Chương 65: Outer Market

Jack woke up to something he hadn't experienced in a very long time: absolute, uncompromising comfort. He lay still for a moment, looking up at the ceiling of his room in the high-end stone inn. Jack sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He looked at the window. It was made of thick, clear glass. He stood up, grabbed his wooden cane, and walked over to look outside. From his second-story room, he had a clear view of the bustling street below. It was early morning, but the city was already alive.

Wagons were rolling past, merchants were shouting, and hundreds of people were moving with frantic, organized purpose. It was a stark contrast to the silent, deadly isolation of his valley. Jack washed his face in a basin of warm water, dressed in his cleanest coat, and made his way down the wide wooden staircase to the main floor of the inn. The dining room was large and lavishly decorated. Wealthy merchants in fine silks sat at round tables, eating fresh bread and roasted meats.

Sitting at a corner table, looking entirely out of place in his pristine white and gold robes, was Silas Thorne. Karen was sitting rigidly in a chair next to the Inquisitor. She was staring down at her plate of food, looking incredibly nervous. She was a maid from an impoverished northern fief, and being surrounded by so much casual wealth—and sitting next to a Gold Core priest—was clearly terrifying her.

"Good morning, Lord Jack," Silas said smoothly as Jack approached the table. The Inquisitor gestured to an empty chair.

"I took the liberty of ordering a breakfast spread. Please, eat. The innkeeper has already been paid for our entire stay."

"Thank you, Silas," Jack replied, taking his seat. He looked at the spread of fresh fruit, warm bread, and heavily spiced sausages. He picked up a piece of bread and took a bite. It was soft and rich.

"Did you sleep well?" Silas asked, taking a casual sip from a porcelain teacup.

"The bed was excellent," Jack admitted.

"I assume renting a place like this costs a small fortune."

"It costs three Imperial Gold coins a night," Silas said, unbothered by the price. To a normal peasant, three gold coins was a life's savings. To the Inquisitor, it was pocket change.

"But comfort is necessary after a long journey on the road. We will finish our food, and then we will step out. There is much to see today." Jack nodded and focused on his meal. He noticed Karen had barely touched her food.

"Eat, Karen," Jack said gently, keeping his voice calm.

"We have a lot of walking to do today. You will need your strength." Karen flinched slightly, then quickly nodded. She picked up a small piece of bread and began to eat in small, nervous bites. Half an hour later, the three of them stepped out of the doors of the inn and onto the busy street. The moment they crossed the threshold, the sheer scale and volume of the Western Market City hit them like a physical wave. The street was incredibly wide, paved with smooth cobblestones.

Multi-story buildings made of sturdy wood and carved stone lined both sides of the road. But it was the people that made the biggest impact. There were thousands of them just in this single district. Hawkers stood on wooden crates, shouting at the top of their lungs to advertise their wares. Heavily armored mercenaries walked in tight groups, laughing loudly.

The air was thick with a chaotic mixture of smells—roasted meats on open skewers, exotic sweet spices from distant southern lands, and the heavy scent of draft horses pulling large cargo wagons. Jack took a slow breath, letting his mind adjust to the sensory overload. He heard a quiet, sharp gasp next to him. Jack turned his head. Karen was standing completely frozen on the steps of the inn. Karen had lived in the north and had barely ventured out. Even those few times were with Jack and his father as kids.

And when she stepped into the street bustling with the massive crowd, she was overwhelmed with shock to see this many people at a single time. Silas, who had walked a few steps ahead, turned around and looked at the two of them. He observed Karen's reaction with a brief, analytical glance before nodding in understanding. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"Culture shock is common for northerners," Silas noted smoothly, his tone pragmatic.

"The Western Market City is the economic heart of this side of the continent. Over fifty thousand people live within these walls. But do not worry. Just stay close, and the crowd will part." Silas turned and began walking down the center of the street. He was right. As the Gold Core Inquisitor walked forward, his pristine white and gold robes fluttered in the morning breeze.

The merchants, mercenaries, and commoners on the street took one look at the emblem of the Holy Church and immediately scrambled out of the way, creating a wide, clear path for the three of them to walk through. No one dared to bump into an Inquisitor. Jack leaned on his cane and followed Silas, keeping his pace steady so Karen could walk safely behind him.

"We are currently in the Common District," Silas explained over his shoulder, acting as their guide.

"Or as the locals call it, the Outer Market. It makes up the vast majority of the city's footprint." Jack looked at the stalls and open-air shops lining the cobblestone street.

