The commotion of the "Spawnslayer" chants eventually died down, and now, in the thick of a busy morning, tavern chatter was the sound that filled Percival’s ears.
He sat in the shadowed corner of a discreet alehouse tucked away in the lower district of Wolsend.
It was the kind of place where patrons drank to forget, not to celebrate, making it the perfect hideout for a Hero trying to avoid being hero-worshipped.
What an eventful morning.
Percival didn’t like to brood—or at least, he tried not to—so, he refused to think about it as he finished a simple meal of roasted fowl and ale.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That was the best meal he’d eaten since regressing.
His stamina was recovering, but the problem of his equipment remained.
He needed gold.
Leaving three silvers on the table, Percival slipped out the back exit. He navigated the scarcer, winding roads toward the Temple District, avoiding the main thoroughfares where crowds were certain to be.
He found a Temple quieter than the one in the main roads, though the grandeur remained the same.
Percival approached the exchange window.
"I wish to make an exchange," he said.
The steward, a young man with ink-stained fingers, looked up. His eyes widened as they locked onto the Necromancer crest, and then onto Percival’s face.
His surprise was different from the stewardess’s in Metrodorian. Rather than terrified, he was ecstatic.
"You... you’re him," the steward whispered, practically vibrating. "You’re the Hero. The Spawnslayer!"
Percival had already grown tired of that name.
"30,000 Mana Coins," he said, ignoring the fan fare.
"Of course! Right away!" The steward said, unable to hide his smile. "Please place your hand on the orb and transfer the amount."
Percival summoned his currency interface.
⸢Mana Coins: 37,500⸥
He placed his hand on the orb and authorized the transfer. The orb glowed, humming as it siphoned the magical currency that would fuel the Great Shield protecting the realm.
The steward bustled about, unlocking a heavy safe and withdrawing three heavy stacks of gold coins.
"Here you are, sir. Thirty gold pieces." The steward bowed low as he pushed the coins across the marble counter.
"Thank you for your contribution to the maintenance of the Great Shield. And... for saving Cuttleham."
Percival swept the gold into his pouch without a word and turned to leave.
After purchasing a hood, he made his way to the commercial district of Wolsend.
Like most markets, the sounds of hammering steel, shouting merchants and negotiations filled the air.
Percival walked past the standard smithies and headed straight for the high-end establishment that dominated the street corner: The Gilded Scabbard.
In his former life, he barely had to purchase his equipment himself. Whenever he needed a new gear, it was immediately crafted or procured for him.
This was a new experience.
The interior of the place was wrapped in gold and platinum platings. The equipment, rather than being simply hung on racks, were worn and displayed by realistic looking mannequins.
Several Awakeners milled about. Some were actively purchasing gear, others were admiring the armors and weapons that they didn’t have the coin to buy.
Percival pulled his scarf tighter, burying his chin and mouth until only his eyes were visible beneath his hood and dark hair.
He moved to the heavy armor section, his eyes scanning for B-Grade equipment.
He stopped at one to give it a quick scrutiny.
"You have a discerning eye."
Percival slowly turned to find the proprietor standing beside him.
He was a skinny man, tall and sharp-featured, wearing a tailored suit that cost more than a village. His posture was classy, even proud.
Whether any one believed him or not, this man held the opinion that his wares were the best in the province.
His crest floated above his shoulder.
⸢Merchant (Lvl 79)⸥
High enough to attest to his experience.
"I saw you looking at the plating," the Merchant said with a silken voice. He joined Percival in admiring a set of bulky, crimson-plated armor on a pedestal.
"That is the Red Sentinel Armor Set. It is a masterpiece of dwarven alloy, forged from blood glass found only in the deathly mountains of Gulmork. It would look splendid on you, young Awakener."
The Merchant ran a gloved hand over the pauldron. "B-Grade. It offers superior damage negation and comes with the ’Fortress’ Aspect, reducing physical impact by 15% when stationary. A wall of steel."
Percival looked at the armor. "It’s a coffin."
The Merchant blinked, his proud smile faltering. "I beg your pardon?"
"The joint articulation at the knees is too stiff," Percival stated plainly. "It creates a 0.5-second delay in rotational movement. The plating is too thick around the torso, which means a minus stat to Agility and Attack Speed."
"Against a slow Ogre, it’s fine. But it’s a prison against the wearer if they dare face a Demonspawn or Swordsman with this armor."
The Merchant stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar.
He was a Lvl 79 Merchant; he wasn’t used to being lectured on his own stock by a customer who looked like a vagrant.
"I... see," The Merchant cleared his throat, his respect for the stranger instantly recalibrating. "You prefer mobility, then."
"The best defence is aversion," Percival said. "If something can not hit you, then you can not be harmed."
He turned and walked deeper into the store.
The Merchant followed him, intrigued. "Most Awakeners simply look at the Defense stat. You’re only a Lvl 21, but... you speak as one who has worn many skins."
Percival ignored the compliment.
His eyes locked onto a mannequin in the back.
He stopped to inspect it.
It was a dignified piece of armor, composed of interlocking plates of dark, matte metal that seemed to absorb the light around it.
"This one..." Percival said.
The Merchant nodded approvingly. "The Obsidian Ironwolf Armor Set. B-Grade as well. This is forged from the metal skin of the Ironwolves found in Gate Worlds of the Dwarf Kingdom."
Percival inspected the stats.