Free Web NovelChapter 12: One Gold
Atlas placed the massive boar hide onto the wooden counter.
It landed with a heavy wet thud, and the old shopkeeper behind the counter stopped leaning against the shelf immediately. His lazy eyes sharpened as he stepped closer, one rough hand reaching toward the hide while the other waved in front of his nose.
"Gods above, that thing reeks. Did you skin it in the forest or drag it through a swamp first?"
Atlas did not answer.
The smell of blood, forest dirt, and raw animal hide still clung to him. His clothes were torn, stained, and ruined enough to make him look like a hunter who had crawled out of a bad night. That was exactly the image he needed. A messy hunter with a fresh kill attracted less suspicion than a commoner who looked like he had escaped from something impossible.
The shopkeeper pressed his fingers into the hide, lifted one side, and rubbed the inner layer between his thumb and forefinger. His expression changed slightly as he checked the thickness, the cut lines, and the parts Atlas had not cleaned perfectly. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm
"Hmm...Big one, not just fat either. This Boar had muscle."
Atlas remained quiet.
The old man glanced at him.
"You skinned this yourself?"
Atlas paused for a moment.
Because he needed to decide how much of the truth was normal. He knew how to skin animals, but after the Codex changed his body, even ordinary hunting had become strange. If he sounded too confident, the old man might wonder. If he sounded too weak, the price would drop.
So Atlas nodded once.
"Yeah, I skinned it myself."
The shopkeeper stared at him a little longer, then snorted.
"Well, either you’re talented, lucky, or stupid enough to wrestle a boar bigger than your future. Most boys your age would have brought me half a hide and a broken arm."
Atlas looked at the hide.
"How much?"
The old man gave him a sideways glance.
"Straight to money, huh? No story about how you fought it for three days under the moonlight?"
"I came to sell."
"Fine..."
The shopkeeper unfolded more of the hide across the counter and examined it properly. He checked the edges, the places where Atlas’s knife had dragged too roughly, and the thicker shoulder section that could be sold for better leather if treated quickly. Then he clicked his tongue.
"The work is rough near this part, but not ruined. No deep tears. No rot. Fresh enough. The smell is awful, but that’s what happens when someone walks a fresh hide through the city instead of wrapping it properly."
Atlas watched him carefully.
The old man noticed and laughed faintly.
"Don’t stare at me like that. I’m not robbing you yet."
"Yet?"
"It depends how annoying you become."
Atlas did not smile.
The shopkeeper leaned back, rubbed his beard, and thought for a few seconds.
"One gold."
Atlas’s eyes shifted toward him immediately.
One gold.
For nobles, it was nothing. A careless tip, one glass of wine, or the price of some useless decoration. For a commoner, it meant food, clothes, a cheap room, and several days where hunger did not decide every action. The previous Atlas would have needed weeks of hunting to earn this much, and only if nothing went wrong.
Atlas looked at the hide again.
’This much from one boar.’
The thought settled heavily.
No wonder Revenants and Explorers chased strength. Power changed the value of labor. What once required risk, time, and luck could become a small task if the body was strong enough.
The shopkeeper opened a drawer and took out a gold coin. He placed it on the counter with a small metallic tap, then pushed it forward with two fingers.
"One gold. And before you ask, no, I’m not paying more. I still have to clean it, treat it, dry it, and somehow make sure my whole shop doesn’t smell like death by sunrise."
Atlas picked up the coin and checked it.
Real.
The shopkeeper raised a brow.
"You really think I’d hand you fake gold in my own shop?"
Atlas slipped the coin beneath his torn clothes.
"People do worse things for less."
The old man paused.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
"Yeah, they do."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the shopkeeper leaned his elbows on the counter and looked Atlas over more carefully.
"You selling the meat too?"
"No."
"Good, because if you dragged a whole boar carcass into my shop, I would have thrown you out myself. Hide is one thing...Meat is someone else’s problem."
Atlas turned toward the exit.
Before he could leave, the shopkeeper called after him.
"Kid."
Atlas stopped.
The old man pointed at him with two fingers.
"You should wash before walking around too much. Ormolio guards get annoying at night, especially if someone looks poor, bloody, and tired enough to be blamed for whatever trouble happened nearby."
Atlas glanced back slightly.
The shopkeeper continued, "And buy clothes. Cheap ones if you have to. Right now, you look like a corpse wearing another corpse’s rags. If you walk into the Guild looking like that, they might let you inside, but they’ll treat you like dirt before you even open your mouth."
Atlas remained silent.
The old man waved a hand as if brushing away his own words.
