Quickly, his gaze locked onto Saltpans, a town just over 180 kilometers away from his current location at Harrenhal.
It was less than a three-day ride (two if he pushed the horse hard). In such a short time, even players rushing toward meeting points might not have met up yet.
That meant, in the best-case scenario, he could secure "First Blood."
Even if he couldn't, just killing one player within the next two months would earn him 4 points—enough to keep him safe from the assassination mechanic for a long time.
Wait, something's still off.
While other classes might not realize their starting gear was a giveaway, Traveling Merchants definitely would. They would likely sell off some assets, buy extra mules, or even fire a few servants and hire local peasants to change their entourage's composition.
So, how to identify them?
After pondering for a while, Ian found the answer: Starting Funds. Their 100 Gold Dragons were constant.
Ian had studied the character creation process meticulously. He remembered clearly that aside from the final profession choice, previous background options had a negligible impact on starting gold.
This meant that even if a Merchant player maximized their gold in the options, they wouldn't have more than 110 Gold Dragons. To turn that into 1,000 (or more) within two months, they would have to go "all in."
"Once I get to Saltpans, I just need to find out the local salt price... maybe the foreman takes a kickback, so I'll need to find out that percentage too. Anyway, based on those two points, I can calculate the purchasing volume range for a Merchant player. Then I can pinpoint suspects based on how much cargo they're moving..." Ian fleshed out the plan in his mind.
Wasting no more time, he gathered his equipment on the table.
He planned to sell all of it, including his horse. Then he'd buy a cheap falchion and an old pack horse, disguising himself as a common caravan guard to travel to Saltpans.
Caravan Guard was actually a playable starting class, but due to its poor gear, low stats, and lack of money, Ian had categorized it as Tier 3.
Plus, the Caravan Guard's starting gear was leather armor and a short sword. Ian would make sure his new look was distinct enough from that default loadout.
Either way, given the Traveling Merchant's pathetic combat ability, as long as he could get close without raising suspicion, he could take them down easily.
The advantage is mine!
With that thought, Ian started estimating the value of his gear.
The full set of armor should sell for around 500 Silver Stags. The bastard sword could fetch over 200 Silver Stags.
As for his horse, currently tied up in the inn's courtyard—according to his implanted memories, it was a five-year-old Riverlands rouncey, just past maturity and in its prime. It should sell for at least 750 Silver Stags.
Total: over 1,300 Silver Stags.
Valuation complete. Ian packed his armor and sword into a sack and left the room.
Downstairs, he asked the innkeeper's wife for directions to the blacksmith in Harrenhal, paid 10 copper pennies for the room, then went to the stable, retrieved his horse, and left the inn.
Outside the main gate, Ian stopped.
Less than half a meter in front of him stood a stone wall of unbelievable thickness. The moss-covered stone was riddled with cracks, looking like it had weathered centuries of storms.
Ian took two steps forward and peered through a large fissure.
On the other side was a completely abandoned hall, roofless and filled with rubble and trash. Tattered banners, so dusty their sigils were unrecognizable, hung on the walls like ghosts of a distant past.
The gloomy atmosphere and the stench drifting through the crack made Ian's heart race. He didn't linger. He pulled back and walked quickly toward the alley's exit.
Turning the corner, a sudden gust of north wind blew past, and a strange weeping sound filled the sky.
Even though Ian knew it was just the wind whistling through the cracks of the Wailing Tower, it still gave him the creeps. He forced himself to speed up, breaking into a trot.
The footsteps of man and horse echoed in the narrow alley, harmonizing eerily with the ghostly wailing above.
After navigating several ruined streets filled with debris, Ian finally arrived at the square where the innkeeper said the smithy was located.
"Bad vibes everywhere. Let's sell this stuff and get out of this hellhole," he muttered, tying his horse to a post outside before entering the shop.
The smithy was quiet. Only an old blacksmith and two young apprentices were inside.
The smith was short but stout, his brown hair streaked with white. When Ian walked in, the man had just finished hammering an iron sword. He deftly pulled it from the anvil and plunged it into a bucket of cold water.
Hiss! The red-hot iron hit the water, sending up steam.
"Young man, what do you need?" The old smith noticed Ian and turned around.
Ian scanned the room, quickly ruling out the presence of other players.
First, the innkeeper had directed him here. Since players "spawned" out of thin air, this old smith who had likely worked here for decades was definitely an NPC.
Second, the apprentices were barely ten years old—way below the minimum player age.
Ian let out a breath, then opened his sack, placing his sword and the bundle of old chainmail on the table.
"Uncle, I want to sell this gear."
The old smith, Ayden, gave Ian a suspicious look, then carefully inspected the equipment. No cracks, minimal wear. With a bit of polishing, he could make a good profit on reselling this.
"But..." Ayden looked back at Ian, puzzled. "You look like a knight. You're so young. Why would you sell your arms?"
Ian was indeed young. Too young.
During character creation, Ian had tested the age slider and found it didn't affect stats, so he set it to the minimum: 16.
To the old smith, a knight this age should have a bright future. Selling his gear made no sense.
Because I took an arrow to the knee? Ian joked internally, but on his face, he wore a bitter smile and spun a lie: "Because I've had enough of the life of a hedge knight. People say we're just robber knights without the courage. There's no honor in it. I don't want to live like that anymore."