, more pronounced than the fatigue he had felt before. His eyelids grew heavy. His body demanded rest with an insistence that bordered on discomfort.

Arno did not resist it.

He lay down on the bed and slept.

When he woke, the fatigue had passed, leaving him restored but wary. The experience had been precise. Controlled. Balanced by design.

He sat up and reached for the sugarettes.

The package opened easily. He removed one stick and examined it under the light. It looked exactly like a cigarette, down to the paper wrapping and the colored tip. He lit it using a match from the shelf.

The sugar caught quickly.

He inhaled cautiously and exhaled.

A cloud of smoke drifted from his mouth, thick and pale, carrying the unmistakable scent of roses. The smoke spread gently through the air, curling upward before thinning and dispersing. It lingered for a short while, then vanished without leaving residue.

His throat did not burn. His lungs did not protest. There was no lingering taste beyond sweetness.

Arno extinguished the stick and watched the last traces of smoke fade.

"Smells of rose. Interesting." He muttered.

By the time he returned the items to their place on the shelf, his understanding had shifted. The cart had not given him tools for conflict or escape. It had given him comforts that bordered on utility. Items that made long days easier. Items that could smooth the edges of exhaustion and stress.

Items that people in Lungmen would buy without thinking twice.

He placed the slip of paper in a drawer beneath the table. Tomorrow, he will decide how to price them.

For now, he turned off the lights and prepared for sleep, aware that something fundamental had changed, not in the city, but in the quiet agreement between him and the cart.

It had not asked more of him.

It had simply offered something new.

And in Lungmen, that alone was worth paying attention to.

 

[Paracsus]

AN: Hello, again. Just wanna establish some things about the Cart. Essentially, the cart looks like this, but the difference is that it doesn't need to be pulled by anything. It is effectively a car that also works as Arno's home. It is alot bigger on the inside of the cart as opposed to outside, but it has a perception filter so that people will not be able to see the inside. When they see Arno standing in it, all they see are a few shelves of extra stock (extra food, cigarettes, drinks,etc.), when in reality it leads to the interior of the "house". Whenever Arno needs to restock on mundane goods, he just pulls the stock from a compartment (read: pocket dimension) that is under the counter, so as to avoid suspicion.

The Cart has it's own set of rules and guidelines that Arno follows, which will be adressed as the story goes on. One of which is that to prevent Arno from living eternally as a hermit, the facilities and food is very simple so as to encourage him to go out and explore while also feeling somewhat like a home; safe and cozy. This is the interior:

The windows exist, but are not visible to the public. They are there so as Arno will be able to see what is happening outside, and to let natural light into the house.

Another thing is that the Cart is shown have a mind of it's own, but is not exactly either sentient or sapient. It knows when Arno is trying to stay inside, or (as mentioned in a previous attempt) trying to get a shortcut to wealth by selling in massive bulk. The perception filter that it has also acts as a cloaking device; when Arno closes and turns in for the night, it effectively becomes invisible and untraceable to others in order to protect him and itself. It also knows when the area in general is not safe, so it moves to a nearby safe location.

It also prevents reselling. What happens when people try? Stay tuned, dear consumers.

 

[Paracsus]

New Stock

Arno did not announce the additions.

He learned early that drawing attention to change invited questions, and questions tended to linger longer than customers. When he opened the cart the next morning, the shelves looked the same as they always had. Bread, bandages, juice, soap. The same arrangement, the same spacing.

The only difference was that two small sections were no longer empty.

The butter candies sat in their plain boxes near the other sweets, understated and easy to miss. The sugarettes occupied a narrow space beside the hard candy jars, their packaging decorative enough to catch the eye without standing out as novelty.

Arno adjusted the prices once, then left them alone.

The first few hours passed without comment.

Customers came for their usual purchases. Bread before work. Bandages for scrapes and cuts. Soap for a family moving apartments. What was perhaps a college student bought sugarettes without asking what they were, assumed they were candy, and left with a puzzled expression after reading the label.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that someone stopped and stared.

A man lingered in front of the cart longer than most. Middle-aged, tired posture, jacket that smelled faintly of oil and smoke. He picked up the sugarettes, turned the package over, then looked at Arno.

"These light up?"

"They do," Arno said.

"And the smoke?"

"Smells like flowers."

The man squinted, skeptical, then shrugged. "I'll try one."

He came back the next day.

He didn't say anything. He just nodded once, set a few coins on the counter, and took a pack without much fanfare.

By the end of the week, Arno noticed the pattern. The sugarettes sold almost exclusively to smokers.

Not casual ones, either. People who had the habit worn into them. People who reached for their pockets automatically when stressed or tired. People who already knew where they could and could not smoke without getting fined or reprimanded.

They lit what they thought was simply a novelty item, which you could say actually was. Same motions of putting it in their mouth, lighting it, and taking a puff.

The difference came after.

There was no coughing. No harsh edge to the breath. The lingering smell that clung to clothes and hair was not the usual neither acrid not stale, but gentle and pleasant. The smoke drifted away quickly, leaving only a faint sweetness behind.

Some customers laughed the first time they tried one. Others frowned, unsettled by how familiar it felt without the usual weight attached to it. A few stood there quietly, staring at the dissipating smoke as if waiting for something else to happen.

Nothing did.

Word spread in the way small things always did in Lungmen. Quietly. Through repetition rather than excitement.

By the second week, Arno saw familiar faces returning specifically for the sugarettes. A delivery driver who bought a handful of packs and handed them out to coworkers. A woman who smoked during breaks but didn't want the smell following her home. A man who said nothing at all, just stood nearby and smoked two in a row before leaving.

No one asked how they worked. No one asked where they came from.

They only asked if he had more.

The butter candies moved more slowly at first.

They appealed to a different kind of customer. People who did not think much of the seemingly innocent box before buying. A dock worker bought one box and came back three days later to buy another, explaining without prompting that they helped him get through double shifts.

"They don't wake you up," he said. "They just make it easier."

"Be careful. It doesn't replace proper food and rest. Use it sparingly." Arno warned.

Others followed. Night-shift workers. Couriers. People who sat too long at desks and carried tension in their shoulders. The candies didn't spark conversations the way the sugarettes did. They were discussed in casual but low voices, passed hand to hand with quiet recommendations.

Arno watched carefully.

He noticed who bought them and when. He noticed that people didn't overindulge. One candy, sometimes two, never more. The after-tiredness discouraged excess without needing enforcement. People adjusted on their own.

That, more than the sales, reassured him.

The cart did not change again.

No new items appeared. No slips of paper followed. The shelves remained stable, as if waiting to see how this settled into the existing rhythm.

Arno kept his routines unchanged.

He opened at the same time. Closed at the same time. Restocked as usual. He did not upsell. He did not explain more than necessary. When asked if the sugarettes were safe, he answered truthfully.

"They don't hurt."

That seemed to be enough at the time.

One evening, as the streetlights flickered on and the crowd thinned, Arno noticed something he hadn't expected.

People lingered.

Not at the cart, but near it. Smokers stood a short distance away, sharing sugarettes, talking more than they used to. Conversations stretched a little longer. Breaks felt less rushed. The street did not grow louder, but it felt fuller.

The tea shop owner watched from her doorway, arms crossed.

"Your candy smoke's popular," she said.

Arno inclined his head. "It seems to be."

She studied the people outside, then him. "Doesn't stink. I don't mind."

