Leaving aside Arya—who had just obtained a new batch of soup pots from Roy—Roy himself was in an unusually miserable state of mind.
A single announcement from the world will had sent shockwaves through the market. Projects that had once promised stable, long-term profits were suddenly forced into emergency restructuring. Since the declaration that material treasure chests would no longer refresh, Roy had been working nonstop, barely catching a moment's rest as he scrambled to stabilize his business network and minimize losses.
Yet, business troubles were not what weighed most heavily on his mind.
What truly troubled Roy was the debt he owed Arya.
Although Arya always made straightforward requests—never asking for favors outright, only for specific items—and although Roy had always cooperated eagerly, he knew deep down that what he had given her was insignificant compared to what she had done for him.
The difference was like comparing a handful of sand to a mountain.
Each time he reflected on this imbalance, his conscience stirred uneasily, as though countless ants were gnawing at his heart. The feeling followed him day and night, refusing to fade. Roy hated unresolved debts, especially debts of gratitude. He firmly believed that owing someone like Arya for too long was dangerous—not because she would demand repayment, but because the weight of it would never allow him peace.
He wanted to settle it. The sooner, the better.
About five minutes after ending his conversation with Arya, Roy received a message from one of his subordinates, Eile Ell.
Eile Ell: "I contacted an old acquaintance. He says Sherlock Claude has a large supply of mental-type materials."
Roy's brows immediately drew together.
How could he not know who Sherlock Claude was?
Leaving aside the controversial slave contracts the man openly conducted, the infamous Roland Island Incident alone was enough to cement Sherlock's name in global history. Back on Blue Star, it had been known as the "Imprisonment Incident"—the most brutal, large-scale, and long-lasting case of human incarceration ever recorded.
Over a thousand young women had been imprisoned for more than a decade.
More than three hundred had died.
Over five hundred had been trafficked and sold.
Compared to Sherlock Claude, Roy—who was little more than a high-profile economic criminal—was practically harmless. That man was a true villain, the kind who deserved death, the kind whose very existence disgusted society.
And now, in order to repay Arya's debt, Roy was being pushed into dealing with someone like him.
The thought alone made his head ache.
It wasn't fear. Roy had long since abandoned fear.
It was revulsion.
Even Roy, a man who placed profit above nearly everything else, found the idea of associating with Sherlock Claude repulsive. Vermin was the only word that came to mind.
Still…
Roy exhaled slowly.
Dirty or not, it's better than carrying this debt forever.
Arya had never said anything outright, but Roy was perceptive. When she suddenly requested large quantities of mental-type materials and then, almost immediately afterward, produced a Talent Potion, it didn't take a genius to see the connection.
He refused to believe it was coincidence.
So, after a brief hesitation, Roy typed Sherlock Claude's name into his communication interface and sent a message.
Roy: "I heard you have mental-type materials. I want to buy them."
No pleasantries. No unnecessary words.
Roy had nothing to discuss with a man like Sherlock beyond business.
The reply came almost immediately.
Sherlock: "Roy, the great merchant of the Abandoned Forest. You deal with countless organizations and even collaborate with the Witch of the Tower on potion trade. I imagine you've made quite the fortune."
Roy stared at the message.
Surprisingly, the tension in his brow eased slightly.
Why?
Because the speed and precision with which Sherlock had investigated him spoke volumes.
In such a short time—especially after regional mergers—Sherlock had already uncovered Roy's background, his trade routes, and even his connection to Arya.
Logically, this should have infuriated him.
And, in truth, Roy was displeased.
But there was another way to look at it.
Being investigated meant being acknowledged.
Whether that attention was born of interest or hostility didn't matter—what mattered was that Roy had established himself as someone worth watching.
Especially considering that Sherlock had mentioned the Witch of the Tower.
Arya's official title was "Witch of the High Tower," but most people simply called her the Witch of the Tower. The name had already become synonymous with power and mystery.
Roy knew exactly who Sherlock was referring to.
With that realization, Roy's posture straightened, and his tone sharpened.
Roy: "Are you selling or not?"
No hesitation. No patience.
Sherlock's reply came with an almost playful undertone.
Sherlock: "I'll sell. I can even offer you a discount. In return, I want you to help me contact the Witch of the Tower."
Roy's eyes narrowed.
It wasn't surprising.
Arya rarely added anyone to her contact list. In fact, she deleted contacts with alarming frequency. Even though Sherlock knew his region had merged with hers, he had no way of reaching her directly.
As for Arya herself, she had everything she needed.
A merchant to handle sales.
A chef who could deliver food at any time.
And Natasha—formerly Li Huai—as her enforcer.
She had no reason to accept anyone else into her circle.
Naturally, she wouldn't add Sherlock Claude.
Roy considered the proposal briefly.
Roy: "I can try. But whether it succeeds isn't up to me. The materials will be traded through the shop."
Sherlock responded with a smile, invisible but almost tangible through the text.
Sherlock: "That's fine. I just need a screenshot of the chat."
Roy understood immediately. Sherlock didn't trust him not to take the discount and vanish.
Roy: "Understood."
Without delay, Roy contacted Arya.
At the time, Arya had just finished bathing and was preparing to rest when her Magic Desk chimed with a message request.
Roy: "Someone named Sherlock Claude claims to have a large quantity of mental-type monster materials."
Arya froze.
Mental-type materials?
She had never explicitly asked for them.
Due to system restrictions, the Talent Potion couldn't be mass-produced or marketed as a primary product. However, materials were materials—there was no reason to reject them outright.
Still, the name made her uncomfortable.
A slave owner who controlled nearly one-fifth of a region's population was not someone anyone would want to associate with.
Arya: "What's the condition?"
Roy: "He's offering a discount, but he wants to contact you."
Arya's reply was immediate.
Arya: "Forget it. Check which region he came from. If he has that many mental-type materials, others there must have them too. I can acquire them elsewhere."
Roy smiled faintly.
Roy: "That's what I thought."
In truth, Roy hadn't even considered that angle. For him, the materials themselves were secondary. What mattered was that Arya was aware of his effort.
That alone eased the weight on his conscience.
He felt lighter.
Turning back, Roy rejected Sherlock's proposal—bluntly, without ceremony.
He didn't even bother sending the screenshot Sherlock had requested.
Roy: "The Witch has no intention of contacting you."
Sherlock: "Hm?"
Roy: "Exactly what it sounds like. She's busy and uninterested. If you have potion-related needs in the future, place an order through me."
There was a brief pause.
Then—
Sherlock: "Alright."
Despite receiving no proof, Sherlock chose to believe Roy's words. Not only that, he went through with the trade anyway.
Sherlock: "Since the Witch is busy, please deliver these mental-type materials to her on my behalf. Just tell her that old Sherlock wishes to be her friend."
Roy didn't hesitate.
Roy: "No problem."
And just like that, their brief and thoroughly unpleasant transaction came to an end.
Whether Sherlock Claude's "friendship" would ever reach Arya—or whether it would become a future storm—remained to be seen.
For now, Roy had settled part of his debt.
And for the first time in days, he slept soundly.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Jackssparrow