A Waste of Time-Chapter 26: Arcane Murmur

“Old man Lou.”
Daemon stepped into the butcher’s shop—easily twenty times bigger than little Qiu’s stall—and found the old man supervising a huddle of workers as they wrestled to flip the massive buff-tailed elk so someone could finish skinning it.
“W-welcome, young master!” Lou shot upright like someone had lit a fire under him. He hurried over, bowing as if Daemon weren’t a boy half his grandchildren’s age but his great-grandfather back from the grave.
And why wouldn’t he? The same elk this kid had carried on his shoulders like a toy now needed ten grown men just to
drag
through the door. When they’d tried to hoist it onto the beam, the supporting timber had groaned so hard they gave up and decided to butcher it right on the floor instead.
The head alone had needed three gasping men to haul aside. The whole carcass was practically untouched—no cuts, no wounds—just a perfectly intact hide and meat, fresh as if plucked straight from the woods.
Lou’s old hunters never brought him prey like this. If the beast was big, they hacked it to pieces where it fell, hauling the parts back days later—bloody, stale, a mess. But this boy? He’d delivered Lou’s dream haul on a silver platter, whole, pristine, same day.
“Done inspecting?” Daemon asked, eyeing the line of villagers peering past the counters to watch the butchers work. He smiled faintly—an audience was always welcome.
“Yes, yes—nothing to say. The quality is…” Lou fumbled for the right word—something to use in haggling. “It’s good. Very good.”
Daemon dropped into a chair, resting an elbow on the counter like he owned the place. “Premium,” he corrected casually. “But if you’d rather call it ‘good,’ fine. So—what’s your number?”
Lou felt the floor vanish under his feet. He’d hoped to circle around the price, test the boy’s patience, maybe squeeze a few coins off the top. But Daemon just smashed straight through—no dancing, no polite games. It left the old man flailing, already halfway committed to an answer he hadn’t planned to say out loud.
Lou sighed inwardly and sat beside the boy, surrendering to the inevitable. “Young master Da Niu really puts this old man on the spot,” he chuckled, trying to sound warm—using the boy’s name for a hint of closeness. “Truth is, I wasn’t expecting this size, this soon. But I did promise a bonus for results—my reputation’s on the line. Two gold for the whole thing.” He braced for pushback, but the price was fair—generous even. The profits on prime elk meat would cover him nicely.
Daemon stood, already done. “Deal, old man Lou. Send some to Auntie Fan and little Qiu—deduct their share from what you owe me.”
Lou’s wrinkled face cracked into a grin so wide his eyes nearly disappeared. “No need to wait, young master! I’ve got it ready—here.” He pressed the pouch into Ru’s hand like he couldn’t wait to close the deal.
Daemon gave him a side-glance of faint amusement, then stepped outside. He only now realized the blood and smell hadn’t bothered him at all—
Hell
had shown him worse.
Ru tucked the coins into his clothes, gave the old butcher a polite nod, and followed.
“Where to next?” he asked.
“The blacksmith,” Daemon said breezily. “Need a better Axe, a Spear, some Javelins. Maybe a Bow and a few Quivers full of Arrows, a proper Blade, a Sword. Got extra hands for it anyway.”
Ru stared at the boy’s back, wondering if this was mockery or genuine madness. He settled for a bland nod.
Clang
Clang
Dang
Hiss
The blacksmith’s forge sat apart from the village bustle, tucked near the main road leading to the next town. It was a family operation—shirtless men with sun-dark skin hammering, twisting hot metal, sweat shining on broad backs.
One man stood out—pot-bellied, thick-armed, wide-shouldered, chest like a barrel. His sons worked around him, each sharing the same rugged jawline.
Daemon remembered trying to sell his twigs here once. They’d laughed him off the yard. He could still feel the sting in his ears.
“Oh! I remember you!” the youngest smith called, squinting from his anvil. “You’re not here to sell firewood again, are you?” His grin was wicked with mischief.
Daemon resisted the urge to whack him upside the head. “I’m buying. Got orders for your forge.” He eyed the burly family. “You taking my request, or should I wait?”
The boy whistled—a shrill note that snapped every other hammer to silence. Six pairs of eyes turned in unison. “Hey, old man! Says he wants it
fast
.” He shot Ru a sly look—
You two better not waste our time.
Then he turned back to twisting iron like nothing had happened.
The big man never looked at Daemon—his focus stayed on the glowing steel as his hammer rose and fell in a perfect rhythm. But his voice rumbled through the forge. “What do you want?” he asked Ru.
Ru gestured smoothly at Daemon. “He’s the one placing the order.”
Finally, the big smith paused, iron still steaming on the anvil. He raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Make no mistake—my work costs. Quick delivery costs more. Ten percent more. And time’s tight.”
Daemon didn’t blink. “Make no mistake—I can beat you in arm wrestling.”
The forge fell dead silent. Even the hiss of the quenching tub seemed to fade. Seven blacksmiths stared. One Swordsman shook his head in silent resignation.
Then—
“Bwahaha—!”
“Haha—!”
“Gahaha—!”
The forge roared with laughter, echoing off the timber beams. A twig of a boy, threatening to out-muscle the village’s strongest arms? Impossible. Ridiculous. Hilarious.
Ru just watched them and pitied them all. They had no idea. Not yet.
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