Chương 372: Chapter 358

The city of Roserun was alive at street level. Everywhere Sam looked, people – mostly NPCs – were in motion. They moved between shops, spilled out of taverns and pubs, carrying goods or speaking to one another in low, serious tones. Just as he had seen from his perch, most were men. There were only a few women – mostly servants – and even fewer elderly. Everyone looked tense; the presence of the Blood Army encamped around the city weighing heavily on them. The players were no different.

They moved with purpose, rarely stopping to talk, let alone relax. Most were production players, hurrying between workshops with half-finished goods or hauling materials on wooden trolleys. Many were escorted – one or two guards for lesser cargo, whole contingents for anything valuable. Sam noticed a few pickpockets trailing these groups, watching for an opening—but they never made a move. Even so, the city lived up to its reputation.

It was a hive of scum and villainy, wrapped in a strange blend of pirate and western aesthetics. Sailors argued in tight circles while cowboys stood nearby, hands resting on their belts, wide-brimmed hats casting shadows over their eyes. They even did the whole spitting thing. As Sam passed a group competing at it, he caught snippets of their conversation – debating skills for aim, water magic, and even throwing abilities.

He suppressed a chuckle and kept walking, the same annoyed expression fixed on his face, his compact ladder slung over his shoulder. He was practically invisible. People glanced at him, taking in the rough, dirty clothes, the unkempt beard and hair, the irritation practically radiating off him. Then their eyes dropped to the ladder – and just like that, he stopped existing. He was just another of the countless workers keeping the city running. Nobody important.

The few who did keep an eye on him only did so to stay out of his way. Once, his path was cut off by a small wooden carriage pushed by a player, flanked by several others. Their hands hovered near their weapons, faint flashes of magic sweeping the surroundings as they scanned for threats. Keeping an eye out for potential attackers or thieves. Sam stopped, grunted irritably, rolled his eyes, and stepped aside. The escorts glanced at him – then at the ladder.

"Sorry, bro," one of them said under his breath. As the carriage rolled past, they shifted just enough to let Sam continue without breaking formation. Sam gave a curt nod and moved on. Behind him, he caught a fragment of their conversation.

"Man, all this prep is stressing everyone out…"

"Too much construction work," another replied.

"Even the NPCs are pissed."

"Can you blame them?" Their voices faded into the noise of the city, and Sam had to fight to keep from laughing. Sam's second target lay deeper in the inland warehouse district. Roserun had two such districts. One sat by the harbor – the one he had surfaced in – handling the relentless flow of goods between ships and city. Crates of food, coils of rope, barrels of everything between expensive wine and oil moved in an endless tide, the air thick with brine, rot, and smoke.

Not to mention the raw material used in manufacturing. Dockworkers shouted over one another while gulls circled overhead, diving whenever something edible was exposed for even a moment. The other stretched along the outer walls, near the massive gates that opened toward the inland trade routes. The atmosphere there was different – less chaotic, more controlled.

Long caravans lined up in disciplined rows: wagons reinforced with iron bands, pack animals shifting impatiently under heavy loads, drivers arguing with officials over tariffs and permits. Guards were more numerous too, watching both the cargo and the horizon beyond the walls. Between the two lay the crafter district. Here, the noise changed. Less shouting – more focus. Hammering, sawing, the hiss of steam, the crackle of enchantments being tested.

Raw materials and half-finished components flowed through the streets like blood through veins, carried by workers, pushed on carts, or hauled by teams under constant supervision. They were sorted, catalogued, certified – then they were either used in crafting or packaged for further manufacturing in other places. Stamped with marks of origin and quality, tagged for delivery, or redirected entirely, depending on demand.

Some vanished into workshops to be transformed; others were repackaged and sent onward, bound for distant cities or back to the harbor. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. According to Tim's information, a handful of specialized crafters had settled in Roserun, producing unique artifacts.

Most focused on ocean exploration tools or weapons designed for open water – navigation tools, harpoon launchers, reinforced diving gear, and pressure-resistant mechanisms. One, apparently, had been bragging on the forums about developing some kind of super cannons for warships. The posts were almost immediately deleted, but nothing really could be fully deleted from the internet. There were several screenshots floating around.

'I wonder what they'd say if they knew what Liz built…' Sam mused as he walked between the warehouses, occasionally nodding to patrolling guards. They waved him through without even checking his identity.

'Man… They're never going to live this down…' he thought. He had the device Liz had put together for the media team recording the city from the outside, and he was also making sure his gaming pod was recording. Checking his mental map and calculations, he stopped before the door of a warehouse and reached for the door handle. It turned without resistance. Most of these warehouses were in constant use; the flow of people never really slowing.

Even now, as he stepped inside, at least a dozen people noticed him—and did nothing. After all, why would they? If he wasn't supposed to be there, he wouldn't be. He was allowed. So he was. The moment the door closed behind him, Sam's entire demeanor shifted, the ladder vanishing into his inventory as the irritation on his face faded into quiet focus while his gaze moved across the warehouse interior.