High praise, again. She bought a box, saying it was for her nephew before leaving.

That night, after closing, Arno sat inside the cart and counted the day's earnings. More than usual. Quite the increase since he started selling the new candy. Enough that the money returned to him felt heavier in his hands.

He placed them away and sat still for a long moment.

The cart remained unchanged. No hum. No shift. No signal of approval or warning.

Outside, someone laughed. Smoke scented faintly of roses drifted past the cart and vanished into the air.

Arno leaned back in his chair.

The city had accepted the new stock.

For now, that was enough.

---

Exusiai found the cart because she was bored.

Spoiler

She had finished her deliveries early, which meant she was supposed to wait. Waiting was not something she excelled at. She wandered instead, drifting off her usual route, boots tapping against the pavement as she scanned the street for anything that might distract her for five minutes.

That was when she noticed the smoke.

It wasn't thick, and it wasn't dark. It drifted lazily upward from the edge of the block, pale and faintly pink in the late afternoon light. What caught her attention wasn't the color, though.

It was the smell.

"Hey," she said, stopping mid-step. "Do you smell that?"

Texas, walking a half step behind her, took a whiff. "Flowers," she said after a moment.

Spoiler

"Right? But not like perfume." Exusiai sniffed again, exaggerated. "More like candy."

They rounded the corner together and saw the source.

A small cluster of people stood near a modest cart parked against the curb. No signs, no bright lights, no shouting vendor. Just a few people standing around, some talking, some smoking.

Exusiai's eyes locked onto what one of them was holding.

"Are those cigarettes made of sugar," she asked, delighted.

The man smoking one glanced at her, shrugged, and took another drag. "They burn. They don't stink. That's enough for me."

Exusiai was already at the cart.

Arno looked up as she approached, his expression shifting only slightly in acknowledgment. He had seen all types by now. Loud ones included. The bright halo and wings also helped.

"Hi!" Exusiai leaned over the counter, eyes scanning the shelves. "Okay, first of all, I love your vibe. Second, are those actually candy cigarettes?"

"They're sugar," Arno said. "They light like normal cigs."

"That is incredible."

Texas hung back, eyes moving over the cart rather than the people. She took in the layout, the spacing, the way nothing was crowded or overstated. Her gaze paused briefly on the butter candies before returning to the sugarettes.

"Do they do anything else," she asked.

"They make smoke," Arno replied. "It doesn't do much else. Smells nice though."

Exusiai laughed. "Sold."

She bought two packs without hesitation. Outside, she lit one immediately, took a dramatic inhale, and blew out a thick cloud of rose-scented smoke.

"Oh wow," she said. "That's actually really nice."

Texas accepted one when Exusiai offered, examining it before lighting it herself. She smoked without comment, posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded as the smoke dispersed.

"It doesn't cling," she said finally.

"Nope," Exusiai said, grinning. "This is genius."

They didn't linger long. Penguin Logistics schedules were flexible, but not nonexistent. Before leaving, Texas returned to the cart and pointed at the butter candies.

"What are those."

Arno gave her a box. "Butter Candies. They help make things easier after a long day."

Texas nodded and bought two boxes. 'Gonna share this with the others back at HQ'.mm

They left without another word.

---

Penguin Logistics headquarters was loud even when it wasn't busy.

Exusiai burst through the door first, holding up the sugarettes like a trophy. "Okay, everybody stop what you're doing for exactly one minute."

Croissant looked up from a crate. "That better be food."

Spoiler

"It's candy," Exusiai corrected. "But also smoke."

Sora leaned forward immediately. "Smoke candy?"

Spoiler

Texas set the butter candies on the table and took a seat, posture easy. "They don't smell bad."

Exusiai lit another sugarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. It spread, fragrant and soft, then vanished.

Croissant blinked. "That's not awful."

"Right?" Exusiai said. "And no ash. No stink. You could smoke this indoors."

There was a pause.

From behind the curtain at the back of the room, a familiar silhouette emerged. Emperor hopped into view, sunglasses gleaming.

Spoiler

"Smoke," he said slowly, "that does not offend my refined sensibilities."

Exusiai bowed dramatically. "Your Eminence, we have discovered art."

Emperor walked closer, inspected the package, and took one of the sugarettes. He lit it with practiced flair and inhaled deeply.

"Hm," he said. "Acceptable. Marketable. Surprisingly tasteful."

Texas slid the butter candies toward Croissant. "Try one when you're tired."

Croissant did, chewing thoughtfully. A few minutes later, her shoulders dropped.

"Oh," she said. "That's… nice."

Sora smiled. "These would sell really well."

Emperor exhaled a final rose-scented cloud and crossed his wings. "Who sells these?"

"A guy," Exusiai said. "Quiet. Cart. No branding."

Emperor nodded. "Interesting."

That was all he said.

The candies were shared. The sugarettes passed around. Theories were thrown around about how they worked. Some sillier than others.

Back on the street, Arno closed his cart as night settled in, unaware that his small, careful addition had already found its way into one of Lungmen's most influential courier hubs.

For now, that knowledge would wait. The cart remained still.

---

The notice did not arrive with urgency.

It was slipped beneath the cart's wheel sometime between closing and dawn, a thin rectangle of official paper that did not crinkle when folded. Arno found it when he arrived in the morning, kneeling to unlock the brace and spotting the edge of red ink against the pavement.

He picked it up, unfolded it once.


—----

Lungmen Commerce Oversight Division
Routine Market Observation

NOTICE OF ROUTINE MARKET OBSERVATION
Reference No.: LCOD–SV–RMO–11743

This notice is issued pursuant to the authority granted under the Lungmen Municipal Commerce Act, Article XII, Sections 4 and 9.

Records indicate that a mobile vending unit operating within the Lower Commercial District has been observed engaging in the sale of consumable novelty goods that produce visible smoke when activated in public spaces. Said observation was conducted during standard market hours by authorized personnel of the Lungmen Commerce Oversight Division.

At the time of observation, no violations of municipal safety ordinances were recorded. No hazardous emissions were detected beyond permissible regulatory thresholds, and no complaints or formal objections were filed by nearby licensed establishments or residents. The goods in question were not found to interfere with pedestrian traffic, public order, or commercial operations in the surrounding area.

This notice does not constitute a citation, warning, or directive to cease operations. No penalties are being issued, and no immediate corrective action is required.

Vendors operating within Lungmen are reminded that continued commercial activity remains contingent upon sustained compliance with all applicable public safety, air quality, and trade regulations, including accurate representation of goods offered for sale and non-disruptive conduct within shared commercial zones.

The Lungmen Commerce Oversight Division reserves the right to conduct further observation should product distribution patterns, public usage behaviors, or reported effects change in a manner deemed materially relevant to regulatory oversight.

Your cooperation in maintaining Lungmen's commercial standards and public environment is acknowledged.

Issued by the Lungmen Commerce Oversight Division, Department of Small Vendors and Street Trade Regulation, under the authority of the Upper Lungmen Administrative District.

Authorized and certified by Inspector Wei Lanting, Senior Market Compliance Officer, Lungmen Commerce Oversight Division.

Affixed with the official vermilion seal of the Lungmen Commerce Oversight Division.

—---


No summons. Just a statement.

It informed him, in polite and careful language, that his cart had been observed selling novelty consumables that produced smoke in public spaces. It clarified that no violation had been recorded. It reminded vendors that continued operation depended on adherence to municipal safety standards. It ended by thanking him for his cooperation.

