Osric was two steps from the guild doors when a voice called out behind him.
"Oi. Osric."
He stopped.
The name carried easily through the hall—not shouted, not casual either. Curious glances followed it.
Osric turned.
George stood near the mission board, broad shoulders relaxed as always, Roman beside him with his shield resting against his leg. Laurent stood a little apart, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
All three were watching him.
George's gaze flicked briefly to the bag slung over Osric's shoulder, then to the stick in his hand.
"Looks like you just came back from a rough mission. Are you okay?"
Even though they fought together before in a life or death situation, Osric wasn't the sentimental type so he didn't really care much about them. It was just a job to him plus he disliked socialising.
Osric was somewhat irritated but didn't let it show.
"Yeah hey George. Just fought my first Forest Creepers. I'm on my way to sell the corpses and buy some medicine."
George wasn't an idiot so he understood that Osric was implying that he didn't gave the energy to chitchat.
"Alright. It was good seeing you. If you ever need help with a job you can just ask me. Take care kid."
George smiled slightly, Laurent just nodded coldly and Roman also nodded but awkwardly with barely any eye contact.
"Okay thanks. Bye."
As he walked out with the help of the stick, he noticed that today there were more eyes on him.
'I guess it's true what that inn girl said. I don't like this.'
Osric wanted to become stronger as fast as possible so that this attention on him didn't turn into negative consequences.
But he knew that he couldn't rush growth or he would regret it.
—
Osric didn't go straight home.
Instead, he turned down a narrower street near the guild and stopped in front of a modest shop with a faded wooden sign. No loud advertisements. No crowds. Just a narrow doorway and a pair of shuttered windows.
This was the place Franklin had mentioned once.
A materials broker.
Osric stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately—dried leather, old blood, crushed herbs, and something faintly metallic. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars, rolled hides, bundled claws, and labeled crates. Everything was organized, but nothing was clean.
A man behind the counter looked up.
Middle-aged. Thin. Sharp eyes that flicked first to Osric's face, then to his injuries, then to the bag slung over his shoulder.
"What've you got?" the clerk asked.
Osric didn't answer. He set the bag down on the counter and loosened the tie.
The clerk leaned forward and looked inside.
His expression changed instantly.
"Forest Creepers," he said, voice flattening. "And not badly damaged either."
Osric had been careful. He'd chosen the ones killed cleanly—single thrusts, minimal tearing. No crushed venom glands. No shredded hides.
The clerk reached in and examined one corpse more closely, fingers pressing into the scales, checking the bite marks and wounds.
"Hm," he muttered. "Two of them."
He straightened and looked at Osric again—this time longer.
"Young," he said. "Injured. Solo, I assume."
Osric said nothing.
The clerk nodded to himself. "I'll give you fifty copper each. One hundred total."
Osric almost smiled.
Instead, he reached for the bag.
"No," he said calmly.
The clerk blinked. "What?"
Osric pulled the bag toward himself. "Forest Creeper hides sell well. Blood and venom too. Even low-grade venom moves fast. I'm not selling them for scraps."
The clerk frowned. "You don't know the market."
Osric met his gaze. "I know enough to leave."
He lifted the bag halfway off the counter.
The clerk clicked his tongue. "Fine. Seventy each."
Osric didn't stop moving.
"Eighty," the clerk said quickly. "That's generous."
Osric paused.
"Double that," he replied. "Or I walk."
The clerk stared at him, jaw tightening.
"You're pushing it," he said.
"And you're trying to cheat an injured kid," Osric answered evenly. "Decide."
Silence stretched.
The clerk exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. "Damn it."
He reached under the counter and counted out coin with visible irritation.
"Two silver," he said. Then added, grudgingly, "Forty copper."
He shoved it across the counter.
Osric took the money and retied the bag without another word.
As he turned to leave, he caught the clerk's annoyed expression in the corner of his eye.
That told him everything he needed to know.
He hadn't gotten full market price.
But he hadn't been robbed either.
The apothecary was worse.
Small bottles. Carefully measured doses. Prices that felt deliberately cruel.
Osric bought what he needed anyway.
Antidote.
Pain suppressant.
Venom-neutralizing salve.
Eighty copper vanished in seconds.
It felt like being stabbed.
He didn't let it show.
Preparation was cheaper than dying.
When he stepped back out onto the street, his coin pouch felt heavier than it had in weeks—and lighter than it should have been.
The balance never stayed still.
With the last of his errands done, Osric turned toward the familiar route to the inn.
Food.
A bath.
His coat.
Then home.
For today, that would be enough.