Chapter 3: The Merchant's Wrath
The streets of Gotham were alive with the usual hustle and bustle—pedestrians chatting, carriages rumbling, vendors hawking their wares. Yet, among the chaos, there stood Silas, a solitary figure on the corner of an otherwise busy intersection. His dark cloak billowed slightly in the wind as he held a weathered, wooden sign that read "The Merchant's Emporium: All Things for Sale, Powers, Potions, and Magic."
He had been standing here for hours, trying to draw attention. The few who glanced at him did so with nothing but skepticism in their eyes. The merchant's presence alone seemed to provoke more questions than answers. Yet, none of the people passing by seemed to take him seriously. The harsh reality of Gotham's cynicism was that no one had time for a peddler, especially not one who claimed to sell powers from other worlds.
"I offer you everything you could ever want," Silas called out, his voice a low yet clear hum that cut through the noise. "Powers, artifacts, medicine, skills beyond your wildest imagination. Whatever your heart desires—come, and I will make it yours!"
A few people slowed their pace, eyeing him with suspicion, but none stopped. His words fell flat, as if bouncing off an invisible barrier that repelled curiosity.
"No one's buying this, pal," a voice said, a middle-aged man with a thick accent brushing past. "You're wasting your time. We've seen it all before."
Silas exhaled softly, undeterred, and called out again, his voice tinged with quiet confidence. "I am no street performer. I am a merchant of the rarest treasures, the most powerful gifts. I can give you more than just trinkets."
He wasn't ready to give up, not yet. His emerald eyes shimmered with a determined glint, casting a subtle glow beneath the dim light of the overcast sky. But just as he was about to make another attempt, a sharp voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Hey!" The voice came from a man whose expression was now one of irritation. He had stopped in front of Silas, his arms crossed. "I'm trying to get somewhere. Do you mind?"
Silas turned slowly, locking eyes with the man. His demeanor remained calm, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his gaze. He had encountered people like this before—those too quick to dismiss anything they didn't understand.
"I'm offering something truly extraordinary, something you can't find anywhere else," Silas said, his voice firm, but not unkind. "Potions to cure any ailment, enchanted weapons that could make you stronger than any warrior, skills that will elevate you beyond your peers. This is your chance to rise above."
The man rolled his eyes, snorting. "Sounds like a scam. You're just trying to con people into buying garbage."
A slight smirk played at the corner of Silas's mouth. His patience was wearing thin, but he didn't let it show. He leaned slightly forward, his presence suddenly shifting—like a shadow swallowing the light. The air around him seemed to thicken, as if reality itself had become slightly distorted.
"I assure you," Silas said softly, his tone becoming colder, more menacing. "What I offer is anything but garbage."
The man's expression twisted with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. "I'm not interested in whatever nonsense you're peddling," he sneered. Without warning, he lunged forward, throwing a punch aimed squarely at Silas's face.
But Silas was faster. His movements were smooth, almost too fluid for a normal person to follow. He sidestepped effortlessly, allowing the punch to fly by him without so much as a brush. In one swift motion, he seized the man's wrist, his fingers wrapping around it like iron chains.
The man's eyes widened in shock as he tried to wrench his arm free, but Silas's grip was unyielding. His emerald eyes flashed, a deep crimson hue bleeding into the irises. The air grew heavy with a dark, oppressive energy. A low growl of warning rumbled from Silas's chest.
"Continue," Silas warned, his voice low and dangerous, "and you will experience a pain unlike anything you've ever felt."
The man froze, his face draining of color. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as the suffocating aura around Silas pressed in. The faint smell of ozone hung in the air, the very atmosphere vibrating with dark power. He could feel it—the power that flowed from Silas was unlike anything he had ever encountered, and it terrified him.
For a brief, fleeting moment, the man's bravado crumbled. His knees trembled, and his mouth went dry. His pulse raced, and panic overtook him.
"I-I'm sorry," the man stammered, trying to pull his arm back, but Silas's grip was as solid as stone. His body instinctively tried to jerk away, but his muscles refused to cooperate.
"Leave," Silas hissed.
With that single command, the man yanked his arm free, stumbling backward as he hurriedly retreated. His face was a mixture of anger and fear, but there was no denying the terror in his eyes. He didn't spare another glance at Silas as he turned and ran down the street, vanishing into the crowd.
A heavy silence descended on the street as those who had been watching the encounter exchanged uneasy glances. The casual onlookers who had once dismissed Silas as just another eccentric began to back away, murmuring under their breath. The power, the fury, the chilling aura—they all knew something was different about this man, something they didn't want to understand. Fear gripped them, and they chose to avoid him rather than test him.
Silas stood there, unmoving, his crimson eyes slowly returning to their natural emerald glow. The weight of his anger still hung in the air, making it feel as if the city itself had paused, holding its breath.
He exhaled, the moment passing. His demeanor shifted back to his usual, calm indifference as he turned and began to walk away. Another failed attempt to make a sale, another brush with those who couldn't see beyond their limited understanding. Gotham was a city built on suspicion, and Silas knew this would be an uphill battle.
Yet, just as he reached the edge of the street, a soft voice called out to him.
"Excuse me."
Silas stopped, his mind already turning, calculating the new presence before he even turned around. He found himself staring at a young woman—she couldn't have been much older than seventeen. Her polished appearance and the way she carried herself suggested wealth, maybe even power. Her dark eyes studied him carefully, not with the fear that gripped the others, but with something else—something more curious, more perceptive.
She stood there, her hands resting casually at her sides, the wind catching the edges of her expensive-looking coat. She didn't seem intimidated by him at all. If anything, her gaze was sharp, and her curiosity piqued.
"Are you truly selling these... powers?" she asked, her voice clear and smooth.
Before Silas could respond, a driver approached, standing beside her respectfully.
"Miss Janet," he said, bowing his head slightly. "The car is ready for you."
Janet nodded, her eyes not leaving Silas for a moment longer. There was a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation before she looked away, as if caught between leaving and staying. Finally, she glanced back toward Silas.
"Maybe I'll pay a visit to your store," she said, her voice soft but tinged with curiosity. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned and walked toward the waiting car. The driver opened the door, and she slipped inside, leaving Silas standing there, his thoughts already turning.
Miss Janet. Another potential customer? Or just another curious onlooker? Either way, she had caught his attention.
He watched her leave, his mind working. He had a feeling that this encounter wasn't the last he'd have with the young woman. And, perhaps, just perhaps, she would be the one to see through the facade of this city—just as he had.
And then, perhaps, he could make his first sale.
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To be continued