There was no signature.

Arno read it twice, then folded it neatly and placed it beneath the counter, between the spare soap bars and the ledger he rarely needed to open. He did not look around for watchers. Lungmen did not work that way. Observation came first. Response later.

He opened the cart as usual.

The morning passed quietly. The butter candies are sold in singles, sometimes pairs. The sugarettes went faster. A man in a municipal jacket bought a pack without comment, smoked half of one across the street, then left it extinguished on the curb rather than finishing it.

That, too, Arno noted.

Near noon, the tea shop owner crossed the street with two cups in her hands. She set one on the edge of the cart without asking.

"You're getting popular," she said. "Are they asking questions yet?"

"Not the kind that matter."

She hummed, satisfied, and returned to her shop.

Later that afternoon, a familiar figure paused at the corner.

Texas stood with her hands in her pockets, posture relaxed but eyes alert. She didn't approach right away. She watched the cart from a distance, tracking who stopped, who lingered, who left with what.

When the crowd thinned, she crossed the street.

"Still have those," she said, nodding at the sugarettes.

"Yes."

She bought a pack and didn't open it. Instead, she rested her elbows on the counter.

"Emperor wants to talk," she said. Not a demand. Not a threat. Just information.

"Who's Emperor?" Arno asked. This is the first time he's heard of someone like that. 'Is that really his name?'

His thoughts probably reflected on his face because his companion responded, "He's my boss. He's the CEO of Penguin Logistics." Texas' lips slightly quirked upwards. "And yes, that's his name."

Arno met her gaze. "About what."

"You, and your products." Texas said. "Eventually. Not today."

She straightened and turned to leave, then paused. "He likes things that don't make noise. But he likes them better when he understands where they stop."

Arno inclined his head. "I don't plan to move."

Texas considered that, then nodded once. "Good."

She left without lighting anything.

That evening, as the street quieted and the sugarette smoke thinned to almost nothing, Arno counted his stock more carefully than usual. Nothing was missing. Nothing had multiplied. The cart remained obediently unchanged.

But the city felt closer now.

Not hostile. Not eager. Just aware.

Arno closed the cart at the usual hour, secured the brace, and sat inside with the light low. Outside, footsteps passed. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed softly, then stopped.

He did not add anything new to the shelves.

He did not remove anything either.

For now, the balance held.

And in Lungmen, balance was never permanent—but it was always worth keeping for as long as possible.

 

[Paracsus]

What People Say Instead

Arno stopped explaining after the third day.

Not because anyone asked him to stop, but because no one seemed to need him to continue. When customers pointed at the butter candies or the sugarettes, he told them the price, took their bills, and counted out change from the drawer beneath the counter. If they asked what something did, he answered in the smallest way possible.

"They're candy."

"They don't hurt. Not like the usual stuff."

That was all.

Lungmen Dollars passed from hand to hand in creased bills, some worn soft from years of use, others crisp enough to snap faintly when unfolded. Arno smoothed them automatically before storing them away. When someone paid with a larger bill, he counted change carefully, placing it flat on the counter instead of directly into their hands. One bill at a time. No mistakes.

A dock worker bought a box of butter candies on his lunch break and came back two days later with a coworker. He didn't say what they did. He just nodded toward the shelf and said, "Those ones."

A woman in office attire stood near the cart one afternoon, sugarette between her fingers, and explained to a colleague that they didn't leave a bad smell on her jacket. She said it casually, like it was obvious. The passerby bought a pack without much convincing.

Smokers lingered longer than they used to.

They leaned against railings or stood in small groups a short distance away, sharing light and conversation. Sugarettes were passed around with the same easy familiarity as real cigarettes, lit and extinguished without ceremony. The smoke drifted upward, pale and faintly sweet, disappearing before it could cling to anything for long.

No one argued about them. No one argued with him.

By the end of the week, Arno noticed that people rarely asked prices for the new items anymore. They knew. They came with exact bills folded and ready, sometimes already holding out the amount before reaching the counter. When they didn't, Arno counted out the change without comment.

Five-dollar bill. Two ones back. A coin-sized bill folded twice and tucked away.

Routine settled in.

What surprised him was how little effort it took.

He no longer scanned every face for threat the way he had during the first weeks. He still paid attention, but it was different now. He recognized patterns. The courier who always arrived just before sunset. The smoker who never lit up until he stepped away from the cart. The student who pretended not to care but always bought candy when he thought no one was watching.

They didn't know his name. He didn't know most of theirs.

That seemed to work fine. He was simply called "Mr. Seller" or something of the same effect.

Some evenings, Arno caught himself preparing stock without thinking about it at all. His hands moved on memory alone, arranging bread and bandages, stacking candy boxes so their labels faced outward. He adjusted prices once, slightly, rounding them to cleaner numbers so change came easier.

The cart did not object.

At night, when the exterior folded inward and the street outside dimmed, Arno sat at the table and listened to the city. He could tell what time it was by sound alone now. When deliveries ended. When bars let out. When the streets emptied enough for quiet conversations to carry.

He realized one evening, while counting bills and smoothing them into neat stacks, that he had stopped measuring time in days since arrival.

He thought in terms of opening hours instead.

In what sold well on humid afternoons. In how long it took for the street to wake up after rain. In which customers paid with small bills and which preferred larger ones.

The thought did not frighten him nearly as it should have.

It settled somewhere behind his ribs and stayed there.

One afternoon, a man buying bandages hesitated before leaving. He glanced at the butter candies, then back at Arno.

"Those," he said. "They good?"

Arno met his eyes. "People come back for them."

The man nodded, paid with a ten, waited for his change, and left with a box tucked under his arm.

That was enough.

The cart did not change again. No new items appeared. No notes followed. The shelves remained steady, stocked with the same quiet reliability as before.

Outside, Lungmen adjusted.

People waited for the cart to open. Vendors nearby stopped treating the space as temporary. Patrols passed without slowing. The street accepted Arno's presence the way it accepted a lamppost or a signpost: something useful, something expected.

When Arno closed shop at the end of the day, he folded the awning inward and locked the panels without haste. Bills were stored away. Change accounted for. The counter wiped clean.

Inside, the lights warmed.

He removed his jacket, set it on the shelf, and sat down at the table with nothing urgent left to do.

Tomorrow, he would open again. And tomorrow, a new set of conversations to be had.

---

The trouble didn't reach Arno directly.

It began in places he never saw and never asked about. Narrow rooms above noodle shops where deals were made quietly, hands moving fast enough that no one lingered on details. Alleyway exchanges where someone swore they had the real thing and smiled too quickly when asked where it came from. Tables in teahouses where boxes were slid across polished wood with the promise that it was "from the same merchant," just acquired differently.

That was where the failures happened.

The smell was often close enough to confuse people at first. Sweetness bloomed, but it felt artificial. Like a cheap, mass produced cologne. Smoke curled and filled the lungs, yet that smoke was sickly and acrid. All it did was put pressure on the body, forcing the lungs to breathe something it could not accept as easily. Just like regular cigarettes.

The butter candies failed differently.

People expected sugar and comfort, something light that perked them up for an hour or two. The counterfeit versions delivered that much—an initial sweetness, a brief lift behind the eyes. Just enough to fool someone unfamiliar.

