Chapter 236: Upgrades

Chapter 236: Chapter 236: Upgrades

The shopping district of Sol Aethel never fully slept.

Even at this hour, the long avenues glowed with lantern light and the soft blue pulse of enchanted signage. Crowds drifted between the stalls with bags of fresh produce and bundles of cloth. Street performers worked the corners, and the smell of roasting chestnuts and hot sugar hung thick in the cool air. Most people still kept one eye on the southern horizon, where the Tower burned faintly above the rooftops, but life had resumed its stubborn, ordinary rhythm. Markets still opened, and shops still sold.

Rowan walked the main avenue with his hat tilted low and his hands in his pockets, taking it all in. It had been months since he had come here simply to shop. He had a list in his head: seed stock, sealed jars, spare bottles for the spring water, trail rations, bandages, and a handful of things Seraphina would scold him for forgetting. And at the bottom of the list, underlined twice, the real reason for the trip.

He glanced down at his boots, worn but sturdy, and at the gloves tucked into his belt, their leather stained dark with years of soil. Both were rare tier. They had served him well from the Tower’s early floors through every field he had ever tilled. But level forty was a different weight class, and the next set of floors would not be forgiving.

"Time for an upgrade," he murmured.

The largest equipment store in Sol Aethel stood at the head of the avenue like a small cathedral.

It was a broad, five-story building of pale stone and polished glass, with a marble stair at the front and a pair of enchanted lanterns burning on either side of the door. Over the entrance, in tall gilded letters, hung the sign: HALCYON & SONS, OUTFITTERS TO THE EMPIRE. Through the windows, Rowan could see racks of armor gleaming under crystal chandeliers, and glass cases of weapons arranged like jewelry.

He climbed the steps, pushed open the door, and had barely stepped into the entrance hall when a chime sounded softly overhead.

He paused. He did not remember a chime on his last visit.

Across the polished floor, a pair of young clerks looked up from their ledgers. One of them glanced at a small crystal panel mounted on the wall, then did a quick, startled double take. Her colleague followed her gaze. Within seconds, both had straightened and were whispering urgently to each other.

Rowan took a slow, mild breath. He had a feeling he knew exactly what was happening.

Somewhere in the ceiling above the entrance, a small crystal lens swiveled toward him with a faint whir. The store’s surveillance array, the cameras the merchants called their watching glass, had flagged his face, and whatever list he had landed on, it was apparently a short and important one.

"Good evening, sir," said the first clerk, hurrying forward with a sort of stiff, suppressed excitement. "Welcome to Halcyon and Sons. If you wouldn’t mind waiting just one moment, I’ll fetch the general manager."

"That isn’t necessary," Rowan began.

But she was already gone.

The general manager arrived in under a minute, at a speed that suggested he had abandoned something important.

He was a round, silver-haired man in an immaculate charcoal suit, with a gold chain across his waistcoat and a smile that managed to be both dignified and delighted. He descended the great staircase two steps at a time, one hand on the rail, and reached Rowan with only a slightly flushed face.

"Mr. Vance!" he said warmly, extending both hands. "Mr Rowan. What a tremendous honor. Alaric Halcyon, general manager. Please forgive the commotion. Our system flagged you the moment you crossed the threshold, and we keep instructions for exactly this occasion."

Rowan shook his hand, a little bemused. "Instructions?"

"Top-priority clientele. Eden International’s founder, and the finest gardener in the empire, if you’ll permit a merchant’s candor." Halcyon’s eyes twinkled. "Half the kitchens in the capital cook with your Golden Spirit Flour, and I have personally eaten more Verdant Crown Tomatoes this year than is medically advisable. My wife wanted to hang one on the wall."

A few of the clerks laughed. Rowan felt his ears warm, and he tugged the brim of his hat down a little further. "I’m only a farmer."

"Of course you are," said Halcyon, with a perfectly straight face. "The empire’s most celebrated farmer. Now, please, this way. We have a private fitting salon on the third floor, and refreshments, and no other customers. I’ve taken the liberty of clearing it."

"You cleared a floor?"

"Three, if I’m honest." The manager beamed. "It’s no trouble at all."

Rowan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had learned, over a very long month, that there was a certain kind of welcome you simply had to accept.

The third-floor salon was a hushed, lamplit room hung with dark velvet and lined with glass cases. A low table held a silver tray of tea, small cakes, and a bowl of Azure Dew Berries that Rowan recognized at once as his own. A pair of attendants stood at attention near the door, hands folded.

"Please, sit," said Halcyon, gesturing to a deep leather chair. "Tell me what you’re looking for, and I will bring you the best we have."

