The wheels of the carriage creaked and turned, their steady rhythm blending with the clatter of other carriages on the road. The driver's entire body was drenched in sweat despite the relatively mild temperature of the day.
For the first time in the entire career behind the reins, he was driving with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Every turn of the wheels, every jolt from the uneven cobblestones, demanded his full attention. His eyes never strayed from the path ahead, his hands working in perfect synchronization with the horses' movements, ensuring that the carriage maintained its steady pace.
Yet, it wasn't the road that made his heart pound. It was the figure seated just behind him, the passenger's presence seemed to loom, an invisible force pressing down on his every move. The pressure was unbearable, and with every passing moment, he felt the weight of his passenger's unspoken judgment,
Failure will not be Forgiven.
Meanwhile, Ashok sat in the carriage as though he were a king perched upon his throne rather than a passenger. His back was held upright, almost so unnaturally that it was not leaning against the backrest of the carriage. His legs were crossed with the grace of a man accustomed to sitting in a way that commanded attention. Both of his hands rested lightly over his legs, fingers delicately curled as if to emphasize his stillness.
If anyone else attempted to sit with such a posture in a horse-drawn carriage, the chances of toppling over would be high, especially with every jolt or tremor from the uneven cobblestones. But Ashok—well, he was different. He sat as if his body were carved out of stone, unwavering and immovable, even under the slightest disturbance.
His gaze was fixed upon the vast expanse of clear blue sky above, giving the impression of deep contemplation, as though he were unraveling the mysteries of the universe. But in reality, his thoughts were far from anything that could be called deep or insightful.
'Ah, my back hurts from sitting this straight. I miss my fluffy gaming chair so much right now.
This stupid trait is even preventing me from slouching or relaxing in any manner.'
As the carriage rolled through the bustling streets, Ashok couldn't help but notice the constant glances directed his way. Passersby in the other carriages, and pedestrians on the sidewalks, all seemed to turn their heads as his carriage passed by.
To avoid meeting the curious gazes of the passersby, Ashok found yet another reason to look at the blue sky.
His waiting seemed endless, the tension in his posture unrelieved, but finally, the sound of the carriage slowing down brought him back to the present. The driver pulled gently on the reins and called out politely, "Sire, we have reached the destination."
Ashok swiftly rose from his seat and stepped down from the carriage, his movements sharp and purposeful. As he did, the driver, who had been carrying the weight of the journey with every turn of the wheel, finally let out a quiet breath of relief. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, grateful to be rid of the oppressive atmosphere that had filled the carriage.
The moment Ashok had disembarked, he felt a brief sense of freedom, ready to go about his day, without even collecting the fare.
But just as the driver made to leave, his hand already on the reins, a command rang out.
"You better not leave."
The words sliced through the air, halting the driver in his tracks. His hand froze, gripping the reins tighter as the wheels, which had started to turn, came to an abrupt stop.
"Wait here!" Ashok's words hung in the air, firm and final, without a hint of room for negotiation. He didn't even pause to see if the driver would respond, nor did he acknowledge for his time. With a natural stride, he turned away and began walking toward the shop directly in front of the carriage.
The driver, left standing with the reins tightly clenched, was cursing himself deep inside. 'I should have never left home for work today'.
The pitiful glances from the people around him ignited the feeling even further—though no one spoke anything, he could feel their unspoken pity.
Ashok stood before a medium-sized shop; his gaze fixed on the weathered wooden sign hanging above the entrance. The words ROBERT'S ANTIQUES were engraved deeply into the wood, though time had not been kind to it. The silver paint that had once glistened now looked chipped and faded, worn down by countless rains and harsh winters.
'This is the place', Ashok thought as he walked up to the entrance and pushed the door open. As the door creaked, a small bell above it chimed, its soft ring echoing through the dusty air. It was a quaint sound, simple yet efficient, signaling the arrival—or departure—of a customer.
As Ashok stepped inside, the door closed behind him. Almost immediately, a notification popped up in his mind.
[Attention Level: None]
At that moment, Ashok felt the weight of the rigid posture he had maintained throughout the journey lift from his shoulders. With the absence of prying eyes inside an old shop, his back relaxed, the tension that had been building throughout the ride dissipating. The trait that had kept him so stiffly and upright all the time was finally deactivated.
The interior of the shop bore the marks of time. The paint on the walls was faded and chipped, peeling in places where years of neglect had taken their toll. Cobwebs clung to the corners, adding a sense of abandonment.
The shelves were cluttered with odd-looking items, each one more peculiar than the last. Strange weapons—rusted swords, jagged knives, and tattered shields—hung on the walls. In glass display cases, small valuables were carefully arranged—faded coins, tarnished jewelry, and trinkets that seemed too delicate to touch.
"You should do something about that intense pressure, Kid."
Ashok turned toward the owner of the voice, his gaze landing on the newspaper held by old wrinkly hands. The old man was sitting behind a dusty counter, his body almost entirely hidden behind the newspaper he was reading.
"Everything is on the display. Take what you want. Pay for it. Leave."
The old man's blunt words were like rules of the shop which might have come off as rude to many, but Ashok didn't have the time to dwell over such things. With the False Monarch trait now deactivated, there was no need to worry about pointless replies.
'I am already at my second option. There is no going for a Third. The Academy Gates will be closed by the time I reach the portal. Well, I would still get inside, though the means would be far from peaceful.'
Ashok's footsteps echoed through the quiet, cramped shop as he walked to the counter. The old man remained engrossed in his newspaper, not even sparing a glance, as if completely indifferent to Ashok's presence.
Ashok stood there for a moment, watching the hands that held the newspaper, before speaking in a calm but deliberate tone, "Not everything is on display. Old man." As soon as the words left his mouth, the hand that held the newspaper flinched—just a slight tremor, but enough for Ashok to notice.
"I don't understand what you mean, Young Man. This is my shop and everything I have is already on display," the old man, Robert, replied flatly, still hiding behind the newspaper. His voice was calm, almost dismissive, as though Ashok's words were of no consequence.
"Look, Robert, I don't have both time and patience to waste over here. Just lead me to your personal collection that you're hiding. I'll purchase what I need directly from there." The statement was clear, and Ashok's tone left little room for ambiguity.
For seconds, there was only silence. Robert, still sitting behind the counter, did not respond. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he lowered the newspaper. His wrinkled face, sharp eyes now fixed directly on Ashok's eyes, finally meeting his gaze.
"How do you know about my name and my personal collection?" Robert asked, his voice shifting, now tinged with an edge of threat. His earlier calm demeanor had cracked, and the pressure Ashok was releasing was clearly having an effect.
Ashok's response was calm, almost too casual. "If you want to hide your name, just don't put it on the board right above your store." He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in before continuing, his voice still steady. "As for how I know about your collection, I'm sure you'll know that better than me."
Technically, both the statements were bluffs Ashok had thrown. He knew very well that just because the store was called Robert's Antiques didn't mean the old man's name must be Robert. It could easily be the name of his father, son, or some other relative.
As for the collection, Ashok couldn't exactly say, I've transmigrated into a game world, where the only way to access Robert's hidden collection was by raising his favorability or obtaining the Card of Night.
Instead, he relied on the one thing that was in his favor: his Charisma stat. Negotiation, after all, fell under its category.