“You.” Calaf said in a low, hoarse rasp.

  Honest John’s face no longer contorted correctly in response to stimuli. A mask shielded innocent eyes from the worst of the damage, but it didn’t quite mesh with the other half of his face. The left half angled down into a scowl, which negatively polarized the ill-fitting masked right-most side into angling upward in a glassy, emotionless smile. His eyes – the righthand one bloodshot – darted around devoid of any spark or brightness until they gained a flicker of cold, steely recognition.

  “You,” said the legitimate merchant after a time.

  “Yes, you.” Jelena put a hand on her hip. “You’re the guy we sold that relic to ‘bout a year back.”

  John ignored her. He looked around, unsubtly glancing past the pair to the tent flap. Then, he focused solely on Calaf.

  “Is she still with you?” A gloved hand automatically moved to Honest John’s damaged face.

  She? It took a moment for Calaf to realize the implication.

  “Karol?” the Squire cocked a smug grin. “That’s right. She’s topside, guarding our escape. We give the signal, and she’ll come down here and break the other half of your face.”

  In truth, Karol was long dead, her Brand scoured. Killed while trying to be a hero far from here and in unrelated circumstances. But Honest John didn’t know that, and the thought that Karol could be waiting for him sparked fear in the grifter’s dull, dead eyes for the first time in Calaf’s short and unwilling relationship with the bastard.

  Calaf’s fists tightened in their gauntlets, gripping the spear and shield until it hurt. With Karol gone, someone else would have to finish the job. John’s remaining half-face was right there. Tantalizingly close to strangling distance. Calaf took a step forward.

  “Alright, what’s the scam?” Jelena asked, subtly stopping Calaf from approaching.

  “What? Never seen a legitimate auction before?” Honest John asked. Then, when this opening gambit failed to convince anyone, John added. “Every fifth bid is ‘won’ by one of my boys. They raise the price to twice what they’d otherwise go for.”

  Jelena scratched her chin. “Ah, pushing the unbranded out with high prices?”

  “Impressive.” Honest John nodded. “Price inflation deters all but the richest and dumbest unbranded. Regardless, the items circle back to me, and the next bets are already primed to be in the six figures. We have ways of laundering the item descriptions to sell at another auction. And as for the items that do go out…”

  There was a rustling at the tent flap to their right. An attendant went flying in, and Enkidu ducked through the opening.

  “The auctioneer attempted to provide me this.” Enkidu flipped a coin to Jelena.

  “Another classic scam,” Jelena said.

  Calaf grimaced. Exactly two hit points had come between Honest John and agonizing death the last time Calaf had gotten him in spear-chucking range. That spear wound through his gut was healed now, even if the damage to his face was unsalvageable even by the strongest magic. And the conman had immediately started up the next scam.

  Damn him.

  Even being on the same side of the law failed to abate Calaf’s righteous fury. He looked to John, the attendant, and thought of all those willing participants in Honest John’s latest con.

  By the Menu, damn them all.

  “One last thing: why target the Branded?” Jelena asked. “Aside from logistics, of course.”

  Honest John laughed. It was a great open-mouthed belly laugh that proved uncanny and haunting on the damaged half of his face.

  “Because they’re the best marks.” He said between grinning, gritted teeth.

  “Branded – by birth or by conversion, are self-selected as massive and obvious marks. Even generations post-conversion somebody, somewhere in the family tree was inclined towards magical thinking—and that’s an inheritable trait. Proven susceptible to a good sales pitch. In payment for tithes and churchly living, you will be offered a perfect utopia after death, your entire family line will lie in state in the deep crypts of your hometown cathedral. You will rise up the levels, gaining rank and prestige within the church until you, too, are a level ninety on par with General Perarde himself.”

  Honest John hunched over his desk, rolling a piece of fool’s gold between his fingers.

  “… All a sales pitch – as sure as any scam I’ve ever run.”

  Calaf and Jelena scowled. They were a multigenerational Branded and a convert, respectively. Even though Jelena’d taken her own Brand out, they were the exact target audience of John’s scam.

  “I don’t know if you’ve checked lately,” Jelena said with a cocky grin. “But you’ve got a Brand too.”

  “Scammer and mark are two sides of the same coin.” Honest John shrugged. He flashed a forearm Brand on his right arm, partially hidden by his sleeve. “Have this on you, and church folk will trust anything you say. Any piece of paper or rusty sword you fish out of a pond is a holy relic, and they’ll pay the combined savings of multiple pilgrimages for the chance to touch crumpled fabric if you tell them it was from the holy cleric’s habit. Don’t even ask for verification.”

