Extra To Protagonist-Chapter 85: Exploration (2)

They didn’t walk in any real direction. Nathan kept pointing things out like a bored local pretending to be a guide.

"That place has the worst flatbread on the continent," he said, nodding toward a faded orange awning. "I’m serious. They serve it with jam. Jam."

"I like jam," said Elara.

"On bread, sure. On tile grout, not so much."

They passed under a vine-wrapped trellis where birds chirped from inside small bamboo cages. A merchant leaned against the post, sharpening a nail with his teeth. He didn’t look up.

Elara veered off without a word. Something at a woven goods stall had caught her eye—thin thread bracelets, dyed in metallic colors that shimmered faintly when the light tilted.

"I’ll catch up," she said.

Nathan didn’t stop. He shifted slightly to the left when they crossed a bridge, avoiding the creak in the boards. His hands stayed in his pockets, but his head kept turning.

Merlin stayed beside him, one pace behind.

They passed a fishmonger’s stall, then an open-front sweets shop with tiny jars stacked in pyramids.

Two kids stood near the edge of the counter arguing over price. The shorter one waved two Lunars like they were worth more if he shook them fast enough.

Nathan glanced back. "I always forget how loud this street gets. Doesn’t matter the time."

"Some parts of the city don’t sleep," Merlin said.

Nathan made a noise that might’ve been agreement, then cut right toward a stall pressed close to an alley mouth.

It was narrow, but the shelves rose high, packed with tiny brass pieces and wire models that clicked when touched.

"I’ll be here," he said, already crouching beside a clockwork sculpture that was trying to fold itself into a dragon.

Merlin gave a small nod and kept walking.

The road curved gently. Ahead, fabric stalls had spilled over their chalk boundaries. Bolts of cloth leaned at odd angles. Someone yelled about silk purity and got ignored.

Merlin stopped at a table just past the corner.

No sign. No canopy. Just a cracked table and a low stool behind it, half-covered in parchment and buckled books.

The vendor didn’t speak. Didn’t even look up. He sat barefoot, hands working a thin roll of string between thumb and finger like it was more interesting than coin.

Merlin picked up one of the smaller books. No title. The leather cover was rough, like it had seen more weather than shelves. He opened it carefully.

Some kind of notes. Or something close. The handwriting drifted between proper mana usage form and short, broken margin scribbles.

He flipped a page.

Some diagrams. One of them reminded him of a core flow chart Reinhardt had shown once, but it was distorted. Like someone had copied it from memory and drawn through a haze.

"How much," Merlin said.

The man didn’t look up.

"How much for the book?"

Merlin tried again.

The vendor finally lifted his eyes, blinked slowly, and shrugged. He held up three fingers.

’Three Lunars huh?’

Merlin reached into his coat, pulled the coins out without checking their shine, and placed them on the corner of the table. They made a quiet chime as they touched.

The man pushed the book closer.

Merlin took it, wrapped it loosely in the inside fold of his jacket, and turned to leave.

A girl ran past, tripping over her own boots and catching herself on a rope line that held up a row of banners. Someone shouted at her. She didn’t stop.

Merlin glanced back once. Nathan was still crouched by the mechanical stall, one hand poking at a set of wings that refused to open.

Elara was nowhere in sight.

He leaned against the edge of a low wall, book still tucked away, and let the sounds roll over him.

Markets. Metal. Voices bargaining over fruit and thread. A toddler somewhere screaming about plum slices. Another voice called out that the price had changed since noon.

Merlin didn’t move for a while.

He just listened.

—

Elara rubbed a thumb against the inside of her wrist. Dust from the vendor’s table had left a streak. She wiped it on her coat and stepped sideways into the shade.

The street narrowed here. Two rows of hanging rugs had turned the whole path into a tunnel of color. Deep reds. Gold threading. One with stitched fish that looked alive if you didn’t focus too hard.

She reached up, touched the edge of a tassel. Soft. Thicker than it looked.

"Good eye," a voice said near her shoulder.

She didn’t turn. Just lowered her hand.

"You have taste," the man added.

She glanced sideways. Mid-forties. Polished boots. Smile already formed.

"You know what I’ve got?" he asked.

"An angle."

The man laughed, a little too fast. "I like you."

She still hadn’t looked directly at him.

"You’ve got that born-knowing-things look," he went on. "Like you already spotted which pieces are dyed and which ones got fed through a glamour charm."

"I don’t like illusions."

"You like price tags?"

"Depends."

