“The bastards did it,” the food merchant renting our stall said. “I didn’t think they’d pull it off, but the gnomes have too much pull in the guilds.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, unsure whether or not I wanted the answer.

Hruk appeared crestfallen. He fished a roll of parchment out of his coat’s pocket. Two halves of the Seeker’s crest sat on the top and bottom of edges of it. “They’ve downgraded our stall,” he said. “We can only sell food now.”

Beware merchant.

Your stall only has a tier one license.

As per new Merchants’ Guild regulations, tier one licenses may only trade in food stuffs—processed and raw. Accepting coin for any other product will result in breaking guild and, henceforth, city law.

The Merchants’ Guild and city guard will arrest you, confiscate your products, and all funds earned through their sale. Such acts will also result in a hefty fine.

To upgrade your stall’s license, please report to the Merchants’ Guild with a sample of goods you intend to sell. All guilds also have the authority to upgrade a license if the goods are relevant to their trade or craft. If the Merchants’ Guild detects any perversion or misuse of the privilege both parties—the guild and the merchant—will suffer fines.

The letter carried on to further restrict merchants and traders not directly working for a guild. It carried on expressing concerns of unapproved, unregulated, and dangerous materials or products circulating around the city or passing through it. The Merchants’ Guild tried to project concern for the civilians’ safety and reputation, but I wondered whether anyone fell for it.

“It’s not just us,” Hruk said. “I asked around. All merchants clashing with the Seekers got the letter. They blame us. Our spectacle and massive sales pissed the gnomes off.”

I read through the letter again, my jaw clenched. I ripped it to shreds, looking Hruk in the eye. “Screw this,” I told him. “They want us to sell only foodstuffs? That’s precisely what we’ll do.”

“I’m not a cook, Perry. After the years I poured into artificing, running a food stall would be demeaning—”

“There are no lesser professions, Hruk. I didn’t take you for the type.”

“Don’t twist my words!” he exclaimed. “We’ll incur further losses investing in ingredients equipment.”

“What happened the last time you trusted me?” I asked. “We won’t suffer a loss. Trust me. I’ve got a plan.”

I detailed my plans, by Hruk didn’t appear convinced. I implored him to assemble our merchandise and etch the needed runes and magical circuits while I solved our dilemma. He glanced between Tom and me before following my request.

Whether Hruk played along with my plan, I wanted to try my hand at running a food stall. Arena Disk had given me the power and experience to excel at marketing and I was confident in my ability to produce something delectable enough to sell. The guilds likely had their eyes on us, and I needed to proceed carefully.

First, I headed to the dwarven Bank. Even though I planned on making basic dishes, considering the city’s economic state, ingredients wouldn’t come cheap. Tom had given me leads on where to go for the best price and quality, but worried his information was now outdated because of the Seekers’ actions.

The building’s solid stone masonry set it apart from its wooden and brick-constructed neighbours; It looked as if someone had carved it from a single rock. Given the topography of Eldar’s Plains, I guessed magic had something to do with it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dwarves had used Shaping to erect the structure.

According to Hruk, the dwarves were Arena Disk’s best miners, blacksmiths, and jewellers. Their stocks of precious metals and stones made them the wealthiest people on the disks. Many despised the dwarves since they didn’t allow any other race to join the banking guild and maintained neutrality in most conflicts.

Apparently, they had a complicated relationship with halflings and, especially, hill folk. They considered us lazy because of our love of the simple life, but respected our breweries and sausage-making talents. I entered the building expecting short and stocky dwarves, and that’s precisely what I got.

“How can we help you?” asked the male behind the counter. He stood a head taller than me, was twice as wide, and had a long, grey beard tucked into his belt.

“My accomplice, Hruk Crimsonfist made a deposit in my name,” I said, handing him the stamped document Hruk had provided. The guilds required two or more names to create unique identifiers for their members and clients. Since Hruk wanted to distance himself from the prejudices that accompanied goblinkind, he had picked a new moniker. “I was hoping to open an account and make a small withdrawal.”

He checked the paperwork. “It would have been ideal if Mister Crimsonfist accompanied you for this,” he replied. “It’s a good thing we had him fill out a few security questions.”