Then the crash came.

Too fast. Too harsh.

The sweetness turned sour in the mouth, like the taste of overripe fruit. Limbs dragged. Joints ached. A dockhand nearly dropped a crate when his grip failed without warning. An office clerk nodded off at her desk in mid-sentence. A woman commuting home woke up three stops too late with a pain in her chest and no idea how long she'd been unconscious.

The worst was a sanitation worker found slumped over behind his station. He'd popped a fake butter candy during a break and never stood up again. People thought he simply fell asleep, only to panic and call paramedics when he fell of his chair and didn't get up. He was breathing, barely, but his pulse had dipped low by the time paramedics arrived. They revived him. He never touched another piece of that candy again.

That wasn't how it was supposed to feel.

The real ones gave you hours of lightness, just enough to forget the fatigue until it was time to rest. The fakes tore through that rhythm and left people feeling hollowed out.

People remembered that.

They started asking each other where the candies came from before asking what they did.

By the time people realized something was wrong, the transaction was already done, and the seller was gone.

And Lungmen, ever practical, turned its suspicion toward the only thing that didn't move: Arno's cart.

He noticed the change before anyone said it out loud.

Customers hovered longer at the counter. They examined packaging carefully, turned boxes over, sniffed the sugarettes, rolled the candy boxes in their hands like they might weigh differently. No one said "fake." Not at first. But the implication drifted in the air like dust.

"These the same ones?" someone asked one afternoon, motioning vaguely toward the shelf.

"Yes," Arno said.

"You always get these from the same place?" a man asked, tapping a sugarette pack.

"Yes." Arno said again, straightening and turning his attention fully to the customer.

"You ever had a bad batch?"

"No," Arno said simply. "I test them first."

The man nodded, not convinced, yet paid anyway.

Nearby, two people argued. One insisted the candy he'd tried last week made him crash after two hours. The other asked where he got it.

There was a pause.

"Oh," the second said. "Yeah, that's not from here."

The argument ended there.

The first complaint came from someone who didn't want to complain.

A factory worker approached with a half-creased butter candy box, soft at the corners from being folded too many times. "Think someone sold me bad ones," he said. "Didn't last. Knocked me out halfway through shift."

Arno looked at the box, not touching it. "Did you buy it here?"

The man hesitated. "Not… directly."

"Then I can't help you."

The man gave a small, tired nod and walked away without pressing further.

But not everyone was satisfied so easily.

The questions sharpened. Customers grew bolder.

"You don't change anything?" a woman asked, watching his hands move over Lungmen Dollar bills.

"No."

"You don't adjust for demand?"

"I sell what I have."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

The simplicity unsettled more than any defensiveness could have.

One evening, as the air cooled and the lamps came on overhead, two men lingered by the cart without buying. Their voices were low, but clear.

"People getting scammed left and right," one muttered. "Shouldn't be so easy to fake."

"Maybe it's the source," the other said, eyes flicking toward Arno. "Too many tricks. Too convenient."

When Arno began to close, one of them stepped forward.

"People are talking," he said.

"They usually are," Arno replied.

"They say your things aren't consistent."

"They're consistent," Arno said, "for the people who buy them from me."

The man smiled, humorless. "That's a strange rule."

"It's a reliable one."

No reply came. They left.

But the worst was still ahead.

A woman slammed a sugarette box onto the counter hard enough to rattle the glass jars. Heads turned. People paused mid-step.

"Explain this," she said, loud enough for half the street to hear.

Arno picked up the box. The seal had been peeled and reapplied. Off-center. The corner paper had warped where glue had touched the wrong surface. A rush job.

"This wasn't sold here," he said calmly.

Her face flushed. "How do you know that?"

Arno tapped the edge of the seal with one finger. "Because this was removed and reapplied. Whoever did it didn't line it up properly." He tilted the box just enough for her to see the uneven edge. "And the print on the name isn't consistent. It's been touched up by hand."

She opened her mouth, but he was already reaching beneath the counter.

He brought out an unopened box of sugarettes and set it beside hers. The difference was immediate. The seal lay perfectly flat, the lettering clean and uniform.

Arno broke the seal and smoked one.

The scent spilled out at once—warm, floral, unmistakable. It carried just far enough that a few new customers turned their heads from nearby.

He closed the box and slid it back toward her. "Mine doesn't smell like that."

For a moment, she said nothing.

"I'm not saying you're lying," Arno added, his voice steady. "I'm saying this didn't come from my cart."

Her jaw tightened. "You sell things without explanations," she snapped. "No labels. No warnings. You expect people to just trust you."

Arno met her eyes. "Only if they want to. If they have issues with what I sell and how they sell things, they can either bring it up with me," He motioned to the open area, full of other merchants.

"Or they can walk away. I have already been cleared by an inspector recently; I even have a document saying that my products are safe and clean." He said, bringing out the notice he received from before.

That answer drew a murmur from the small crowd forming nearby.

She cursed under her breath and left, but the damage had already been done. Not because she'd been wrong, but because she'd been loud.

After that, the rumors stopped drifting and began to settle. Not around the goods themselves, but around Arno.

"Don't buy it secondhand."
"Only the ones from his cart work."
"If it didn't come from him, it's not real."

People compared notes in low voices. Someone would mention a failed sugarette, and another would immediately ask where it had been bought. The answer always ended the same way.

"Not from him."
"That explains it."

The language sharpened over time.

"Resellers ruin them."
"Whatever they're copying, they're getting it wrong."
"Looks right, tastes weird, not the same."

Eventually, no one bothered dancing around it.

If it didn't come from Arno's hands, it was assumed to be fake.

That assumption came from both sides of loyalty and undeniable proof. Every story of failure traced back to someone trying to turn his goods into something else—breaking seals, repackaging, selling at a markup, or worse, attempting crude imitations.

And every story of success ended the same way.

"I bought it from the cart."

By the end of the month, Lungmen had reached its own quiet conclusion. Arno wasn't selling unreliable goods.

Everyone else was.

After his reply, resellers approached Arno and offered more than the listed price to buy extras. They asked if he could sell in bulk, if he'd cut a deal for resale. A man even tried to slip a box back onto the shelf after buying it, hoping to blur the line. Only to get caught immediately by both Arno, and some loyal customers and fans of the genuine article.

He was summarily arrested and banned. The cart will then forever remain invisible to him and those under him.

Arno refused them all, quietly and with little explanation.

Those who tried to make a profit were the angriest when it failed. They stood at a distance and muttered about deception and clever wording, about how it was unfair to sell something that couldn't be exploited or copied.

But none of them could point to a single customer who had paid at the cart and walked away unsatisfied.

That fact spread faster than the rumors ever had.

By the end of the month, the rule was understood, even if no one could explain it.

"If you wanted it, you came yourself."
"If you wanted it to work, you paid directly."
"And if you didn't like that, you went elsewhere."

Arno kept doing exactly what he always had.

He sold bread and candy, bandages and candy. He accepted Lungmen Dollar bills, counted out proper change, and closed at the same hour each night. He never defended himself and never corrected anyone's assumptions.

In Lungmen, survival wasn't about winning arguments.

It was about staying still long enough that the city adjusted around you.

 

[Paracsus]

Friendly Visit

The following afternoon, just as the late sun gilded Lungmen's streets, the familiar sound of boots echoed down the alley. Arno glanced up from arranging a neat stack of bills. Two figures approached his cart, moving with a casual but deliberate energy that immediately drew attention.

