Prey Town's walls were pathetic compared to Starcrest's fortifications—little more than slapped-together dirt mounds barely three men high. The only defenses were jagged spears embedded along the ramparts to deter climbers.
At the gates, guards halted the four travelers.
"Four heads." Lind handed over golden scrip—Prey Town's lifeblood. No food, no amenities, just safety at a premium.
Desperate souls scoured the wasteland for tradable goods, all for a scrap of sanctuary within these walls.
Lind sized up the town's garrison: a few dozen militia, decently armed despite lacking his own regiment's elite training.
This place reeks of "starter village"—safer, softer.
Yet he knew better. No mortal force could stop the Calamity. He'd witnessed zombie-like carrion-eaters devour entire companies like locusts stripping fields.
If this world is a game… only players can be the counterbalance.
Irony gnawed at him.
Players wielded godlike power—yet remained eternal sidekicks. Free to choose allegiances, free to kill… but never chosen.
The guards waved them through.
Most couldn't afford Prey Town's extortionate fees. Only scattered holdouts and traders like Lind frequented these gates.
Familiar ground. The sun bled into the horizon as he led the way.
"To the peltmonger first."
Lind suppressed a sneer. Prey Town's mayor had played the same card—control the currency, control survival. Now gold scrip ruled a hundred miles of wasteland.
My sole advantage? I cornered the one unstoppable market—players.
"This pelt's butchered worse than a back-alley rug," Old Cheli scoffed, inspecting the wolfskin. "No noblewoman would stitch a vest from this filth."
The grizzled trader—Prey Town's sole bulk pelt-broker—worked directly for Lord Ronin. Twenty pelts meant haggling with monopoly power.
"Not like any noblewoman would stitch a reeking jackal pelt into her wardrobe," Lind thought darkly. Snow foxes or lynx fur—if those pampered ladies still lounge in their perfumed parlors…
But he held his tongue. In another's territory, even words had price tags.
"Make it fair, Cheli. We bled for these," Lind pressed.
His estimate? At least 1,000 scrip for the lot.
One gold scrip bought a fist-half of grain on good days—enough to winter-proof the larder.
Yet with Cheli's monopoly-backed ruthlessness, he'd expected 200 scrip at most.
"800." The old trader didn't even blink, as if mangy jackal pelts were suddenly haute couture.
Lind stiffened. Did a Calamity beast eat his brains?
Rumor claimed those monsters devoured souls like connoisseurs sampling rotten delicacies. Maybe Cheli's rotten cunning made him a gourmet treat.
Cheli leaned closer. "Spend it all here."
"Done." 200 scrip out there buys scraps. 800? Even quadrupled prices can't gut that.
Lind loaded up on hardy beans—winter stew dreams—and eyed seed packets.
If those buried wolf guts wake the garden…
Their haul now included a month's worth of grain—barely enough. January's killing cold would seal them indoors, and starvation made poorer soldiers than any blade.
Then the salt.
Even before the apocalypse, it cost a fortune. Now? 150 scrip for a bag barely sustaining ten men. The price gouging alone should've made him wince, but…
Cheli's not inflating prices. Why?
"Add firetongue grass." Lind tossed down 10 scrip for a crimson bundle.
The weed had sprouted everywhere post-Calamity, its fiery kick mimicking peppers. Ground into powder, it could trick starved tongues into remembering flavor.
The catch?
Processing it made tear-gas riots feel like spa days. Some wept for weeks; rumors spoke of men turning scarlet as boiled lobsters from overdose.
Not my problem.
Lind smirked. Undying don't need OSHA compliance.
The world wasn't dead—just humanity's old order. New flora thrived where wheat had failed.
And so did Lind's spending spree.
800 scrip melted to 300, yet he kept buying. With players fueling Starcrest's rise, hoarding currency was fiscal suicide.
Cheli's eyes gleamed as he produced a thumb-sized vial, its cobalt liquid swirling like stolen moonlight.
Potioncraft.
Lind's pulse hitched. Got you.