"What do they sell here?" Jack asked, his mind automatically shifting into economic mode.

"Everything mundane," Silas replied, gesturing to a row of colorful tents.

"Silks from the east, iron tools, basic spices, and standard weapons. The goods here are of very high quality, but they are entirely non-magical. It is an economy built for ordinary mortals and lower-tier adventurers." Jack slowed his pace slightly, observing the goods with a critical eye. He looked at a blacksmith's stall. The merchant was loudly displaying a row of iron broadswords and plow blades. Jack looked at the metal. It was decent, but it had a dull, slightly uneven finish.

"Barnaby is better," Jack thought to himself.

"Our tools are stronger than this." He turned his gaze to a luxury clothing merchant. The stall was draped in thick animal furs. Jack inspected a large bear pelt hanging from a wooden frame. It was thick, but the leather underneath was slightly stiff, and the fur lacked a healthy sheen. Finally, Jack looked at a fuel merchant selling large sacks of coal. The coal was clearly of much lower quality if compared to the coal from the deep veins of the Frost-Grip fief.

Even though it was early summer and the requirement for coal in people's hearths had dwindled, coal still has many different uses. A quiet sense of profound satisfaction settled over Jack. When he had first arrived in this world, his fief had been a starving, freezing graveyard. But looking at the bustling center of continental trade, Jack realized exactly how far they had come.

If he opened a trade stall on this very street right now, selling his village's goods, he would heavily disrupt the Outer Market in a matter of days.

"Keep moving, Lord Jack," Silas called out, noticing Jack analyzing a merchant's stall. Silas stopped at the edge of a wide, open plaza and turned around. He pointed toward the center of the city. Rising above the wooden rooftops of the Common District was a massive, towering wall made of polished white stone.

"The items out here are useful, but they are not what we came for," Silas explained calmly.

"The true power of this city—the magical artifacts, the spirit stones, and the high-tier materials—are kept securely past those white walls. We are heading for the inner rings." Jack stopped leaning on his cane. He stood up straight and looked at the distant white walls, then glanced around the cobblestone street they were currently standing on. The inherited memories of the original John Frost-Grip surfaced smoothly in his mind, overlaying the present reality.

"I know, Silas," Jack said, his voice level and conversational. Silas glanced back at him.

"I was under the impression you rarely left your father's estate."

"I was a very small boy the last time I was here," Jack replied, looking at a specific bakery on the corner of the plaza.

"My father brought me here for the summer fair, back when our family still had a sliver of wealth to its name." Jack tapped his cane against the cobblestones.

"He told me that one day, when I awakened my core, he would take me past those white walls to buy me a real magical artifact," Jack said quietly.

"He never got the chance. The fever took him before my core ever formed." Silas didn't flinch, but his casual, forward-moving demeanor faded into something much more serious. Silas was a man of the Church who had let a political dispute cloud his professional duties. Standing here, looking at the young lord calmly recounting a broken history, Silas was reminded of the exact argument he had engaged in within the Frost-Grip hall two years ago. An argument that had deeply stressed an already ailing man.

Silas turned to fully face Jack. He did not offer a pathetic display of tears, but his golden eyes met Jack's with a heavy, dignified acknowledgment.

"I am aware of how he died, Jack," Silas said smoothly, his voice dropping to a professional, serious tone.

"And I am well aware that my personal pride, and my subsequent absence that following winter, did not help your house." Jack looked at the Inquisitor, silently evaluating the man's candor.

"I am a servant of the Church, but I am still a man. My pride has occasionally blinded me to my duties," Silas offered, a rare moment of genuine, mature transparency from the Gold Core mage.

"I cannot rewrite the past, nor can I undo the winters you suffered. But I will ensure you cross those white walls today, and I will ensure you get the artifacts you were promised." Jack studied Silas for a moment. It wasn't an emotional plea for forgiveness, but it was a solid acknowledgment of fault from a man who usually acted like an untouchable god. It was exactly the kind of transactional respect Jack could work with. Jack gave a simple, solemn nod.

"The past is written, Silas," Jack said evenly.

"We can only walk forward."

"Indeed," Silas agreed, his posture relaxing slightly as he turned back toward the towering white walls.

"Then let us walk." The three of them continued down the wide cobblestone street. The hawkers continued to shout, and the wagons continued to clatter past them. But the atmosphere between the two men had shifted into something much more grounded. It was a quiet mutual understanding, built not on emotional apologies, but on a pragmatic acknowledgment of history as they made their way toward the magical heart of the city.