"Hey!" a bright voice called out, carrying over the hum of the street. Exusiai bounced forward first, eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of worry. "Mr. Seller! Are you okay? We… heard things."

Arno's gaze flicked to her, calm and measured. "I'm fine," he said quietly, counting out change as though nothing unusual had happened.

Behind her, Texas walked with a steady, controlled stride. Hands tucked into her coat pockets, she scanned the cart and the surrounding street with quiet attentiveness. "Rumors," she said plainly, her tone professional but not cold. "About your products. We wanted to check that everything's all right."

"They've been sold as usual," Arno replied. His hands moved over the coins and bills with practiced ease. "Nothing has changed."

Exusiai leaned closer, her energy unrestrained. "Yeah, but people have been spreading stuff—saying your candies or those… uh, smoke things don't work or whatever. You didn't get harassed, right? They didn't bother you too much?"

Texas's gaze softened ever so slightly as she added, "We just want to make sure you're safe. The rumors… people can be unpredictable."

Arno shook his head, giving a faint shrug. "I've handled the inquiries. There's no threat."

Exusiai grinned, undeterred. "Good. That's good to hear! Still, don't ignore us checking in, okay? You shouldn't have to deal with all that alone."

Texas inclined her head once, a subtle nod that carried both agreement and professionalism. "We'll be around," she said evenly. "Keep to your routine, and let us know if anything escalates."

Arno gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod in acknowledgment. He didn't ask for protection, didn't ask for conversation. He simply returned to his work, arranging the sugarettes and butter candies on the shelves with the same careful precision as before.

Exusiai hopped lightly in place for a moment, then leaned against the counter with her chin on her hands, watching him. "You know," she said softly, "it's okay to take a little breath once in a while. Even if the street doesn't notice, we do."

Texas's lips quirked in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "And we will notice if things go wrong. Consider it… insurance."

Arno's hands paused over a fresh box of sugarettes. He looked up briefly, then nodded, just enough to acknowledge their presence. That was enough.

For a while, the three of them stayed near the cart. The city moved around them, unaware, and yet, for the first time in days, Arno felt the weight of the rumors ease slightly—not because they had stopped, but because someone had noticed, and that alone made the street feel less hostile.

---

Exusiai lingered longer than Texas, perched lightly on the edge of the counter as if she were a bird unwilling to leave its perch. "Seriously," she said, leaning forward with a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes, "you've been standing there handling all of that by yourself. That's not… well, it's not normal for Lungmen. People usually get eaten alive by this kind of attention."

Arno's hands were steady as he adjusted a box of sugarettes, aligning the corners with quiet care. "It's manageable," he said, voice low, almost deliberately even. He didn't look up.

Texas, still standing a short distance away, gave a faint exhale through her nose. "He's right," she said, voice neutral, but with a note that suggested she had considered the matter carefully. "It's not ideal, but there hasn't been direct interference. Not yet. That's the difference."

Exusiai leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Difference or not, it's weird seeing someone handle that kind of rumor without breaking a sweat. You really are something else, you know?"

Arno finally looked up at her, eyes meeting hers for the briefest moment. The calm in his gaze was unshakable, almost impervious. "I focus on what I can control," he said simply. Then he returned his attention to the shelf, lining up the boxes with a practiced hand.

Texas's posture softened subtly, just enough to show that she recognized the effort it must have taken. "People will talk regardless," she said. "You can't stop that. But you can handle it. That's what matters."

Exusiai huffed, half in frustration, half in admiration. "That's a boring answer, you know? But… okay, fair. You've got your method." She leaned closer again, lowering her voice. "Just… promise me you won't try to do it all alone if it gets worse. It's not like anyone's coming to tell you what to sell or how, just… make sure you're okay."

Arno's lips pressed briefly together, then parted in the smallest acknowledgment. A nod so slight it might have been missed if someone blinked. That was the promise she would take for now.

Texas stepped a little closer, letting her gaze sweep the immediate area around the cart, the emptying street, the slow movements of the other merchants packing up for the day. "I don't mean to hover," she said evenly, "but it's useful to know the environment isn't turning against you without notice. And we can handle complications if they arise."

Arno's hands paused on the counter. For a moment, he considered the words, weighing the intention behind them. He didn't respond, only resumed stacking the boxes. His silence carried more meaning than any words might.

Exusiai pushed off lightly from the counter, bouncing on her heels. "Fine, fine. I'll leave you alone for now. But don't think we're not watching. Mr. Seller," she said with a grin, "we're friendly spies. You can't get rid of us that easily."

Texas offered the faintest, almost imperceptible smile, a small tilt of the head, before stepping back and allowing the space around the cart to settle. "We'll check in again. Don't take it personally," she said, her tone brisk but not unfriendly.

Arno's hands moved over the bills and boxes, arranging them as he always did. The street settled around him, the voices of neighbors fading as the afternoon light softened. For the first time in days, he didn't feel the weight of the rumors pressing in—not because the rumors had stopped, but because someone else had acknowledged their presence.

Exusiai's energy lingered faintly in the air as she bounced away down the street, calling over her shoulder, "See you tomorrow, Mr. Seller!"

Texas followed, quiet and steady, a calm shadow behind her companion. Arno returned to his work, counting coins and smoothing bills, methodical, focused, letting the cart's small hum of magic wrap around him like a familiar room.

The day waned. The shadows lengthened. And the rumors, once threatening, now seemed to pulse faintly at the edges of the street rather than pressing directly into him.

For Arno, that was enough.

The next morning, the city hummed with its usual rhythm. Arno moved with the same careful precision, arranging boxes, checking seals, counting bills. The memory of the previous afternoon's visit lingered, not as a distraction, but as a subtle weight—an acknowledgment that he wasn't entirely alone in watching over the cart.

By mid-morning, the sound of light, rhythmic footsteps approached again. Arno didn't need to glance up to know who it would be; the rhythm was familiar. Exusiai bounced onto the curb, her long hair catching the sunlight. "Morning, Mr. Seller! Hope you slept well."

Arno looked up briefly, hands paused on a fresh stack of butter candy boxes. "I did."

Texas followed, her movement more measured, eyes scanning the street, the surrounding stalls, the few pedestrians moving lazily past. "We came to make sure nothing escalated overnight," she said evenly. Her tone was calm, professional, carrying no unnecessary energy. "Everything appear normal?"

Arno tilted his head slightly, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment. "Normal," he said. The word held no cheer, no complaint—simply fact.

Exusiai leaned on the counter, propping her chin on her hands with a grin that didn't quite hide concern. "You know, it's weird seeing you handle all that alone. You don't even flinch. People try to stir things up, but you just… keep doing your thing."

"Routine," Arno said simply, arranging a stack of sugarettes. The sound of bills sliding together, the boxes shifting, carried its own quiet authority.

Texas observed him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she stepped closer to the counter, resting her hand lightly on its edge. "It doesn't mean you have to face it alone, Arno. We can—" She stopped, careful with her words, "—keep watch. Make sure things don't get out of hand."

Exusiai nudged her lightly. "See? Told you. Friendly spies." Her grin widened. "I'm just saying, it's nice to have people who've got your back."

Arno didn't respond immediately. His hands moved steadily over the coins and bills, stacking, smoothing, counting. After a moment, he gave a faint nod, enough to acknowledge their concern without giving it weight. That was enough communication for him, and for them.