Crates were stacked in dense rows, shelves filled with all kinds of materials and goods, but none of it held his attention for more than a passing glance. Voices carried faintly through the space, blurred and indistinct, yet close enough that he knew it would only take moments before someone came his way.

His eyes lifted, quickly finding a narrow empty space along the top of one of the shelving units, and with a controlled burst of strength, he propelled himself upward, landing silently before melding into the shadows. Only seconds later, a worker rounded the corner and glanced toward the door. The man slowed, scratching his head as confusion crossed his face.

"Huh… I thought I heard it open…" He looked around for a moment, then shrugged and continued on his way without a second thought.

"They never look up…" Sam murmured under his breath, the words barely more than a whisper. He allowed himself a brief moment of laughter, then refocused. He needed a place at ground level where he could work undisturbed for at least half an hour. Closing his eyes, he spread his mana sense through the warehouse, brushing past the workers whose presences registered as faint and unremarkable, offering no resistance and posing no threat.

At the far end, he found a cluster of small offices, one occupied by several people sitting at desks while the other saw a steady flow of workers entering, sitting briefly, and leaving again within minutes. A break room. That would not do. He could create a distraction to clear it, but there was always the risk that someone would return too early.

Shifting his attention elsewhere, he focused on the opposite side of the warehouse, where a towering stack of crates stood largely undisturbed, with only the occasional worker passing nearby without lingering. It was likely long-term storage. Allowing himself a faint smile, Sam began to move. He crossed the tops of the shelving units with careful, measured steps, pausing whenever someone passed below, his movements controlled and deliberate as he made his way across the warehouse.

Within a few minutes, he reached the stack and dropped onto it, a soft cloud of dust rising on impact before settling just as quickly. He raised his hand immediately, his finger glowing faintly as he traced runes through the air, forming a simple but stable illusion circle around himself, which pulsed once before fading, leaving behind a subtle shimmer as a translucent field expanded to conceal him.

With that in place, he turned to the crates and knelt, forming a blade of void mana that slipped silently through the wood as he opened the first one he found. Inside were tightly packed rolls of cloth. He did not bother examining them, simply shovelling the contents into his inventory with quick, efficient motions. Once the crate was empty, he climbed inside and pulled the lid closed above him, sealing himself in darkness as the illusion outside faded completely, leaving no trace of his presence.

A small sphere of light formed in his hand, illuminating the confined space as he shifted to one side, clearing part of the crate's bottom before erasing it with void magic. He repeated the process below, working steadily as he emptied the crate beneath him, the quiet rhythm of the task accompanied by a low, absent-minded hum. Ten minutes later, the final layer gave way, revealing the cold stone floor beneath. A small grin crossed his face as he began the next phase.

The stone parted under his magic, the device sliding neatly into place before activating, after which the surface reformed as though untouched. Then came the carving. Time passed unnoticed as he worked, and when he finally stopped, a quiet breath of relief escaped him as the notifications appeared.

[Place the seven SUNBURST devices in the correct positions: 2/7] [Engrave the necessary runic circles at the correct positions: 2/7] After a final check to ensure everything was in order, he extended his mana sense once more to orient himself toward the edge of the crate pile and began carving a path outward.

Behind him, he used earth magic to replace the missing wooden sections, raising supportive stone structures while refilling the emptied space with the materials he had taken, restoring the stack to a state that would not invite suspicion at a cursory glance. Sam extended his mana sense to make sure no one was nearby as he emerged from within the crate pile, quietly pulling himself out before closing the lid with care and adjusting it just enough to ensure it looked undisturbed.

Straightening after who knew how long spent hunched over, he let out a slow, satisfied breath as his back cracked, the game system faithfully reproducing the deep, almost indulgent relief of joints popping into place, and for a brief moment, he simply stood there, enjoying it. Then he summoned his ladder, shifted his expression back into mild irritation, and started toward the door. As he walked, another worker rounded a corner and spotted him. The man did not react with alarm, only mild curiosity.

"Eh, we had some maintenance ordered?" he asked in a rough voice. Sam didn't slow, answering with a low grunt.

"No. Sent me to the wrong address. Again…" The worker rolled his eyes, clearly unsurprised.

"With all the fuss the army's making, they can't even find their own asses…" Sam grunted in agreement and kept moving. The man sighed and gave him a casual wave.

"Good luck, brother."

"You too," Sam replied in a gravelly voice as he pushed the door open and stepped outside. No one inside had any idea what he had just done. Outside, he paused for a moment, watching the steady stream of people moving through the streets, before slumping his shoulders with deliberate exaggeration and pulling a crumpled piece of paper and a worn pencil stub from his pocket.

He pressed the paper against the warehouse wall, smoothed it out, and drew a line through one of the entries, then lingered as if double-checking the next line. After a moment, he stuffed it back into his pocket, adjusted the ladder on his shoulder, and set off toward his next target.