"Don’t look at me like I’m your grandfather. I’m saying it because I don’t want guards sniffing around my shop asking why a blood-covered boy came here first."
Atlas nodded once.
"I got it."
"And next time, wrap the damn hide better. My beard already smells like boar blood."
Atlas turned away again.
The shopkeeper spoke one last time, his voice lower.
"If you bring more hides this clean, bring them here first. I don’t cheat good material. I only cheat idiots who don’t know what they’re carrying."
Atlas paused.
"I’ll remember."
"Good. Now get out before the smell becomes part of the walls."
Atlas stepped outside.
The streets of Ormolio greeted him with noise, smoke, and late-night movement. Merchants still shouted from nearby stalls. Carriages rolled across stone roads. Drunken laughter spilled from taverns where people wasted coin as if tomorrow was guaranteed. Somewhere farther away, a woman argued with a fruit seller loudly enough for half the street to hear.
Civilization.
For the first time since escaping the Eternal Ruin, Atlas truly felt like he had returned to it.
But civilization did not mean safety.
Atlas adjusted the gold coin hidden beneath his ruined clothes and moved deeper into the city.
He needed three things.
Clothes, Food and Information.
In that order.
The northern district was not difficult to find. The streets changed gradually as Atlas walked. Broken roads near the lower areas became smoother. Buildings rose taller. Lanterns burned brighter, and the smell of rot slowly gave way to warm bread, oil lamps, and polished stone.
Ormolio separated people by worth.
The farther one moved from the slums, the cleaner the world became.
Atlas noticed it more clearly now. Maybe because he had almost died. Maybe because the Codex had changed his body. Or maybe because, for the first time, he had enough money to walk through this district without being chased away immediately.
His expression remained calm.
He ignored the expensive stores with bright windows and decorative signs. He did not need luxury. He needed clothes good enough to stop people from treating him like a beggar dragged out of the gutter.
Eventually, he stopped before a modest clothing shop.
Several dark outfits were displayed behind glass windows. Nothing too noble. Nothing too flashy. Good fabric. Practical cuts. Suitable for travelers, hunters, and low-rank Explorers who wanted to look less disposable.
Atlas entered quietly.
A small bell rang above the door.
The woman managing the store looked up from a stack of folded clothes near the counter. A professional smile appeared quickly, but her eyes moved over him in one practiced sweep. freewebnovёl.ƈom
Torn clothes, Dried blood, Young face and Exhausted eyes.
"Welcome to our shop. Had a Rough hunt?"
Atlas looked at her.
"I need clothes."
Her smile softened slightly.
"I can see that, but may i know for what - travel, work or Exploration?"
"Exploration."
The woman’s brows lifted just a little.
"Explorer attire, then... Durable fabric, flexible movement, and not too heavy."
Atlas walked closer.
She turned toward a shelf and pulled out several folded sets.
"We got these from western traders recently. They’re not high-grade armor, so don’t expect miracles. But they hold well. Reinforced at the elbows, knees, shoulders, and inner seams. Hunters buy them when they want to look like Explorers, and Explorers buy them when they don’t want to pay noble prices."
She unfolded one set across the counter.
A dark long upper attire, Black trousers, Simple belt, Flexible fabric and Minimal stitched lines.
Atlas pointed to it.
"That one."
The woman looked at the set, then at him.
"Are you sure? I have cheaper clothes if you only need something to cover the blood."
"How much?"
"Three silver."
Atlas considered it briefly.
Three silver from one gold was acceptable. Clothes were not just comfort right now. They were camouflage. The better he looked, the fewer people would ask the wrong questions.
"I’ll take it."
The woman nodded and folded the clothes again.
"There’s a small washroom behind the curtain. Change there if you want. And before you ask, no, I’m not letting you walk out wearing new clothes over those rags. That would be an insult to me and to the fabric."
Atlas stared at her.
She smiled.
"I’m just joking."
He paid the three silver.
The woman counted the coins, then handed him the clothes.
"If you want to throw the old clothes away, leave them in the basket. If you want to keep them, wrap them. They look like they might start telling ghost stories if left alone."
Atlas took the clothes without answering.
Then he stepped behind the curtain.
The small washroom was narrow, dim, and smelled faintly of soap, damp cloth, and old wood. Atlas stood there for a moment with the new clothes in his hands, then looked down at the bloodied rags hanging from his body.
The torn fabric.
The dried blood.
The last visible proof of the boy who had been thrown into the Eternal Ruin to die.
His fingers tightened slightly.
Taking them off felt heavier than expected.
Atlas slowly reached for the first torn strap across his chest.
And in the dim washroom of a clothing shop, the commoner who had crawled out of death began removing the last rags of his old life.
