Chapter 3: First Transaction
Morning came grey and damp, spring rain pattering against the stable's wooden roof. I was awake before Gregor, watching the medallion from across the room. The Scanner's gold glow had faded overnight—the ability seemed to require active focus—but I knew exactly what it was worth now.
"Play this smart. Don't oversell. Don't scare him off."
Gregor stirred around dawn, groaning as old joints protested the cold. I helped with the morning routine without being asked: mucking stalls, hauling water, brushing down a mare who'd gotten into something sticky overnight. Manual labor, but honest work. Building trust before making my pitch.
"You're not useless," Gregor admitted over a breakfast of hard cheese and dried apple. "Thought you'd be gone by now. Most wanderers don't stick around for the shit work."
"I'm not most wanderers."
He grunted. Fair enough.
I waited until we'd finished eating, then gestured toward his shelf of trinkets. "That medallion. The tarnished one. Family piece?"
Gregor's eyes narrowed slightly. Not suspicious exactly—more curious about where this was heading. "Grandfather's. Or his grandfather's. Nobody remembers anymore. Why?"
"Careful now."
"I think it might be worth something. More than you'd expect."
"It's an old necklace. Worth maybe two crowns for the metal."
"What if I told you it's a luck charm? Enchanted. Probably made by a hedge mage three or four generations back."
Gregor set down his cheese. The suspicion was there now, plain on his weathered face. "And how would a fifteen-year-old stable rat know that?"
"Truth adjacent. Always truth adjacent."
"I have a knack for spotting value. Don't ask me how—I don't fully understand it myself. But I've been right before."
The lie slid out smooth. Gregor had no way to verify my history. All he could see was a boy making a claim about his worthless heirloom.
"Suppose you're right," he said slowly. "What's it to you?"
"I want to broker the sale. I know a merchant in the district—specializes in minor magical items. If the medallion's worth what I think, I take a finder's fee. If I'm wrong, you've lost nothing but an hour of your morning."
Gregor considered this. His face was unreadable, decades of horse trading having taught him to hide his thoughts. I waited, forcing myself not to fidget.
"How much of a fee?"
"Ten percent. Whatever we get, I take one part in ten."
"And if your merchant laughs us out of his shop?"
"Then I've wasted your time and you never have to listen to me again."
The silence stretched. Rain drummed overhead. One of the horses whickered softly, impatient for attention.
"Alright," Gregor said finally. "Show me this merchant."
Aldous's Perspective
The boy walked into my shop like he owned it.
Not arrogant—I'd have thrown him out for arrogance. Confident. Direct. He introduced himself as Finn, introduced his companion as the item's owner, and placed a tarnished medallion on my counter without preamble.
"Luck charm," he said. "Damaged enchantment, but functional. I'd estimate market value around forty-five crowns, give or take."
I picked up the medallion. Weighed it in my palm. Held it to the light from my shop's narrow window.
The boy wasn't wrong.
I'd dealt in minor magical artifacts for thirty years. Most of what came through my door was garbage—fake charms, broken talismans, the occasional genuine item so damaged it wasn't worth the space it occupied. But this? The enchantment was crude but intact. Some village mage a century ago, binding luck into silver with more instinct than technique.
"Forty crowns," I said, setting the medallion down.
The old man—Gregor, the boy called him—shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to accept. I could read it in his posture, the slight lean forward, the hands that almost reached for the coin I hadn't yet produced.
But the boy shook his head.
"Forty-seven."
"Forty-five."
"Forty-seven. The enchantment's stable. You could sell this in Novigrad for sixty, easy. Seventy if you find the right buyer."
He wasn't bluffing. The numbers matched my own assessment almost exactly.
"Where did this child learn to appraise magical items?"
I studied him more carefully. Young, yes. Hungry—clearly. But those grey eyes held something older than fifteen years. Intelligence. Calculation. The kind of mind that saw three moves ahead in a game I didn't know we were playing.
"Forty-seven," I agreed. "Crowns, not ducats."
The old man's expression cracked into something like wonder. He'd walked in expecting nothing and was walking out with more money than he'd seen in years.
The boy accepted a smaller share than I'd expected—ten percent, Gregor insisted on giving him, though I suspected the lad could have negotiated higher. Five crowns changed hands. Then the boy asked for food.
I sent my assistant to fetch bread, cheese, and sliced meat from the tavern across the street. The boy ate with a deliberation that spoke of genuine hunger carefully controlled. Not gorging. Not savoring. Just efficient fuel intake from someone who'd been running on empty too long.
