'An important character from the novel?'
The moment the thought entered Artis' head, a thousand possibilities slammed into his brain like a brothel door during peak hours.
This world followed a very simple, very perverted rule: If someone was outrageously hot and looked way too polished for their surroundings, they were important.
She was too put-together to be some random peasant NPC. No way.
Her dress may have been plain, her apron streaked with dirt, but her face? Too perfect. Her curves? Just right. The kind of proportions that only a lazy author who was into MILFs would design.
'She's gotta be part of the Ginseng Arc, right?'
He scratched his chin, analyzing her like a merchant inspecting high-quality silk. If she was a florist—flourist? flower lady?—and this was around the time of the Ginseng Arc, then...
'Oh-ho-ho. This might be the chick who finds the goddamn thing.'
His eyes gleamed. If that was true, he had to get to her first before the other protagonist-types got involved.
But before he could start crafting a seduction plan that involved less thinking and more thrusting, the woman had already finished wrapping up his flowers.
"Here, sir."
She handed him the 'Wild Northern Carena'—or as he called it, 'a fucking rose'—wrapped neatly in a sheet of paper.
Artis snapped back to reality.
As always, he played his favorite little game.
He "accidentally" grazed her fingers when taking the flowers, a classic move, smooth and calculated. The trick was just enough touch to make a woman wonder but not enough to make it weird.
But instead of the usual blush or shy giggle, her expression did something unexpected.
She scowled.
For a split second, just a flicker of irritation, before her face smoothed out like she hadn't just looked at him like he was some filthy alley rat trying to cop a feel.
Well. That was new.
For some reason—maybe because he actually wanted her to like him, maybe because **he wasn't in the mood to be scolded like a horny schoolboy—**he quickly retracted his hand.
"Uh. Thanks."
He said, flashing a perfectly practiced, lady-killing smile.
She just nodded.
No blush. No stammer. No visible desire to climb him like a fucking tree.
'Is it because she's important to the arc? Or is it something else?'
Artis frowned, something unfamiliar curling in his gut. A strange, unsettling feeling—one he didn't experience with the other women in the novel.
With them, he wanted to tease them, wreck them, bend them over and maybe slap their asses until they screamed his name.
Hell, if given the chance, he'd walk them on a leash through the marketplace and make them thank him for it.
But this woman?
He didn't have a single urge to do that to her.
And that was new.
Instead of wanting to dominate her, he felt the need to observe her. To figure her out.
She was like a locked treasure chest with a smug "You can't open me, dumbass" sign on the front.
And that? That made him fucking interested.
He dug into his pocket and produced a coin, keeping it tightly hidden in his palm. This wasn't some shitty copper piece—this was a coin that could make peasants go feral.
One of these could set a person up for life, or more realistically, get them stabbed in the back within the hour.
He wasn't about to get this woman murdered over a flower sale.
So he played it smooth.
The woman's eyes flickered with suspicion but she still smiled, bowing slightly before lifting her hands to accept the payment.
Artis leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur.
"Here…"
Artis placed his palm over hers, subtly guiding her fingers shut over the coin, his touch deliberate but cautious.
For a moment, their hands lingered.
Her fingers were calloused, firm—hands of someone who actually worked, not just posed prettily behind a counter.
A second passed. Then two.
Then she pulled back, brushing off the moment like it was nothing.
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She raised an eyebrow, but she quickly brushed it off, assuming he was just another paranoid rich guy who didn't want to get jumped.
Fair.
'Well, can't blame him, this place is swarming with all kinds of people…'
The woman kept her head bowed, silently musing to herself.
'If they saw someone like him—wait, no, they have seen him. That's why half the women are practically drooling and half the men look like they want to knife him in an alley. If they knew he was carrying real wealth, he'd be dead before sundown—'
Then she lowered her hands.
And froze.
She had asked for seven coppers.
Copper. As in, dirty, crusty little coins that barely bought a moldy loaf of bread.
But this?
This was not fucking copper.
The small, heavy coin in her palm gleamed under the sunlight like it had been blessed by the gods themselves.
It was gold.
Not the kind of "gold" some broke bastard tried to pass off in a scam.
Not bronze.
Not gold-plated.
Pure, undeniable, panty-wetting, spine-tingling, legitimate fucking gold.
Her breath hitched.
For the first time since he met her, Artis saw a crack in her carefully composed expression.
And he loved it.
'There it is.'
He thought smugly.
'First time holding something valuable, huh? No matter how tough you act, sweetheart, you're still a woman. And women love shiny things.'
His lips curled into a knowing smirk, watching her process the sheer weight of what just landed in her hands.
Seeing his mother's reaction, the kid—who had been sulking like a failed scam artist since his brilliant plan to rob this rich douchebag blind had crashed and burned—suddenly perked up.
He tiptoed, craned his neck, and squinted.
And the second his little greedy, scheming eyes caught sight of the gold, his mouth dropped open.
Artis swore he saw actual fucking stars twinkling in the brat's eyes.
"OH MY GOD! IS THAT A GO—MMPHHH!"
The kid didn't even get to finish his exclamation before his mother's lightning-fast reflexes kicked in.