  Calaf shot John a skewering look, which the disaster merchant ignored.

  “Jelena, right?” John didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve been around the underground economy for a while. Certainly enough that I’ve heard of you by reputation, even before our dealings.”

  “Likewise.” Jelena wasn’t smiling. “My boyfriend complains about you a great deal.”

  Honest John smirked briefly at that last quip. Wedging his smug face into victim’s memories fueled him, and he puffed up in his chair, haughty.

  “You know how it is. Just one more scam. One more hustle or scheme to make it big. And pass or fail, any proceeds go to funding the next venture. The economy of the whole continent is built on this – suckers getting got by scammers, who themselves are marks for yet greater scams. The economy of the continent runs on this as its lifeblood.”

  There was another rustling at the mouth of the tent. Zilara appeared.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Hoss, we’ve got goons surrounding the auction grounds.” Zilara looked to Calaf and Jelena, to Enkidu, and again to Honest John. “Who’s that guy?”

  “Long story,” Jelena said. She pointed at John. “Here’s where you’re wrong.”

  With no response, Jelena continued.

  “With that markup you take from every item sold, you could be stinking rich even without these elaborate schemes. That’s, what, a million gold per year, even without the inflationary scam?”

  “Six million. Every auction.” Honest John nodded.

  “Right. You’d have more money than anyone else on the continent if you just ripped people off the old fashioned way. And it’s a black market, so there’s still a risqué thrill to it all. Why not just… do that?”

  “I could, and live like the most lucrative bishop in the church. The old thieves’ guild operated in a similar fashion. But by always going larger and bigger, I get more gold, more power, and more influence. There’s enough money in my inventory to never run out. Using it all would hyperinflate the continent’s economy for all time. This is true. But why live like a comfortably wealthy bishop, when you can instead live the unfathomably wealthy lifestyle of a Far-Isle slave trader!?”

  “I think the goons want us to let their boss out,” Zilara said.

  Honest John rose from his seat. He put both the heavy desk and chair into his Inventory. With a year of abusing those level-up baubles, there was no telling what insane Endurance stats were allowing the merchant to carry so much.

  “I’m not letting him get away,” Calaf barked with surprising venom.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” Jelena pulled out her knives.

  Please choose the hard way, Calaf thought, renewing his grip on his spear.

  Honest John adjusted his glove.

  “I’ll see myself out.”

  With a snapping motion on his gloved hand, John threw out a spell:

  Honest John chose the hard way.

  The air sweltered, going from a cool subterranean dampness to a sweltering sun-adjacent scorcher within a second.

  Calaf’s armor began to scald him where he stood. The one-hundred-percent fire-resistant shield that had saved him once before was no longer in his equipment. He held his current redstone shield up. The fire protection would help against any mere fireball, but with a flare of this level the sheer amount of stacking flame damage outmatched any fifty percent fire reduction damage bonus.

  So powerful was this overclocked flare that even Enkidu shirked back, unwilling to approach.

  A miniature sun was manifesting in Honest John’s hand. The tent fabric boiled over, then caught aflame as it disintegrated. The leather backing to John’s chair burst alight. Flames fried everything the light touched. Behind Calaf, some mook of John’s caught ablaze as his mage's robes lit up.

  Working quickly, Jelena shielded her good eye with her right hand and prepared a knife with her left. She flung it, aiming as best as possible without risking damage to her already precarious sight. The knife flew true, superheating as it neared the flare. Then, there was a scream as the gathering miniature sun dissipated prematurely.

  Honest John held a bloody hand to his chest, a knife through the palm. No blood stained the glove, for the knife had turned red-hot and instantly cauterized the wound. The blow bypassed all Menu-based protections and shaved a massive chunk off the merchant’s prodigious health bar.

  The flare had only been active for three seconds.

  The tent was still ablaze. The roof wafted away in a haze of ash while the walls, already full of holes, fell to the floor. It created a perfect smokescreen through which Honest John fled. A smoldering knife clattered to the floor to their left.

  “He went that way,” Calaf said, already running.

  A trail of blood marked where Honest John fled through what was now a chaotic, bedlam-laden market scene. His gigaflare had scourched everything not actively blocked by shadows in its short few seconds of existence. Only the caster was remotely safe. Merchants with flammable materials in their stalls now had open fires to contend with. Smoke filled the high roof. If there was a vent by which it could all filter out of the subterranean lair, it was slow-acting. Panic spread faster than the fire, and the market folded up all at once as merchants and shoppers all retreated for the tall exit stairs.

