“We’ve got usual cargo to send to a village in the south. And before you start theorizing, it’s way off the path merchants usually take, so yes, it is profitable, and no, I’m not dealing with shady shit.”
Ali Baba leaned forward, hands clasped together.
“Now that I’ve alleviated your worries, let’s talk about something you’re more interested in. Coin. You’re a strong fighter, true? A Magi. It shows.”
Malik shrugged.
“I get by.”
Ali Baba grinned.
“Modesty is rare in your kind. I like it.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“So, what do you think your services are worth?”
Malik knew the game, or at least believed that he did.
Whoever named a number first would set a precedent for the rest of the negotiation, and if the one who did that had accidentally lowballed it, they’d be nearly guaranteed to get the short end of the stick.
So instead, he shrugged again.
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“You tell me.”
Ali Baba’s smile widened just a little—like a Holy Relic Inspector who had just found out the fool in front of him didn’t know the price of what he was selling.
“Well… we pay our guards well. Base rate—200 silver for the trip.”
He watched Malik carefully, reading every twitch, every flicker of expression, which wasn’t much at all.
“But of course, price depends on circumstance. Skill, reputation, the dangers ahead.”
Malik had kept his face neutral.
“Sounds fair.”
“Of course, it’s not just about fighting. A guard must be reliable, disciplined, trustworthy. And we don’t know you yet.”
Ali Baba gestured vaguely.
“A man’s first job is always a test.”
Malik raised a brow.
“You’re saying I need to prove myself?”
Ali Baba spread his hands.
“Not at all! I believe in giving chances. But coin is given in confidence, and confidence is earned.”
He drummed his fingers on the table.
“So let’s say… 205 silver.”
Malik’s frown returned.
That was barely above the base rate.
“That all?”
Ali Baba chuckled.
“My friend, do not think small. 200 is for those who follow orders and swing swords. 205 is for those who might be worth more—eventually.”
Malik exhaled through his nose.
“I’d say 220. I’m a Saif; I deserve that much at least.”
Ali Baba tsked, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher.
“Ah, you wound me. I have many mouths to feed, and coin does not flow like a river.”
He lifted a finger.
“210.”
Malik gave him a blank look.
“215.”
Ali Baba sighed, rubbing his chin as if the decision weighed heavily on him, and then…
“215, it is.”
He grinned.
Malik immediately picked up on what just happened.
‘I just got played, didn’t I?’
He did believe that the base rate was truly two hundred; it wouldn’t be smart for Ali Baba to lie about that, but still, fifteen more for these circumstances felt like a bit of a scam.
‘I definitely could’ve pushed for more. Judging by Layla’s words, they had a hard time getting decent fighters.’
Malik had leverage. If he had pressed harder, called out their need, he might’ve walked away with two hundred and twenty, maybe two hundred and thirty.
But the deal was done, he couldn’t change the outcome… right?
“Yeah. 215 is fine.”
Ali Baba clapped his hands.
“Then it is settled!”
He reached into his robes, pulled out a small coin pouch, and slid it across the table.
“A portion now, the rest upon arrival.”
Malik took it, shaking his head with a smirk.
“Well played… mind telling me how much I could’ve gotten otherwise?”
“No problem. You might’ve picked this up already, but we aren’t from around here. We come from the Dark Continent, and folks around here don’t appreciate that. Using that as leverage, you could’ve forced me to shill out ten or so more.”
“I see. Thanks for answering.”
“Why ask? Just curious?”
With a quiet sigh, Malik unsheathed his curved sword.
“Well, unfortunately for you… You won’t remember even if I tell you.”
Under their wide eyes, he plunged it into his own heart.
“I’m… not… bound… by…”
He twisted it.
“…time.”
Darkness.
Blink.
***
{Outside The Projection}
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“Wha—?”
“Did he just—?”
“The fuck is wrong with this guy?!”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“What kind of crazy bastard—”
Though they were used to his Return by Death, most of them still flinched.
