Chapter 392: There is no saviour
His next destination was a small shop nestled between two crumbling buildings, its unmarked door almost invisible to those who didn’t know where to look. Ashen Arcana, it was called by those in the know—a shop that dealt exclusively in wands.
Dasha pushed the door open, the small bell above it jangling softly. Thick with the smell of polished wood and old parchment, the walls lined with shelves upon shelves of boxes containing wands. Dasha could feel it with his Qi Sense: each wand was unique and humming with latent power. Behind the counter stood the shop’s wand maker, a wiry man with thinning hair and nervous hands. His eyes locked onto Dasha and his old lips twitched into a forced smile.
"Professor," the wand maker greeted, his voice wavering slightly. He wiped his hands on his apron, more out of anxiety than necessity. "Welcome. Is there something I can do for you?"
Dasha said nothing at first and scanned the shop’s interior. Right before stepping inside, he switched back to The Professor’s mask, the white Venetian mask. The wand maker’s discomfort was palpable, the man shifting from foot to foot as if the weight of Dasha’s gaze was physically oppressive.
Finally, Dasha reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch. He tossed it onto the counter with a soft clink, gold coins rattling. The wand maker’s eyes widened, his nervousness momentarily forgotten as he reached for the pouch, his fingers trembling with eagerness.
"Your continued service is appreciated," Dasha said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth or malice. The words were merely a formality, a reminder of their arrangement. The wand maker nodded quickly, his gratitude spilling out in a rush.
"Thank you, thank you. I’ll make sure to keep everything in top condition for you, Professor. Anything you need, just let me know."
Dasha didn’t acknowledge the words. He walked behind the counter, past the wand maker, and toward the back of the shop. The maker watched him go, clutching the pouch of gold like a lifeline.
It was either money or death. The wand maker like all people preferred money.
Dasha descended the narrow, creaking stairs at the back of the shop. The storage area below was cramped, filled with crates and barrels, all stacked haphazardly against the stone walls.
He pushed aside a box at the very back and unveiled the hatch. With his foot, he kicked it open and descended.