I heard a hint of a German accent in his speech. It got me wondering why Arena Disk had accents at all? Was it the System’s doing? I suspected the system translated all languages so I, as an outworlder, understood everyone. Goblins sounded Scottish, and most of Eldar’s Port sounded like they had come from York. The gnomes sounded like snobby private school or Oxbridge students, and full-blooded elves weren’t too different.

I imagined the System behaved like the earworms from Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, translating all legible conversation I heard into a language I’d understand.

“What’s your full name?”

“Peregrin Kanooks,” I answered.

“The name and race of your mount?”

My brows furrowed. Had Hruk told them the truth? “Doctor Whoo the shrike.” The dwarf double-checked my answer with a raised eyebrow. He did a slow, impressed nod before moving on.

“Last question, what goblin maiden…” The dwarf glanced at me quizzically. “What’s the name of the goblin princess you bedded?”

“Lefa,” I sighed.

“That is not the complete answer, Mister Kanooks,”

“Lefa, daughter of Grog?”

“Incorrect,”—He shook his head—“you have one last try before I ask you to return with Mister Crimsonfist at a later date.”

“Lefa Kanooks?”

The dwarven clerk shot me a toothy grin and signed the document. He waved me around to the back of the guildhall. We entered a backroom filled with cubicles of dwarves rhythmically stamping documents and moving paperwork from one pile to another. A pair sat in the back, weighing luminescent gems, and a solitary, white-haired male sat in the middle of the room next to a glowing crystal sphere bigger than my head.

They had me press my hand to it, and I felt a jolt of energy flow into my body. I held on until every hair on my head stood on its end. When we finished ten minutes later, they handed me a black metal rectangle.

“This works as your identifier with the guild and keeps a record of your assets,” the younger male said, leading me back towards the main counter. “You may use it at any dwarf-operated bank office around the disk to make deposits or withdrawals. If you ever lose it, be sure to report it missing as soon as possible; we will cancel the card and issue you a new one.”

The bank felt far too advanced for a world that felt very much like a magical Wild West. I couldn’t help but wonder whether a champion from Earth or an advanced alien civilization had come up with the idea for the card. Either way, I left satisfied with the service.

Walking through the streets, I took my time to analyse the stalls selling hot food. Porridge with morsels of meat and vegetables looked like the most popular option for the masses. Stalls selling meat skewers or sweet dishes served the more well-dressed clientele. The economic divide was apparent. Inspiration struck when I spotted a fellow half-sized individual—perhaps a halfling—selling grilled sausages in a bread roll. The temptation to introduce myself struck me since I wanted to learn more about the race, but the crowd around his stall discouraged me. He had gnomes in bright yellow robes and a dirty shirtless man standing side by side, trying to get their orders in.

Afterwards, I visited a hill-folk-run bakery. Because of the vast farmlands around the city, grains were easy to buy, meaning bread was still reasonably cheap. I bought a sack of day-old black loaves almost for free and put in an order for fifty potato rolls for the morning.

Next, I visited one of the smaller green-grocer stalls that saw little business. I got a good deal on onions, tomatoes, garlic, and an assortment of citrus fruits. Finally, I went around to the butchers. As expected, the meat turned out to be the most expensive of all my ingredients. It didn’t matter. I waited around until just before closing time and then pressed them to make mince out of all the offcuts the butcher would otherwise take home. For extra flavour, I had them add some liver to the mix, and we agreed on a fair price.

I ended up fetching Booger from the inn to haul everything back. Riding and Beast Taming Masteries made handing him easy. The stable hands despised the brorc, but he followed my commands without issue. I occasionally bribed him with apples to keep everything moving along.

I noticed several street urchins eyeing us while we walked. None of them tried to rob me. At first, I assumed Booger’s smoking nostrils and giant eyes had something to do with keeping them away. When a couple of them smiled and nodded in my direction, I guessed word of me helping their friends escape prosecution had spread. The little buggers weren’t planning on stealing from me—or so I hoped. Instead, it felt as if they were looking out for me.

My final expense of the day was back at the inn. It took some convincing, but since we were the only patrons in the building, the innkeeper and cook caved. They gave me access to their kitchen, and I finally got to work.