"You have an interesting eye," I said, watching him eat. "For a boy with no credentials."
He swallowed before answering. Polite. Another unexpected quality.
"I see what things are worth. It's a gift. Would you be interested in more appraisals? I'd work for commission only. You lose nothing if I'm wrong."
The offer was too good. Which meant there was a catch I couldn't see.
But opportunity rarely knocked twice. And this boy—whatever secrets he carried—had just proven his value with cold, hard accuracy.
"Come back tomorrow," I said. "We'll discuss terms."
Finn's Perspective
I left Aldous's shop with bread in my stomach, a small knife on my hip (purchased for three crowns, much better quality than the one I'd traded away), and a standing invitation for future work.
[TRANSACTION COMPLETE]
[+120 GP AWARDED]
[Bonus: First successful brokerage]
[TOTAL GP: 121]
The numbers pulsed gold in my vision. Guild Points—still largely useless without a headquarters to establish, but proof that the system was tracking my progress. Every small victory counted.
"Reputation. That's the game now. Build it brick by brick."
Three days in this world. One successful deal. It wasn't much. But it was a foundation.
I rented a room that afternoon—a cramped space above a tavern called the Drunken Scholar, popular with students and faculty from the academy. Seven crowns a month, paid in advance. That left me with three crowns in pocket, which felt simultaneously like nothing and everything.
[LOCAL REPUTATION UPDATED]
"Recognized by Merchant Class (Oxenfurt)" - 8%
[QUEST AVAILABLE]
"Establish Foothold" - Reach 50% recognition in one settlement
Reward: 500 GP, Phase 1 ability unlock
I dismissed the notification with a thought. The system wanted me to build reputation? Fine. I'd build reputation. But on my terms, at my pace.
Word spread faster than I'd expected. Aldous, it turned out, had a habit of gossiping with his merchant colleagues. By the end of the week, three more traders had approached me for authentication work. A suspicious ring (genuine silver, fake enchantment, worth twelve crowns for materials). A "cursed" lockbox (not cursed, just rusted shut, worth nothing). A collection of old coins one merchant's deceased uncle had hoarded (two were actually rare, pushing total value to thirty crowns, which made the nephew very happy).
The Scanner was imperfect. Its range stayed stubbornly locked at ten meters. Complex items sometimes gave vague readings. And I couldn't use it constantly—focusing too hard gave me headaches that lasted hours.
But it worked. And that was enough.
[GP: 342]
[LOCAL REPUTATION: "Recognized by Merchant Class (Oxenfurt)" - 23%]
"Twenty-three percent in two weeks. Keep this pace and I hit fifty in a month. Maybe less."
I was lying in my rented bed, reviewing the day's progress, when the system offered something new.
[PASSIVE GP ACCUMULATION DETECTED]
[Source: Reputation-based ambient recognition]
[Rate: +2 GP per day (current reputation level)]
[Note: Rate increases with reputation tier]
Two points a day just for being known. A trickle now, but trickles became streams became rivers. The mathematics of compound growth were universal, regardless of what universe you found yourself in.
I smiled at the ceiling. Not a big smile—the world was still dangerous, still full of monsters and wars and forces that could crush me without noticing. But a smile nonetheless.
"Step one complete. I'm not dead, I'm not starving, and I have a plan."
Tomorrow I'd expand operations. Hit the academic quarter, where professors sometimes needed help valuing estate donations. Maybe approach the city guard about items confiscated from arrested merchants. Opportunities everywhere, for someone who could see them.
The rain had stopped. Through my narrow window, I could see stars emerging between breaking clouds. Different constellations than the ones I'd grown up watching. Same distant light.
[SYSTEM DAILY SUMMARY]
Day 14 since transmigration
GP: 342
Level: 1
Phase: 1 (Foundation)
Members: 0
Reputation: 23% (Oxenfurt Merchant Class)
Active Quests: 1 (Establish Foothold - 23/50%)
Health: Optimal
Nutrition: Stable
[Continue building. The Covenant awaits its master.]
"The Covenant of Blades," I thought, testing the name against my tongue. "Sounds pretentious. Sounds exactly like something I'd have mocked in my old life."
But my old life was over. Marcus Webb died on a rainy highway in Seattle. Finn Colen was building something new, one transaction at a time.
I closed my eyes. Slept came easy, for once. No dreams of headlights. No screaming tires.
Just possibilities, stretching out like roads I hadn't yet walked.