SMMA 53

Episode 53

“What are you doing here?”

“Just… gathering bread.”

“Bread…?”

“Yes. Here, bread is used like coin. Roughly five pieces of bread will get you a quill, ten pieces trade for a sugar cube the size of a matchbox.”

“……”

The Blue Dragon Tower students lived relatively well thanks to Ihan. But not so for others. Without an Ihan among them, Tower after Tower struggled desperately just to survive.

The hard bread issued at mealtimes had become the de facto currency. A universal medium of exchange!

“Wow… May I look around?”

“By all means.”

Yonellia leaned in, fascinated by the goods. In truth, interested—if something useful surfaced, she meant to buy.

Ihan, too, peered closer—
And stopped.

Wait. These are… shockingly practical.

He had assumed the Black Turtle students could scrounge little. Yet, there it was: variety everywhere.

Food remained scarce, of course. Beyond the tins of preserved goods (likely donations from visiting priests), the shelves brimmed with fakes.

Fake cheese, fake milk, fake eggs, fake cured meat, fake fish brine, fake coffee, fake tea leaves… Things so elaborate Ihan could not help thinking, Making fake versions is harder than just making real ones!

But aside from food, there were real supplies:

Bags, quills, blankets, lanterns, fishing rods, picks and shovels, tents and sleeping bags, rope and chalk, bows and arrows…

And more.

Artifacts…?

The cloak of plain cloth, the belt of leather, bracelets knotted of stone, necklaces carved crudely…

Ordinary trinkets—but they radiated mana.

Unmistakably artifacts.

Though crude, still staggering. Beyond these walls, even the simplest artifact sold dearly—and adventurers fought madly to own one. A mere Darkvision trinket could make one a dungeon guide, a healing charm could be a second life.

But here, conditions differed. Surrounded by crafters, raw and skilled, supply overflowed.

Some broke, some faded—their enchantment leaking away.

Overstock. Refuse. Yet students salvaged relentlessly.

“Buying something?” whispered Ratford beside him. “I checked already. Nothing worth it.”

Nearby vendors scowled, hating him for sabotaging their trade.

But Ratford didn’t flinch.
“That cloak they claim resists blades? I tested it. Works about half the time.”

“Half? That’s… still useful.”

“You are wise—seeing the glass half full!”

“Ratford, stop flattering yourself.”

Ihan ran sharp eyes across. Indeed, most charms were fading or uncertain. That cloak, flawed though it was, remained among the few passably useful.

He asked, “Do you take credit?”

“No.” Ratford bowed comically deep. “Not even with a knife to our throats, Lord Wadanaz.”

Why the formality… but fair enough.

Credit, to these scrabblers, was suicide. Ihan could lean on his noble family if cheated; they could not. Clear refusal made perfect sense.

“Then barter. I brought something…”

He held up a basket. But confidence wavered.

Fruits, vegetables, eggs… truly edible, fresh.

Survivor’s staples. Yet, could such trade buy artifacts…?

Then came the crash:

“!”
“!!”

Every Black Turtle student leapt to their feet.

They swarmed.

Fresh produce—treasures beyond jade and gold, for these half-starving castaways.

Even those selling unrelated stock surged forward, desperate to strike trade.

“This shovel and pick! Forged perhaps by dwarves themselves! Yours, for one egg!”
“Cured fish—fake, yes—but coffee, tea, and this for one egg!”
“If you’ll part with an onion—take this staff!”

Bartering chaos erupted.

One student, mocking, traded away that battered cloak of warding for two potatoes. He laughed by the fire as he roasted.

“Idiots. Profit is in selling good stock, not begging garbage onto others.”

“Shut your mouth. Just lucky you found that cloak!”

“You’re jealous. Potatoes hotter than bread!”

“Bread lasts longer!”

Still, when the first bite of roast potato melted on the tongue—soft, steamy white—it left him nearly undone.

Seeing their hunger, Ihan was shaken. How empty are their bellies?

Even plain roast potato had them near weeping.

“Gather here.”

Students froze, heads lifting.

“Yonellia. Help me.”

She blinked, then quietly nodded. They shared a look. This time, no coin. Not from them.

Together, they chopped. Vegetables diced, salted, peppered. Pan oiled, sizzling gold.

Steam rose, rich scent unfurling. Black Turtle students neared like zombies, glassy-eyed.

Then Ihan opened a tin of tomatoes, scooped the bottom, and poured. Spices mingled, herbs, all layered. Soon, a thick stew bubbled red, fragrant and full.

They ate in silence, greedy spoons clinking bowls. Faces slack with thanks.

So this was real food.

How had they forgotten?

Then—

“Applause for Wadanaz!” cried Ratford.

“Shut it.” Ihan rammed a potato in his mouth, unwilling to let mockery spoil the mood.

When all had eaten, they would not let him leave empty-handed.

Into his packs, they shoved everything—junk or not. Relics, tools, toys.

So he walked off weighed with two huge packs, lantern and fishing pole overflowing, heavy pick and shovel hanging.

“…That’s amazing,” whispered Yonellia at the sight. Ratford nodded gravely.

“Like a seasoned adventurer.”

Ihan only sighed as the burden clattered—a chess set, playing cards, dice rattling within.

But among the clutter were gems:

A cloak of weak warding.
Boots of Silence.
Chalk of Smoke—which burst fog when broken.
Bracelet of Detection—stone glowing red when stared at.

What… exactly are upperclassmen making? These are all designed for sneaking past professors, not survival.

Clink—

“Hmm?”

A bone hand crawled from the pack.

“…!?”

Had the Turtles betrayed him? A trap?

No. Impossible. They lacked such skill.

Clatter!

The hand snapped onto the mysterious bone Mortum had given earlier, fusing together. An arm’s length now.

The bone floated up… hovering, waiting like a dog for command.

“No. No. No.”

But then—the touch. It nipped his fingertip, drew a drop of blood.

And suddenly—linked. In mind. In soul.

“Sit.”
“Stand.”
“Turn.”
“Fetch.”

“……”
“……”

Ratford and Yonellia stared, speechless. Their friend had produced a bone summon, like a pet, giving orders as though a necromancer already.

“Best throw it out,” Yonellia offered.

Clack!

The bone-arm shuddered, clung pitifully to Ihan’s leg.

It had no body, only arm and hand, but the sight was… weirdly mournful.

“A-Ah—sorry. I take it back. Poor thing…”

Even she relented, pity strangling judgment.