Malik did it so easily, without even a sliver of hesitation.
And the worst part?
It wasn’t for love.
It wasn’t for vengeance.
It wasn’t to fix some grand mistake.
It was for coin.
For fifteen more silver.
An amount that realistically made not much of a difference.
Silver was decent money, sure. Enough to keep your pockets from feeling too light, enough to drink something better than watered-down date wine, enough to make a man think he was doing well.
Gold, though? That was real wealth.
Most in the crowd wouldn’t have blinked if that was the coin Malik was after.
One gold wasn’t something you threw around unless you were stupid or so rich it didn’t matter. A single gold could easily feed a large family for a year. Two gold could buy a well-bred desert steed. Five gold? You could rent a house in a good part of the city for a whole season, no questions asked.
But bronze? Bronze was what you actually lived on.
One bronze coin got you a loaf of bread, maybe a skewer of meat if the vendor wasn’t feeling stingy. Five bronze could get you a simple meal—a bowl of lentils, some flatbread, and a cup of clean water. Ten bronze got you a full meal at a half-decent inn, something with spices, maybe even a bit of lamb if you were lucky. A hundred bronze made a silver, and a silver could stretch far if you weren’t an idiot.
Even then, Returning By Death just to get fifteen more silver coins was nonsensical.
It was a waste to bother just for that—absolutely insane.
Fifteen silver wouldn’t change his life. It wouldn’t buy him a makeshift sword, wouldn’t get him a night in a whore’s hall, wouldn’t even be enough to bribe a city guard to look the other way.
Sure, coin added up over time, but this wasn’t about slow, careful saving.
This was about experiencing pain, dying, and clawing his way back for what?
A few more meals? A slightly better bed at the inn? Maybe a sharper dagger?
It wasn’t worth it.
Malik would spend money on armor in the future, and that was certainly expensive—real protection cost real coin. A reinforced chest plate, properly fitted? That was at least ten gold. Good vambraces, gauntlets, greaves? Another five. A whole custom set could cost as much as a damned house. Holy Relics were another matter entirely.
And yet, even knowing all that, fifteen coins, again, were just… too little. Not even close to enough to justify the madness of dying for it.
So… that was what made the murmurs change.
“That’s just—”
“Greedy.”
“No, that’s more than greedy. It’s…”
They struggled to put it into words.
One of them just shook their head.
“I guess it’s what one hundred thousand deaths do to you.”
With that, they turned to Layla.
The crowd couldn’t see her, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try their luck to see if they could sneak a peek.
Even without looking at her though, they all knew what she was going through.
“It’s okay… it’s okay…”
Safira patted Layla’s back as she continued to cry.
It was obvious to her and those around her that those tears didn’t fall for the same reasons as before. Her expression—her eyes—was not grief alone.
It was anger.
And she wasn’t looking at her father anymore.
She was looking at Malik.
“Ah…”
And as the past continued playing, as he sat once more across from her father…
“So that’s how he figured us out.”
Layla still remembered it like it was yesterday.
How this stranger had walked into her father’s tent and read him like an open book.
How he had gotten more coin than anyone else in the caravan.
And she had hated it.
Hated how easy it was for him.
Hated how he had used his death, his suffering for greed.
How dare he?
How dare he throw his life away for scraps?
How dare he think of himself as worth less than fifteen fucking silver?
Silver that in the end he didn’t even get!
The Layla in the past hadn’t known. Hadn’t understood.
But the Layla in the present did.
And she loathed it.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik’s eyes snapped open.
He was back in the tent.
The scent of incense clung to the air, the cushions beneath him felt just as plush, and across from him, Ali Baba sat, his fingers steepled, that same calculating glint in his eyes.
Layla stood nearby, looking like she was ready to jump in if things got heated.
‘…I got lucky for once.’
Malik exhaled slowly.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Then, just as fast, it disappeared.
‘Let’s see how much I can get out of these lot.’