Holes

Steven crouched in the mining chamber, the troll’s lifeless bulk sprawled before him, its heart a bloody lump in his clawed hand. His Saiyan Fury still blazed—golden flames licking his body, Fists and Feet of Holy Fury aglow, his night vision casting the room in radiant hues. Blood dripped from his healed belly, the gut-wound a fading ache as he cast Holy Magic, sealing the last of it with a steady glow. A sudden DING DING DING rang in his skull—level-ups chiming through the silence. He cast Identify on himself: Unarmed Combat Lvl 20 (up 1), Resilience Lvl 26 (up 2)—the troll’s brutality had sharpened his edge. He flexed his hand, half-inch Holy Claws of Fury glinting darker gold at his fingertips, a wild new twist. “Pretty wild,” he muttered, letting the magic hum, marveling at this isekai world he’d claimed.

The troll’s toughness soured his mood—too much hassle for the payoff. His gaze shifted to the 13 Trollkin Eggs in their crude nest, each melon-sized and mottled gray-red. “Not lettin’ these bastards hatch,” he growled, stomping over. One by one, he crushed them—crack, splat—his boots smashing through brittle shells, yolk and gore oozing across the stone. Thirteen down, no regrets—future headaches snuffed out. Satisfied and fully healed, he turned back, leaving the cave’s depths behind.

The trek to the guild was uneventful, the Mistveil’s fog thinning as he neared town. But on a bustling street, a wiry man in a patched cloak darted up. “Sir! Sir, please wait!” Steven paused, turning. “That armor—where’d ye buy it?” the man asked, eyes wide. “Trish at Hide & Hammer custom-made it,” Steven replied, gesturing to his gear. The man nodded eagerly. “If ye’ve a moment, meet my master at the tavern—he’d be keen to buy it off ye.” Curiosity piqued, and with time to spare, Steven followed, strolling to The Salty Anchor, a two-story tavern alive with fisherman flair. The first floor sprawled wide, wooden pillars propping the ceiling, walls adorned with fishing rods, helm wheels, and stuffed fish—cod, eels, a gaping shark jaw. A display case near the door housed live lobsters, their claws tapping glass, a medieval Red Lobster vibe in full swing.

The man led him to a dim back booth where a gruff figure sat, cloaked in dark velvet, face shadowed. “Master, I’ve somethin’ interestin’,” the attendant said, pointing at Steven’s armor. The man’s voice rasped, “What’s it made of, young man?” Steven squared up. “King Crab Chitin, Wyrmling Scales, Young Dragon Scales, Rabbit Fury Fur accents.” The master grunted, impressed. “Fine specimen. Who crafted it?” “Trish at Hide & Hammer—did a hell of a job.” Pleased, the man leaned forward. “I’d like to buy it. I collect fine works—this is new to me. What skills ye got?” Steven clapped his gloves together. “Brawler—fight with my fists.” “Gloves part o’ the set?” the master asked. Steven paused—why not?—and nodded. “Yeah, they are.”

The man gestured to the booth. “Sit, drink.” Steven slid in, the waitress—a burly woman with a sea-tattooed arm—swaggering over. “What’ll ye have?” “Ale,” he said, his first taste of this world’s brew. She returned with Salted Honey Ale, a local specialty—golden, smooth, the honey cutting the bitterness, a salty zing lifting it. Not bad. They chatted—small talk, the master probing his fights—until the offer came. “Five gold for the set. What d’ye say?” Steven’s mind raced—Trish’s work cost him 50 copper; 5 gold was a steal. “Done,” he said, no hesitation. The master waved a hand, dimensional magic shimmering as he pulled out a black shirt and pants—basic, plain. “These’ll fit—spares, if ye need ‘em.” Steven took them, heading to the bathroom to swap. He folded the armor neat—chitin tunic, scale pants, fur-trimmed gloves—and handed it over, returning in the black gear.

The master nodded, pleased. “Man o’ culture—foldin’ clothes right. Not many adventurers do. Thank ye—off ye go.” Steven stepped out, but moments later, a bellow echoed—“THERE ARE HOLES IN THIS!”—the master’s gruff roar followed by a slap. Steven bolted, laughing hard, sprinting toward the guild, the scam a thrill in his veins.