Percival knew about Beast Markets, but he’d never actually been in one before. In Crimson City, the first city that welcod travelers into Southmarch, Beasts and their parts and products were a serious commodity.
Percival didn’t expect this. In fact, Beasts were a high commodity in many other cities as well. He was only fortunate that a city in the province he had chosen to hide in was one of them.
The Crimson nagerie was an assault on the senses. The air was thick with the scent of wet fur, ozone, and the coppery tang of fresh blood.
Not to forget the body odor of over a hundred people squeezed against each other, going about their various objectives whether buying or selling.
Percival looked around the place. There were cages of reinforced magically-treated steel lined up on the muddy thoroughfares.
These cages held everything from screeching D-Rank Wind-Talons to slumbering, massive C-Rank Ironhide Bears.
rchants and Tars haggled loudly, their voices competing with the constant roars and hisses of the captive creatures.
A Wind-Talon’s shriek cut through the din as Percival edged past a stall, the rchant’s voice raised high.
"Twenty silver?! You thief! Her beak alone is worth fifty!"
"Forty is my last price!"
"Get out of here, you whore’s bastard!"
"Hey! Nine gold for the Athyst Panther’s hide," soone called to a rchant.
"Hmm. I’ll throw in the heart if you make it thirteen. You want it or not?"
Percival kept moving. He passed a trough where a pale, jointed creature was being hosed down, its skin steaming.
"—fresh C-Rank materials, get ’em while they’re cold!" a voice bellowed from his right.
A hand grabbed his sleeve. "You there! Need a proper beast for the road? I’ve got a Ridge-Runner, fast as wind, cheap for you—"
Percival turned to give the man a glare. Wracked with fear, the man released him and sprinted away like he was being chased by one of Percival’s Skeletons.
Percival let out a sigh before disappearing back into the press of bodies.
Percival navigated the chaotic streets, the heavy cowl of his ragged cloak pulled low over his face. Tucked tight in his inventory was the Baby Dragon Egg.
Percival had wondered what would happen if he failed the Contract Quest and just kept the egg, grew it himself and beca the master of the beast.
But he decided against it ultimately. That was work best suited for a Beast Tar. Which was why he was here.
There was only one place where a Beast could thrive to its fullest, especially in a world where rcenaries and Bandits alike were looking to hunt, kill and sell them.
That place was in the arms of a Beast Tar.
This was because of Class synergy and nurturing chanics.
Percival was a Swordsman and a Necromancer. His mana, Skills, and entire system progression were tuned for combat, death, and soul manipulation.
He lacked the specialized knowledge required to incubate, feed, and safely raise a living A-Rank creature.
On the other hand, a Beast Tar’s core abilities were specifically designed to nurture a beast, utilizing compatible mana and taming techniques to help the creature reach its maximum evolutionary potential.
Also, in the wild, an infant A-Rank dragon was nothing but a massive, defenseless target.
By placing the egg in the hands of a Beast Tar, the creature gained human protection, societal cover, and access to a specialized "Tar’s Space" where it can be hidden from poachers.
Tar Spaces were usually designed to be the most fitting habitat for any Beast. So, Percival was very certain that finding a Beast Tar was the right choice.
It couldn’t just be any Beast Tar.
Based on the Swamp God Dragon’s desires, the ho had to bring her child peace, and rescue it from the long burden of having to evolve.
So Percival had to find an owner who would not treat it as a tool or a trophy. The Dragon’s dying wish echoed in his mind.
It wasn’t a difficult task, Percival thought.
Before his betrayal, before his death in the hands of his party, Percy might have just handed the egg to the highest bidder or the most competent-looking Tar he could find.
But the betrayal had sharpened his senses. It had stripped away his naive assumptions about nobility and strength.
Aethelstan was a Hero of the realm, yet his soul was rotten with arrogance. Liraeth was a royal, yet she had been a venomous snake. Corvell, he was kind, but he was a coward.
Percival believed that he knew how to look past the armor now. Since he was critical of every single person he had t so far, it would take a fair display of character for Percival to trust soone.
Even then, he was critically assessing everyone he passed: the wealthy Tars who splattered coin to purchase the most powerful Beasts on sale, the rchants who looked at the creatures as re numbers on a ledger.
Well, he was never going to give it to a rchant, or sell it. Nevertheless, none of them were worthy.
Percival paused near a dilapidated stall tucked between two massive wyvern enclosures. An old, wizened rchant was asleep behind a table covered in junk—chipped daggers, cracked mana crystals, and rusted buckles.
Percival unintentionally woke him up. The man blinked awake, staring at Percival’s face like he was an angel.
They both gazed at each other for a mont, then the rchant grinned. "Go ahead, buy sothing."
Percival wanted to refuse, but the man urged him again.
"Anything. Just an item leaving my small stall would make my day, dear wanderer."
Percival stared at the man for a while, then slowly shifted his gaze to the worn looking items he had on his stall.
They all seed uninteresting except one...
Percival’s sharp eyes caught a dull glint. He reached out and picked up a small, unassuming spike. It looked like a rusted iron piton, the kind used for climbing, but it lacked a traditional eyelet.
⸢Item: Phase-Iron Piton (C-Grade)⸥
⸢Description: A flawed climbing spike. When infused with mana, it can anchor itself firmly into thin air, creating an immovable fixed point for up to ten seconds before losing its charge⸥
It was junk to a traditional warrior, completely overlooked because of its low duration and lack of offensive stats. But to a Swordsman who often needed to change montum in mid-air, it had its uses.
Moreover, Percival was more interested in helping out the old rchant—for reasons he didn’t understand—more than actually buying anything.
"How much?" Percival asked, his voice a low rasp.
The old rchant barely even looked at the item. "A copper will be fine," he said, smiling.
"A copper?" Percival raised a brow. "I know this is only C-Grade, but this item is worth much more than a copper."
The man’s smile softened, though now it only seed eerie. "Then two coppers."
Percival stared at him for a mont, dug into his pouch and placed three silvers on the table, then slipped the piton into his inventory.
The rchant swept the coins into his drawer and shot Percival another smile. "The guidance of the gods on your travels, dear wanderer."
Percival paused, wanting to say sothing. He thought against it a mont later, then carried out. That rchant could only bother him if he allowed it.
As he turned away from the stall, a loud splash and a chorus of cruel laughter drew his attention.
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