Texas inclined her head once, a gesture of agreement and silent acknowledgment, then shifted back slightly, surveying the street around them. "We'll check in from time to time," she said. "No interference. Just observation."

Exusiai, never subtle, leaned closer again. "And if anyone tries to make trouble, we'll know. Right, Texas?"

Texas's lips twitched slightly, the hint of a smile. "We'll know."

For the next hour, the three of them stayed near the cart. Exusiai chatted lightly, bouncing from topic to topic, commenting on the street, the other vendors, the sun catching the edges of the awning. Texas kept her distance, eyes scanning, a steady presence that seemed to anchor the space around them.

Arno moved among them in silence, arranging boxes, counting bills, adjusting labels. The cart hummed faintly, the magic almost imperceptible but familiar, wrapping around the space like a protective membrane. He didn't speak more than necessary. He didn't need to. Their presence alone was enough to make the street feel less tense, the air around him lighter.

A customer approached—a courier delivering supplies from across the city. He glanced at the cart, then at Arno, and handed over a few Lungmen Dollar bills without hesitation. Arno counted the change carefully, sliding it across the counter with quiet precision. Exusiai watched the interaction with a grin, and Texas observed the street. No one else approached. No one interfered.

When the courier left, Exusiai clapped her hands lightly. "See? Everything's fine! You're doing great, Mr. Seller!"

Arno returned to stacking boxes, a faint acknowledgment, no more.

Texas's gaze lingered on the cart for a moment longer, then shifted toward the street. "Lungmen will test anyone who tries to exploit your goods," she said. "The system will handle itself as long as you keep doing what you've been doing."

Exusiai bounced a little on the curb, energy contained but ready to spill. "Yep. And we'll be here to make sure you don't get caught off guard."

Arno smoothed the top of a sugarette box, then shifted his attention to the butter candies, adjusting them so their labels faced outward evenly. The street moved around him. Vendors continued their routines. Passersby went about their business. The rumors lingered in the corners of conversation, but for now, nothing pressed directly against the cart.

He didn't need to comment. He didn't need to defend. Their presence, even quiet, was enough to remind him—and anyone who cared to notice—that the cart, and its operator, remained untouchable.

The day moved forward. Light shifted, shadows lengthened. Arno continued with the same steady rhythm, counting bills, stacking boxes, keeping his world small and methodical. And outside, just beyond the reach of his routine, Exusiai and Texas remained as watchful companions, keeping their promise in their own ways—bubbly and bright on one side, calm and steady on the other.

---

The morning sun climbed higher, spilling light over Lungmen's streets. Arno adjusted the display, stacking the sugarettes and butter candies just so. The quiet of the day was punctuated by the distant clatter of carts and vendors calling to each other.

Exusiai stretched lightly, the energy in her movements almost bouncing the small awning above the cart. Texas, standing with the usual calm precision, checked the street around them one last time.

"Another job," Exusiai said cheerfully, tossing a glance at Arno. "We'll be back before you know it. Don't work too hard while we're gone, Mr. Seller!"

Arno's hands stilled over a stack of butter candy boxes. "Be careful," he said quietly. The words were simple, but carried the weight of genuine concern.

Texas's eyes flicked toward him, expression calm but attentive. "We will. Don't worry."

Exusiai grinned. "Yeah, we've survived worse. You'll be fine here, right?"

He gave the faintest nod, but before they left, he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small package wrapped in neat brown paper, tied with a thin string. The label read simply: Windrunner's Fuel.

FLASHBACK

Arno remembered the quiet of the cart that morning, just after dawn. The street had not yet fully awakened; shutters rattled open on nearby shops, the smell of frying breakfast drifted from a noodle stall down the way, and the air carried a faint coolness that promised the heat would come by noon.

He had been unpacking a fresh batch of merchandise when his hands brushed against a small, unmarked crate tucked beneath the larger boxes of sugarettes. It wasn't part of the usual stock. Curious, he had set aside the bandages and candies he was arranging and lifted the crate onto the counter.

Inside were neat rows of individually wrapped bars, the wrapping crisp white paper with a thin, elegant string binding each one. A simple black icon of a stylized gust of wind sat in the corner of each wrapper. Windrunner's Fuel the label said. Nothing more. Together with the box was a familiar slip of paper dictating the effects of the product.


Windrunner's Fuel
Consumed Orally
Effect: Increases speed, dexterity, and agility of the consumer
Duration: approximately one hours.
Aftereffect: none.

Warning: Does not Stack with other speed enhancers!


He picked one up, feeling the slight weight in his palm. It was denser than a simple candy bar, but not so much as to be cumbersome. Breaking the string and peeling back the paper released a warm, sweet aroma of toasted oats, honey, and roasted nuts. Cranberries and raisins dotted the surface like tiny jewels, glinting in the morning light. He inspected it for imperfections, noting the careful cut of the bar, the even distribution of ingredients, the way it seemed designed to hold together without crumbling.

Arno tasted it, just a small bite at first. The granola was chewy, the honey sticky but light, balancing the tartness of the dried fruit and the subtle crunch of seeds and nuts. Each mouthful felt substantial, filling without heaviness. He could imagine someone biting into it during a long run or a hurried delivery, a source of energy that was practical, satisfying, and reliable.

The effect was immediate. A lightness emerged from within, as if he could suddenly get snatched away by a simple gust, yet he still felt grounded enough that it did not leave him unbalanced. His arms and legs, filled with a new energy that subtly wanted to be tested. Arno exited the cart and decided to take a jog out in the city.

He had never run so fast or so far in his life, both before and after arriving in Terra. He felt like he could run forever.
He came back soaked with sweat, but strangely happy.

END FLASHBACK

Arno held out the package to Exusiai and Texas. "Take these with you," he said, his voice steady. "Windrunner's Fuel. They'll help in a pinch, give you some energy when you need it. Just… consider them a gift."

Exusiai's eyes lit up, and she grabbed the package eagerly. "Hey! Thanks, Mr. Seller! You didn't have to, but I'm definitely not complaining." She slipped the bar into a pocket of her jacket. "I'll make sure to eat it before we get into trouble!"

Texas took hers calmly, examining the wrapper. "Practical," she said, nodding once. "We'll take care."

Arno gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return. "That's all I ask. Please be careful."

The two of them waved, then turned down the street, their steps confident and purposeful. Arno watched them go, a faint tension loosening from his shoulders now that he knew they were equipped for whatever the morning might bring.

He returned to the cart, checking over the sugarettes and butter candies, smoothing out the edges of each box. The street hummed around him, indifferent yet alive. And for a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine the city as less of a threat, a little less unpredictable, with allies just a few blocks away.

 

[Paracsus]

Breakneck

The contract was meant to be an easy one.

Escort, transfer, withdrawal. Penguin Logistics had done it a hundred times in tighter corridors and worse districts. Lungmen's streets were familiar ground—loud, crowded, forgiving if you knew how to move.

This street wasn't forgiving.

Texas felt it first.

Her steps slowed by half a beat, sword hand loosening at her side as her eyes traced the rooftops above them. Too still. Too deliberate. A merchant's awning fluttered in the wind, but no one stood beneath it.

"Something's wrong," she said quietly.

Exusiai was already scanning ahead, SMG resting comfortably in her hands, finger off the trigger but ready. "Yeah," she said. "Street's pretending too hard."

