It didn't take Ian long to set his sights on a small town known for its saltworks—less than 180 kilometers from Harrenhal.
That meant he was less than three days' ride away. If he pushed his horse to the limit, maybe even two. At that pace, even players who set out for their rendezvous points the moment they spawned might not have had the chance to meet anyone yet.
Which meant, if everything went perfectly, he could land the first kill.
And even if he missed that, taking down just one player in the next two months would net him four points—more than enough to keep the assassination mechanism off his back for quite some time.
Wait—there's still one flaw.
Other classes might not recognize his gear, but a Traveling Merchant definitely would. Which meant they might have already started liquidating assets, buying extra pack animals, or hiring a few hands to blend in. That would make identifying them harder than expected.
Ian frowned. But then a thought struck him.
—The starting funds. That was the key.
He remembered very clearly from the character creation process: aside from your chosen class, the earlier customization options barely impacted your starting gold. Meaning, even with everything optimized for wealth, a Traveling Merchant's starting capital couldn't exceed 110 gold dragons.
And if they wanted to fulfill a mission to earn a thousand gold dragons in just two months, they'd have no choice but to go all-in.
"Once I get to Saltworks Town, I just need to ask around about the local salt prices… maybe even account for bribes to overseers. From those numbers, I can calculate how much stock a player merchant would've bought—and then track them down by the size of their haul."
His plan was becoming clearer by the second.
No time to waste.
Ian gathered all his gear onto the table: armor, sword, and everything of value.
He was going to sell them all—along with his horse. With the proceeds, he'd pick up a cheap machete and an old pack mule, posing as a run-of-the-mill caravan guard.
Caravan Guard was one of the lower-tier starting classes, one Ian had dismissed early on for its low stats, poor gear, and complete lack of funds. But that was exactly why it made a good disguise now.
A short sword and leather armor were the standard loadout for that class—but Ian made sure to pick different gear just in case.
"As long as I don't draw suspicion, a Traveling Merchant won't stand a chance."
The advantage is mine.
He started doing mental math, estimating how much his current gear would fetch.
The chainmail set should sell for around 500 silver stags, and the arming sword alone would bring in over 200.
Then there was his horse—a five-year-old Riverlands stallion, newly mature and in prime condition. That could easily go for 750 silver or more.
Altogether, he was looking at a total of 1300 silver stags.
Satisfied, Ian packed up his belongings and left his room.
Downstairs, he asked the innkeeper's wife for directions to the local blacksmith. After paying her ten copper pennies for his stay, he went out to the stables, retrieved his horse, and set off.
Just outside the inn, Ian paused.
Less than a meter in front of him stood a massive stone wall, pitted and cracked with age. Thick moss clung to its surface, and behind the gaps in the stone, he could see the ruins of a long-abandoned hall.
Shattered masonry littered the floor. Dust-covered banners still clung to the walls, their emblems long faded. The air was thick with the stench of mold and rot.
Ian shivered. He didn't linger. Turning away from the forgotten ruin, he headed for the alley's exit.
As he rounded the corner, a sharp gust of wind blew through the street.
From above came an eerie wailing, like the cry of a ghost.
Ian knew it was just the wind howling through the cracks of the Tower of Sorrows, but that didn't stop a chill from crawling down his spine.
He picked up the pace.
Soon his quick stride turned into a jog, his footsteps—and those of his horse—echoing against the stone walls, harmonizing strangely with the mournful cries overhead.
After navigating several broken, deserted streets, Ian finally reached the square where the blacksmith's shop was located.
"Damn this place... Let's get this over with and get out of here."
He tied his horse to a post and stepped inside.
The smithy was nearly empty—just an old blacksmith and two young apprentices.
The old man was short but broad-shouldered. His brown hair had turned mostly white. As Ian entered, the blacksmith had just finished hammering out an iron blade, plunging it into a barrel of cold water.
Ssshhh—
Steam hissed up from the quenching steel.
"You need something, young man?" the blacksmith asked, turning to him.
Ian scanned the room.
No sign of other players. Good.
He'd asked the innkeeper's wife for this shop's location—NPCs wouldn't know about players unless scripted to. And the two apprentices were no more than ten or eleven—well below the game's minimum playable age.
He relaxed, pulled out his gear, and laid it on the workbench.
"I'd like to sell these."
The blacksmith—Eiton, his name tag read—raised an eyebrow but examined the items carefully.
No cracks. Just a bit of wear. With a proper polish, he could make a tidy profit.
Still, he glanced back at Ian with some suspicion.
"You're a knight, aren't you? And so young. Why sell your gear now?"
Ian was young—he'd set his age to the minimum, sixteen, during character creation, since stats weren't affected.
To an old NPC like Eiton, a young knight like him should have a bright future.
"Should I say it? 'Took an arrow to the knee'?"
He smiled to himself.
Instead, he offered a bitter grin and said aloud, "I've had enough of the hedge knight's life. People say we're no better than bandits in armor. There's no honor in it. I want something different."
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