Rowan sat and tried not to feel as if he were being interviewed. "A few things. Supplies first. Seed stock, if you carry premium grades. Sealed storage jars, trail rations, a few dozen crystal bottles. Standard restock."

Halcyon’s pen was already moving. "Of course. And I’ll arrange delivery to Sunny Vale by morning."

"And I’m looking at upgrades." Rowan lifted one foot and tapped his boot with a knuckle, then drew the gloves from his belt and laid them on the table. "These are rare tier. I’ve had them since floor eleven, and they’ve served me well, but I’m planning another climb, and I’d like something a few steps better."

The manager studied the worn gloves for a long moment, and his expression softened into something that looked a great deal like respect. "Floor eleven," he said quietly. "And you’ve kept them in working order all this time. Most people would have thrown them out." He nodded to the attendants. "Bring the Verdant Collection. And the case from the vault."

The attendants vanished.

"May I ask what you plan to do with them?" Halcyon continued as they waited. "I want to make sure we get the right fit."

"Mostly field work," said Rowan. "Tilling, planting, long hours with my hands in the earth. But I’ll also be climbing the Tower with my squad, so they have to hold up in a fight." He considered. "Gloves that carry mana cleanly. I use a lot of it through my palms. And boots that keep me steady and don’t tire out over a long march."

"A gardener who fights," said Halcyon, with a small smile. "I think I have exactly what you need."

The attendants returned carrying two long, flat cases, and set them on the table with great care.

The first held a pair of boots in dark, supple leather the color of wet soil, with soles stitched in silver thread and a faint, living grain along the sides that caught the lamplight like bark. The second held a pair of gloves in a deep, mossy green, thin as skin and lined with a pale golden fiber that glimmered whenever the light moved.

"These came in two weeks ago," said Halcyon, with the air of a man unveiling a masterpiece. "They were crafted by the Verdant Guild, from the hide of a rootstalker, a beast that lived on the forest floor of the Tower’s twenty-first level. The silver thread is spirit-silk. The gold lining is woven from a type of root fiber that conducts mana almost without loss." He tapped the glass. "Epic tier, both of them. They’re meant for heavy-duty cultivators, though no one has bought a set yet. The price put them out of reach for most."

Rowan lifted the glove carefully, and a faint tingle ran up his fingers the moment his skin touched it. The lining warmed. The mana in his palms, a constant, low hum that he barely noticed anymore, flowed into the fabric without resistance, as if he’d slid his hand into still water.

[Verdant Rootstalker Gloves - Epic]

Greatly improves mana conductivity through the palms. Reduces mana loss when channeling earth and growth skills.

"Oh," he said softly.

"Try the boots," Halcyon urged.

He swapped his old pair for the new, and the leather settled around his feet like a handshake. He stood, took a few steps across the thick carpet, and felt a slow, steady stillness run up through his heels. The floor of the salon was not soil, but the boots seemed to find the ground beneath it anyway, and his balance deepened as though the earth itself had put a hand under him.

[Verdant Rootstalker Boots - Epic]

Improves footing and stability on all terrain. Greatly reduces stamina cost during long marches. Strengthens the wearer’s connection to the earth.

Rowan stood very still, listening.

He was aware, distantly, of the manager watching him with a faint, hopeful smile. He was aware of the attendants hovering by the door. But most of his attention was on the sensation in his feet, and the quiet way the ground seemed to hum back at him through the soles.

"How much?" he said finally, and Halcyon named a figure that made one of the attendants cough.

It was a large sum. It was also, Rowan reflected, a good deal less than he had spent on the Magma-Lily greenhouse repairs.

"Done," he said, and reached for his purse.

"Please, My Rowan." Halcyon raised a hand, and for the first time, a trace of genuine emotion showed on his round, polished face. "Allow me to offer the standard Eden International courtesy discount. My family has dined on your flour for years, and I would be honored if this shop could be counted among your suppliers. And if the boots serve you well on the Tower, I hope you’ll mention where they came from."

Rowan looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled, slowly, and extended his hand.

"I’ll mention it," he said. "I think I’ll mention it often."

By the time he left the store, the night had deepened, and the avenue had thinned to a stream of late-night stragglers. His old gloves were folded in his belt, retired with honors. The new pair rested on his hands, warm and quiet, and the boots carried him down the marble steps with a lightness that felt almost like a secret.

A courier cart rolled away from the loading door behind him, piled with crates of seed and jars and bottles bound for Sunny Vale. On the third floor, someone had already hung a small brass plate over the fitting salon’s door: RESERVED - E. INTERNATIONAL.

Rowan tipped his straw hat to the empty street, hitched his satchel higher on his shoulder, and walked into the lantern-lit dark, listening to the earth under his heels.