The first Arts bolt shattered the pavement beside them.

Blue-white light cracked against stone, heat blooming outward as the illusion of normalcy collapsed. Shouts followed—boots pounding, metal scraping, the unmistakable hum of Originium Arts being drawn.

"Front!" Croissant barked, shield slamming down just in time as a volley of crossbow bolts clanged against reinforced plating.

Bison moved with her, shield raised, bracing the impact as sparks flew.

Spoiler

Texas surged forward.

Her blade cleared its sheath in one smooth motion, steel flashing as she closed the distance on an Arts caster perched near a stairwell. The caster barely had time to react before Texas was there, blade knocking the focus staff aside and striking with decisive precision.

"Scatter," Texas ordered.

They didn't hesitate.

Croissant and Bison held the center, shields locked, forcing the attackers to commit or reroute. Texas flowed through the chaos, sword carving open paths, controlling space rather than chasing kills.

Exusiai ran.

She vaulted a railing, wings flaring instinctively to adjust her balance, and hit the street running. Bolts whistled past her, clattering harmlessly against walls where she'd been a second before.

She fired back in short, controlled bursts—not to kill, but to force heads down, to create space. The SMG barked sharply, louder than most weapons in Lungmen, drawing attention she couldn't afford for long.

"Okay," she muttered, breath quickening. "This is getting spicy."

She ducked into a side alley, boots skidding over damp stone, then burst through a hanging tarp into a narrow service corridor. Her movements were fast—usually fast enough.

Not today.

They were keeping pace.

Arts flared behind her, heat licking the air as another bolt scorched the wall inches from her shoulder. A crossbow thunked, the bolt embedding itself where her head had just been.

Her legs burned.

"That's new," she hissed, sprinting up a maintenance stairwell two steps at a time. "Usually I'm better at this part."

At the top, the space opened into a rooftop walkway overlooking a canal. No crowds. No cover. Just distance—and enemies closing from both sides.

Exusiai skidded behind a concrete pillar, chest heaving.

"Texas," she said into the comm, forcing levity into her voice. "You wouldn't happen to be done slicing people yet, would you?"

A pause. Then Texas's voice, calm but strained. "Still engaged. You'll need to disengage on your own."

"Copy that," Exusiai said. "No pressure."

Footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

Her hand brushed her jacket pocket.

She froze."…oh."

She pulled out the bar. Plain foil. Clean print. Nothing flashy. Windrunner's Fuel.

She remembered Arno's voice, steady and understated. Helps in a pinch.

Exusiai snorted. "Buddy, you have no idea how good your timing is."

She tore it open and took a bite.

Honey-sweet. Toasted grain. Something warm and grounding, like proper food instead of emergency rations. It didn't spike—it settled. The burn in her lungs eased. Her legs stopped trembling. Her heartbeat smoothed out.

"…oh wow."

She didn't question it.

She ran.

Her stride lengthened naturally, footfalls lighter, sharper. Balance came easier. Corners stopped fighting her. She vaulted the canal railing, cleared the gap cleanly, and hit the far side, already accelerating. She felt light as a feather, like she could go anywhere the wind (and her legs!) could take her.

Bolts followed—too slow.

Arts flared—misjudged.

She weaved through buildings and obstacles like the slums had shifted half a step in her favor. Rooftops blurred beneath her boots, wings adjusting just enough to keep her centered, never slowing her down.

She laughed as she ran, exhilaration cutting through the tension. Halo and wings glowing as bright as her mood.

"This is amazing!"

The pursuit thinned. Then fractured. Then vanished entirely.

A few blocks away, Exusiai finally slowed, landing lightly on a quiet rooftop overlooking a laundry-lined street. She bent forward, hands on her knees, waiting for the inevitable crash.

It didn't come.

Her breathing steadied. Muscles loose. No tremor. No dizziness.

She straightened, staring at the empty wrapper in her hand.

"…okay," she said. "That is definitely not normal granola."

Her comm crackled.

"Status," Texas said.

Exusiai grinned, wide and bright. "Clear. No injuries."

Another pause. "How?"

Exusiai tucked the wrapper carefully into her pocket, gaze drifting toward the distant streets.

"I owe someone a thank-you," she said lightly. "I'll explain later."

The city carried on below her, unaware.

And Exusiai, still warm with borrowed momentum, leapt back into the flow.

---

Penguin Logistics headquarters eased into its familiar post-mission lull, the tension of the streets bleeding out slowly rather than all at once. Gear was unbuckled and set aside with practiced motions, not rushed, but not careless either. Croissant hauled a crate back into its proper place with a grunt, rolling her shoulders afterward as if reminding herself the fight was over. Bison stood nearby, shield resting upright against the wall, posture still formal despite the safety of home. Texas remained by the central table, arms folded, sword already secured, her attention calm but alert.

Exusiai, by contrast, had not settled at all.

She paced, wings twitching in small, restless flicks, energy buzzing through her like the mission hadn't quite ended yet. She opened her mouth once, closed it, then finally clapped her hands together sharply.

"Okay," she said, voice bright and insistent. "We need to talk about the chase."

Bison groaned, long and theatrical, without even turning around. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make this a thing."

Texas's gaze shifted fully to Exusiai, unreadable but focused. "You broke contact earlier than expected," she said evenly. "You didn't request backup. Explain."

Exusiai hopped up onto the edge of the table and sat cross-legged, boots knocking softly against the metal as she settled. "Right, so you remember when I split off to draw them away?" she began, tone casual but animated.

Bison nodded immediately. "You were pursued by multiple hostile units," he said. "At least one Arts caster and several crossbowmen."

"Exactly," Exusiai replied, pointing at him with a grin. "And they weren't sloppy about it. They kept pace. They anticipated my turns. That's not normal for street thugs."

Croissant finally turned, brow furrowing. "That's already bad news."

"Yeah, it gets worse before it gets fun," Exusiai said. She leaned back on her hands, wings flexing slightly as she spoke. "I ran my usual routes—alleys, maintenance stairs, rooftops. Stuff that normally shakes people loose. Didn't work. They stayed on me, forced me upward, and I ended up cornered on a rooftop by the canal."

Her grin sharpened. "No crowd. No cover. Bad angles. The kind of spot where I usually start improvising prayers."

Texas's eyes narrowed a fraction. "And you didn't."

"Nope," Exusiai said. "Because that's when I remembered I had something in my pocket."

She reached into her jacket and placed an empty foil wrapper on the table. It looked unremarkable—plain print, clean edges, nothing flashy or tactical about it.

Texas stepped closer, gaze dropping to it. "Food."

"Granola bar," Exusiai confirmed. "Sweetened. Oats, nuts, dried fruit. Arno gave it to us the other day."

The implication didn't linger long before Exusiai ruined it by hopping up onto the table, boots planted between discarded wrappers and half-finished drinks.

"Okay, but listen," she said, leaning forward like she was pitching a business idea instead of recounting a near-disaster. "I wasn't even trying to go that fast. I just… did. Like my legs stopped arguing with me."

She gestured broadly, nearly knocking over a cup Croissant had abandoned earlier. "Usually there's that moment where your brain goes, hey, maybe slow down before you eat pavement. That didn't happen. Everything just lined up."

Croissant watched her with narrowed eyes, not suspicious—evaluating. "So you're saying it didn't feel like pushing past your limit."