He pulled a strip of folded cloth from his coat. Unrolled it with two fingers. The fabric shimmered once, then settled. A deep blue-black with tiny pinpricks of thread so fine it looked like a sky caught mid-moonrise.

"It’s not warded," he said. "But it feels like it should be."

Elara looked at the pattern, not the man. She reached to touch it.

He pulled it back an inch.

"Price first," he said.

She waited.

He smiled again. Too wide.

"Thirty Lunar."

Elara blinked once.

"You selling fabric or renting the building it was made in?"

"You won’t find a better weave in this district."

"I won’t find a worse liar either."

He dropped the grin, just a little. "Fine. Twenty."

"Ten."

"Sixteen."

"Ten," she said again.

He paused.

She walked.

The rug tunnel ended at a corner where street dancers had formed a loose circle. Someone tapped rhythm on overturned buckets.

A girl balanced on one foot with her arms out like wings. No applause. Just watching.

Elara moved past the crowd and back toward the street where Nathan had wandered off. She found him squinting at a rack of small stone figures.

"You buying something or judging their posture?" she asked.

Nathan startled slightly. Then squinted again. "I think this one’s flipping me off."

She looked. The tiny statue was either holding a scroll or giving a very delicate rude gesture. Hard to tell.

Merlin stood ten paces away, watching a busker retune a bent stringed instrument. The tune had no rhythm, just scraping tone against tone until something stuck.

Nathan pulled out a few coins.

The vendor narrowed his eyes.

"Five," Nathan said.

"Eight."

"They’re pocket-sized."

"They’re not cursed."

"I haven’t seen proof of that."

"Six."

Nathan hesitated, then handed over five. The vendor took them, then coughed loudly and dropped a sixth coin behind the table.

"See?" Nathan muttered. "I win."

Elara didn’t respond.

They moved back toward Merlin.

He hadn’t changed position. Just nodded slightly when they reached him.

"Find anything?" he asked.

"Almost," Elara said.

"Definitely," Nathan added. He held up the statue. "This guy has something to say to you."

Merlin looked once. Didn’t react.

They walked on.

The next street smelled like fried batter and spice. Someone nearby was slicing root vegetables so fast the blade barely flashed.

Nathan’s stomach growled loud enough for a kid to look up.

Elara raised one brow.

"Don’t start," he said. "I skipped breakfast and the food earlier wasn’t too much."

"Your fault for skipping breakfast,"

"Someone took all the jam."

She didn’t look guilty.

They followed the scent to a stall with a low canopy and a rotating spit that wasn’t cooking anything. Just spinning because it could. A sign said PASTRY POCKETS in crude chalk.

Nathan stopped. "Yes."

He pointed at the menu.

"One of those. And one of those. And whatever that is."

The vendor didn’t blink. Just took his coin and handed him three wax-wrapped triangles that steamed faintly.

Elara picked one from his hand before he could argue. She bit into it. Raised her brows.

He blinked.

She took another bite.

Merlin watched a young couple argue over the last green apple at the fruit stall across the path. The girl won. The boy pretended he didn’t care.

He looked back to the others.

Nathan was holding his last pastry like it might vanish if he looked away.

Elara had already finished hers.

The market stretched further east. More vendors. More shouting. A slow rhythm to the chaos now.

They started walking again.

—

The giant mall’s front doors stood three stories tall. Frosted glass panels etched with thin lines of moving silver. Not glowing. Just shifting. Like a current underneath still water.

Elara walked through first. The air changed instantly. Cooler. Drier. Too clean.

A set of overhead vents pulsed once, then settled. The scent was faintly synthetic. Something floral with a metallic edge.

Nathan whistled low.

"Looks expensive," he said.

"It is," Elara muttered.

The first level spread out in a wide hexagon. Marble tile with thin black lines between the slabs. Not real marble. Printed pattern. Slightly off if you looked at it too long.

Rows of storefronts curved around the walls. Seamless windows. No door handles. Just faint runes near the bottom edges.

Clothing. Jewelry. Arcane equipment. Two cafés with no seating. One juice bar trying too hard.

Merlin’s eyes scanned the corners first. Then the ceiling. Then the floor tiles near the central fountain. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"Crowd’s thinner than I thought," he said.

"Weekday," Elara replied.

"Also," Nathan added, "we are literally in the overpriced part of town. Even the pickpockets dress better."

He stepped ahead, then pivoted toward the nearest shop window.

Inside robes on floating mannequins. Sleeves hanging like they’d been caught mid-spin. One shimmered faintly when he leaned in.

The price tag blinked…