  Their quarry ran down a tunnel. Guards and minions were in as much disarray as everyone else, but a set of five stationed at the tunnel entrance moved to block Calaf. A shield bash took care of the first, and then Enkidu rushed into the resulting gap to cut the others down.

  Vision is still a little spotty, Calaf thought. There were burn marks on his face and, as he noticed despite the numbness, all over his body where his armor contacted his flesh. He cast an Intermediate Heal upon himself to set up an HP buffer, but it only healed things well enough to bring his nerves back and triple the pain. Another heal cleared that up, and after a third heal he was sprinting at full speed.

  “John!” Calaf bellowed mid-sprint.

  The conman turned, just as Calaf began his attack.

  Calaf’s spear flew through the air… and missed Honest John by about an armspan. Calaf roared, swore, and pursued again. He picked the spear up, using the Inventory to scoop it up and throw it right back into his hand to save precious seconds.

  A second Thrown Spear nicked Honest John in the side, causing him to stumble a bit. HP was down in the three hundreds range. Still, Calaf gave chase. Again, he readied and threw his spear.

  There was a clatter as the spear bounced off the stone floor.

  The fleeing John snuffed out a torch on the tunnel, plunging this portion of the underground into darkness.

  “You’ll be seeing your parents soon.” John’s smug voice wafted from up ahead.

  Calaf scowled. Just how did Honest John know he was an orphan?

  Again, the plain but sinister voice spoke, as if reading Calaf’s mind.

  “Oh? It’s just simple cold reading. Many pilgrims lose a parent on the road. No matter. If ever we have a proper duel, I trust there’ll be no further additions to your family line to come back for revenge.”

  A wave of curses flowed from Calaf’s mouth, so obscene and obscure he barely knew what he was saying. It wasn’t very Paladin-minded of him, but then again neither was relic thievery.

  Light glared up ahead, stealing away John’s attempted stealth. They were nearing another set of stairs. Which meant Honest John was going to get away again.

  The tunnel opened into a smaller dead-end area with two stairwells leading up to the surface. Honest John ducked into the rightmost shaft. Calaf pursued, a surprise burst of speed bringing him just shy of shield-bashing range. John kicked Calaf’s shield, then rushed up the winding stairs in a cultivated-Agility-induced sprint.

  Jelena and the others were just behind them. Calaf took a step on the stairs only for another bright, blinding ball of fiery plasma to erupt around a sharp turn in the stairwell.

  “He cast another flare!” Calaf said, fleeing from the all-consuming light.

  “Up we go,” Zilara said, pointing at the second stairwell.

  The group retreated up the stairs, letting the flare bounce along the melted stone of the far flight. They were halfway up when the flare burst, obliterating all within line of sight. Thermal shockwaves rose up through the cavern, accompanied by a mighty quake. Calaf and Jelena’s posse were spared from the blast only because they had stairs and a wall between them and the epicenter.

  The group rushed to the surface, emerging into the desert sun.

  Smoke billowed from a newly formed pit in the desert sands. Another cluster of rising smoke columns emerged from the south and east. The bazaar had ventilation after all.

  Another, smaller set of ruins around the stairwells was evidence of a civilization predating even the demon age.

  The easternmost desert remained barren with gently rolling dunes. Footprints were easy to track, and pursuing figures were visible in all directions. Where, then, was Honest John?

  Galloping hoofs kicked a storm of sand as a six-legged dire-horse flew out of the smoke-filled ruins and took off parallel to the group. The identity of this fleeing suspect was obvious without even getting a good look at his damaged face.

  Honest John held a spear in hand. He chucked it at the group. Calaf leaped between the flying spear and Jelena. The spear impacted the shield and fell to the desert floor, harmless.

  “This is…”

  The spear Calaf had thrown through Honest John’s torso long ago. It was perfect for throwing. John had kept it all this time waiting for a chance to repay the wound in kind.

  “That was close,” Jelena said.

  A six-legged dire-horse could gallop over the loose desert sands faster than any other creature on the planet. Honest John was rapidly rushing out of range.

  Calaf readied the spear…

  Fluted and built for throwing, the spear flew far. Honest John was just about to disappear behind a dune when the damage notification was registered.

  “Took off eighty HP,” Calaf announced.

  Nowhere near enough.

  “I would have aimed for the horse,” Enkidu said matter-of-factly.