"Exactly," Exusiai said, snapping her fingers. "It felt like my limit moved."

Bison shifted his weight, clearly replaying the escort in his head. "That explains why they couldn't box you in. They were predicting normal movement."

"Joke's on them," Exusiai said cheerfully. "I was having a great time."

Texas exhaled quietly through her nose, something just short of a laugh. "You were grinning when you regrouped," she said. "I assumed that meant trouble."

"It always means trouble," Exusiai agreed. "But this time it was successful trouble."

Croissant folded her arms again, rocking back on her heels. "And this Arno guy just… hands these out?"

"Not like samples," Exusiai said quickly. "More like—" she searched for the word, then shrugged. "A precaution. He didn't hype it up or anything. No sales pitch. Honestly, I thought it was just really good trail food."

Texas nodded once. "That tracks."

Croissant gave her a look. "Of course it does."

Texas didn't rise to it. "He doesn't oversell," she said. "Anything."

Bison glanced between them. "So you're both carrying one."

"I was," Exusiai said, holding up the empty wrapper. "Past tense."

Texas tapped her pocket again, more deliberately this time. "I still am."

There was a brief pause—not heavy, just thoughtful—as Croissant processed that.

"…okay," she said finally. "New rule. If Angel Speed decides to eat mystery granola again, she tells us before sprinting three districts away."

Exusiai saluted. "Yes ma'am."

"And," Croissant added, pointing at Texas, "you don't get to be mysteriously prepared without saying anything either."

Texas's mouth twitched. "I said I hadn't used it."

"That's not the same thing and you know it."

Exusiai laughed, hopping back down from the table. "Look, nobody's saying we rely on it. I'm just saying—if things go sideways, it's nice knowing we've got an option that doesn't explode, glow, or get us arrested."

"That bar doesn't solve problems," Texas said calmly. "It buys space."

"Which is sometimes the same thing," Exusiai shot back.

Croissant sighed, rubbing her temples. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but… fine. We keep track of it. Quietly."

Her eyes flicked to the wrapper, then to Texas's pocket. "No testing it for fun."

Exusiai crossed her heart dramatically. "Scout's honor."

"That means nothing," Croissant said.

"Rude."

The tension eased, conversation drifting back toward cleanup, reports, and the next job already lining itself up in Emperor's absence. But the granola bar—empty or not—stayed on the table a little longer than everything else.

Not as a miracle. Not as a secret weapon. Just as something worth remembering.

Exusiai hopped off the table, stretching as her wings flared once and settled. "Yeah. No need to make it a big deal."

She folded the empty wrapper and slipped it back into her pocket instead of discarding it.

"But still," she added lightly, glancing at the others, "next time things get messy?"

Croissant grinned. "We're makin' a stop."

Texas didn't object.

Somewhere in Lungmen, a cart would open the next morning like it always did—bread lined up neatly, bandages stacked cleanly, candy sitting quietly on its shelf.

Penguin Logistics now knew better than to judge danger by appearances alone.

---

Meanwhile—

Rumors moved faster than official reports ever did.

They slipped through the slums in half-finished sentences and exaggerated gestures, carried by people who hadn't seen the whole thing but had felt the aftershock of it. A chase that went wrong. Thugs scrambling. An angel-shaped blur clearing rooftops like gravity had briefly loosened its grip.

By the next morning, the story had already changed twice.

Some said a courier outran Arts fire without slowing. Others swore they saw wings flare once and never again, like the city itself had blinked. A few insisted it had to be drugs, or Arts, or some new Penguin Logistics trick they weren't supposed to talk about.

No one agreed on the details. Everyone agreed on one thing: whoever she was, she got away clean.

Arno heard it while counting change.

The cart was open as usual, shelves neat, spacing exact. Bread, bandages, juice, soap. Butter candies and sugarettes sat where they belonged, undisturbed. He listened without looking up as two customers talked near the edge of the curb, voices low but animated.

"—told you, she was fast. Like she didn't even touch the ground."

"No way. That's an exaggeration."

"Really? But nobody caught her."

Coins clinked softly as Arno set them into their place. His hands slowed just enough to register the pattern in the story—the route, the timing, the description that didn't quite match rumor but wasn't invention either.

An angel.
A chase.
Penguin Logistics.

He exhaled, quiet and controlled, tension he hadn't realized he was carrying easing from his shoulders.

So she'd used it.

Arno didn't smile, not outwardly. But the tightness in his chest loosened, replaced by something steadier. Relief, tempered by confirmation. The bar had done what it was meant to do—not more, not less. It had helped someone get out of danger and then get on with their day.

No one mentioned food.
No one mentioned candy.
No one mentioned anything being sold.

Good.

He finished counting, slid the bills away, and adjusted a box that was already straight. The cart remained quiet, its presence unassuming, its inventory unchanged to any passing eye.

Later, someone else brought it up—this time a delivery driver buying bandages.

"People are saying Penguin Logistics pulled off something big last night," he said casually. "You hear that?"

"I hear things," Arno replied.

The driver laughed, satisfied with that answer, and moved on.

Arno watched the street resume its rhythm. Footsteps. Voices. Smoke that smelled faintly of flowers drifting past and fading. The city absorbed the story the way it always did—not with ceremony, but with use.

Whatever had happened out there, it hadn't tipped into spectacle. Not yet.

And for now, that was enough.

 

[Slayer 10321]

Great story.

Minor continuity snarl I noticed in the Interlude.

Exusiai mentioned the MC by his name, but he never told her it. That's why he's called Mr. Seller by her.

Was that intentional or did my reading comprehension fail me and I missed something?

 

[Paracsus]

Great story.

Minor continuity snarl I noticed in the Interlude.

Exusiai mentioned the MC by his name, but he never told her it. That's why he's called Mr. Seller by her.

Was that intentional or did my reading comprehension fail me and I missed something?

Click to shrink...

Arno told her at some point from repeated visits. Mr. Seller is just a nickname she made for him. Sorry if it seems like a continuity error; each chapter takes place at least a few days from each other unless I say so. This is so that things don't look like they happen super quickly.

 

[Slayer 10321]

Arno told her at some point from repeated visits. Mr. Seller is just a nickname she made for him. Sorry if it seems like a continuity error; each chapter takes place at least a few days from each other unless I say so. This is so that things don't look like they happen super quickly.

Click to shrink...

Ok, cool. Thanks for the confirmation. And it's fine. I was just wondering since I didn't see any scene where Arno revealed his name and thought that his real name was only going to be revealed to the Arknights cast after several Operator-equivalent missions/events.

 

[Paracsus]

Ok, cool. Thanks for the confirmation. And it's fine. I was just wondering since I didn't see any scene where Arno revealed his name and thought that his real name was only going to be revealed to the Arknights cast after several Operator-equivalent missions/events.

Click to shrink...

I'd say it depend on who he talks to. Simply because if it was me, I wouldn't be nearly as open to talking with the Abyssal Hunters as I would with Penguin Logistics, or perhaps even the LGD.

Why? The former is terrifying, while the latter two are more sociable.

 

[Hopless-Curiousity]

I like it so far. Only criticism I have is for chapter 5. In the middle of it, with the talk between Texas, Exusiai, and Arno, it felt like I was rereading the same two paragraphs a few times over. No details added, only slight variation in the words used. Very confusing.

 

[gagabushin]

This is actually quite good story, pls continue