God of Zero Cost

The deeper Ethan moved into the Canaanite inner sanctuary quarters, the more the dust-choked squalor of the lower gates fell away. Here, the mudbrick alleyways widened into flagstone thoroughfares lined with heavy cedar pillars. Tall incense burners made of dark, polished bronze stood outside the temple courtyards, venting sweet, resinous clouds of myrrh that did nothing to soothe the dry, metallic irritation scratching at the back of Ethan's throat.

Outside the primary administrative bastions, the visual markers of occupation were absolute. Heavy bronze military standards—rigid, towering poles topped with solid, glittering castings of the Egyptian sun-god Ra and the coiled cobras of the Pharaoh—stood locked into heavy stone sockets outside the garrison doors. They cast long, predatory shadows across the dirt, a sharp contrast to the local Canaanite standards displaying the stylised bronze bulls of Baal that lined the lower marketplace stalls.

Ethan slowed his pace, letting his soot-covered tunic blend into the shadows of an overhanging awning. He didn't open his system interface. He didn't toggle his crafter scanning overlay. Instead, he simply narrowed his eyes, letting his seventy eight points of Perception do the work. His gaze stripped away the decorative paint on the pottery displays, focusing entirely on the grain of the clay, the thickness of the firing walls, and the visible temperature markers left by the local kilns.

Too thin, Ethan thought, his eyes sweeping across a rack of domestic oil lamps and storage jars. Standard alluvial silt. Low thermal mass. One heavy hit from a furnace and the structural walls will warp like cheap lead. Trash.

He needed something that could hold a high-value system modifier. He needed to find what the high-paying corporate guilds were hoarding to secure their high-tier faction standing.

He found them outside the courtyard of the Great Temple of Baal-Mekal.

A group of high-level Merlion Holdings ritual planners—dressed in expensive, vanity-grade white linen robes over their heavy bronze armour—stood around a raised limestone trade platform. They were aggressively bartering with a temple potter, their voices tight with corporate stress. Ethan didn't approach them. He leaned his shoulder against a cedar pillar, crossed his arms, and let his sharp vision lock onto the specific vessels the corporate players were inspecting.

The first objects were massive, deep ceremonial Kraters.

These weren't ordinary household bowls. Ethan's craftsman eye instantly traced their heavy, double-handled geometry and the thick, dense profile of their rims. The clay wasn't regular river mud; it was mixed with dark, glittering specks of crushed basalt stone fragments.

Basalt temper, Ethan calculated, a cold grin forming beneath his soot mask. These bowls aren't designed for aesthetic display—they're engineered to survive extreme, recurring fire rituals without cracking from internal thermal shock.

Then, his gaze shifted slightly to the shaded inner sanctuary platform behind the counter.

The Serpent Vases stood there in a neat, symmetrical row.

They were tall, hollow, cylindrical clay jars that looked less like domestic pottery and more like architectural pillars. Their outer faces were wrapped in hand-molded clay snakes that crawled up the smooth walls in perfect, lifelike relief, their tails anchoring the base while their venomous heads coiled near the flared rims. Ethan didn't need a system prompt to understand their value; his eyes tracked the dark, ultra-dense iron-oxide silt coating the clay. The unique, sealed cylindrical geometry of the jars created a tightly insulated internal pocket.

Two Merlion Scribes stepped up to the primary altar steps, carrying a flawless, dark-finished serpent stand between them. They presented it to a head Canaanite priest, their postures stiff with corporate self-importance. Ethan adjusted his position to catch their conversation, his high perception picking up their words over the temple chatter.

"We brought premium sacrificial objects from the outer valley markets, they are worth no less than forty-five silver shekels," the lead Merlion planner boasted, bowing slightly as he laid the vessels at the priest’s feet. "A direct tribute from Merlion Holdings to prepare for the Great Autumn Harvest Festival up at the High Place of Baal. We request forty-five faction reputation points per vessel registered to our ledger."

The head priest inspected the jar's clay grain, grunting as he checked the density. "The quality is acceptable. Your tribute is noted, outlanders, and your standing within the inner temple increases. But the harvest festival requires at least ten more of these premium vessels before the heavens can be opened. If you wish to lock down the primary ritual slots, you must fill our sanctuary blocks before the new moon."

Forty-five silver shekels a piece, Ethan thought, his jaw tightening as he mapped out his workshop's next production cycle. A single one of these ceremonial vessels is worth more than fifteen entire crates of my cheap, wholesale blade inserts.

The Merlion scribes turned and walked away from the altar steps, their faces visibly tightening with stress the second they cleared the priest’s line of sight. Ethan slipped closer along the cedar partition, eavesdropping as they huddled near a heavy linen curtain.

"This type of pottery is ridiculously hard to find and make," one scribe muttered under his breath. "The failure rate in the local kilns is a nightmare because the local clay keeps cracking under the fires. If we can't secure the remaining ten vessels before the new moon, the rival guilds are going to sweep the primary festival slots."

Ethan turned away from the temple, his boots kicking up the loose gray silt as he melted back into the shadows of the ravine exit. The forty-five silver shekel lingered in his mind. Merlion needed high-tier vessels to donate to the priests for harvest faction points, and his Dmei-Adamah vein back in the fault lines possessed the exact thermal density their own crafters lacked. He pulled his linen wrap tight over his face, his focus shifting back toward the dark limestone fault lines. It was time to return to the workshop, the real harvest was about to begin.