Desert nights were brutally cold. No matter how scorching the days grew, no one ventured out after dark.

  A faint glow seeped from the guest quarters where visiting merchants stayed. Elder Brax, head of the Green Ark caravan, had kept late hours for years—trading never slept.

  He set down his inventory list and massaged his temples. His scouts had found little; the villagers guarded Rex’s whereabouts like a secret—some even showed open hostility. Fascinating.

  A sharp rap echoed at the door.

  "Who is it? What’s so urgent?" Brax barked, his eyes alert as his hand drifted to the stun pistol at his waist. Essential protection for a trader. Effective range: one hundred fifty meters. On impact, it carbonized flesh in a small radius. Even a grazing discharge posed mortal danger to an unarmored man.

  "Chief. A black-haired kid snuck into my quarters. Says he needs to see you."

  "Black-haired? What’s his name?"

  "Rex."

  Brax threw the door open. A black-haired boy stood there, his eyes sharp as blades. A worn dagger hung at his hip, and at his feet sat a heavy satchel, deep violet mycelium spilling carelessly from the flap. A faint, intoxicating fragrance hung in the air.

  "Inside. Now." Brax jerked his head, then turned to his man. "Seal the camp. Business as usual—no one gets in or out without clearance."

  "Yes, Elder." The subordinate hurried off, rousing key personnel. A major deal demanded readiness.

  Rex hoisted his satchel and stepped inside, no preamble. "Elder Brax. I’ve brought my entire harvest of special mycelium. Forty-five kilograms. I expect a fair price."

  "Forty-five? All special grade?"

  "All special. Lower grades went to settle village debts. The Chief squeezes hard. The elders swallow their rage. But I answer to no one." Rex lifted his chin, his voice steady. "So I have nothing to fear."

  Brax felt a flicker of respect—and contempt. The boy was reckless, bringing everything at once. Didn’t he understand the danger?

  Rex straightened, unflinching. "That stun pistol—you’d best put it away. I’m wearing a dead man’s switch. Any ‘accident,’ and the satchel detonates. Three seconds, and it’s all ash. You want profit, not ruin."

  "Mutual destruction?" Brax’s gaze drifted to the satchel, spotting the crude explosives wired to its frame. This boy had more than courage—he had cunning.

  "Very well. We trade. But how do you leave with your payment? What’s to stop us from taking everything afterward? And do you even know the market rate? On Earth Ring, we barter in goods, not credits. Your cargo could buy a fortune in supplies—and I’d prefer not to antagonize the Chief. Complications are bad for business."

  Rex smiled, cool and confident. "Patience, Elder. Sincerity solves all. First, the price. Seven years ago: three thousand credits per kilo. Today, twenty percent more. Thirty-six hundred. Forty-five kilos makes one hundred sixty-two thousand." He ticked the figures off with mechanical precision. "Delivery is simple. I owe debts throughout the village. Follow my instructions—send your men on multiple runs. Five percent commission. You lose nothing."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Curious. You know the price too well. The Chief doesn’t advertise."

  Rex rolled his eyes. "Elder. Listen carefully. Interrupting is poor manners."

  Brax’s cheeks flushed. The boy was right—price knowledge was irrelevant. He spread his hands. "Continue. I’ll hold my tongue."

  "After debts and commission, I keep ninety-eight thousand. To ensure your good faith, forgive my precautions. The satchel has a timer. Any disturbance before three days pass triggers detonation. Test it if you wish. No liability accepted."

  "How dare you—"

  Brax flushed with anger, then stopped short. The boy’s logic was impeccable—optimal, even. His estimation of Rex rose another notch. "I must inspect the goods."

  "Easily done."

  Rex snapped his fingers, producing the mycelium in batches for Brax’s examination. Once satisfied, Brax took only a quarter—the remainder went back into the satchel as "encouragement" to complete the transaction.

  Years of misfortune. Years of the Chief’s family grinding him down. The boy had learned hard lessons. He trusted no one. Not with this.

  "Forty-five kilograms, special grade, confirmed." Brax sealed the sample case. "Pleasure doing business. Ninety-eight thousand credits—substantial. What are your plans?"

  "I’d examine your personal effects, Elder. That stun pistol, for instance. If I cannot buy in bulk, I buy precision. Quality. The exceptional."

  "A clever creature. I feel like I’m being led by the nose." Brax summoned his quartermaster with a sharp whistle.

  Fifteen minutes later, they descended to the main hall. The tables overflowed with merchandise—weapons, tools, rations.

  Rex examined each piece, questioning endlessly, his eyes sharp for flaws. Finally, he selected a long-range luminescent crossbow, a ceramic dagger with exceptional corrosion resistance, and a satchel of vintage charge-cells.

  "Elder, don’t fob me off with rubbish. I may lack sophistication, but I know quality."

  Brax’s eyes narrowed. The boy’s interrogation had been a trap—had Brax boasted, contradictions would have emerged. No child had ever cornered him so effectively.

  "To the side room. Perhaps there you’ll find satisfaction."

  The side room held twelve items on a narrow table—superior craftsmanship, with prices to match.

  The first caught his eye: three miniature elephants in a cage. Ancient beasts, genetically miniaturized over centuries, now mouse-sized. Children’s pets. Thirteen thousand credits each.

  Rex set the cage down, amusement flickering across his face but nothing more. He had sand rats to fight. No time for pets.

  The second resembled a penholder, yet projected tractor beams—rated for ten tons, a climbing tool. Twenty-two thousand credits.

  "What’s this? Misplaced stock?" Rex pointed to a withered plant. Three leaves stayed an unnatural green; the rest trembled, ready to fall.

  "Gene-spliced medical flora. Chew a leaf for visceral trauma. Potent healing, negligible side effects. Dying, though—unless you purchase the adjacent nutrient solution."

  "Solution?" Rex lifted the glass bottle, half-filled with oily liquid that swirled with bubbles when shaken. Of course. Separate sales, double profit.

  "Prices?"

  "Reasonable. Consignment from a colleague. Plant: thirty-nine thousand. Solution: thirty thousand. Well within your means."

  "Expensive. Discount."

  "Final offer, I’m afraid." Brax kept his face grave, inwardly exulting. The plant’s effects were overstated—minor wound reduction at best, unverifiable. Perhaps a killing here.

  "Sixty-nine thousand. With three sacks of fruit, ten vintage charge-cells, five micro-lanterns. Or I walk."

  Brax sighed, theatrical. "Never such a difficult customer. On Capital Planet, a healthy specimen fetches five hundred fifty thousand. And you demand extras. Fruit, perhaps. Vintage cells are scarce. Micro-lanterns—maybe five remain from last month’s acquisition. Acceptable. But swear this: your next special harvest comes to Green Ark first."

  "Agreed. Should fortune favor me again, you have priority, Elder Brax."

  Two hours later, Rex departed laden with goods. He bit into an apple, sweet juice flooding his mouth—the first fresh fruit he’d tasted in five years. Who knew such sweetness existed, after all he’d endured?

  He had survived on his mother’s final words: Live. Live with dignity. Live better than them all.

  While other children begged their parents for candy, he learned to kill sand rats. While they basked in family warmth, he breathed toxic spores in buried tunnels. He had despaired. Cursed his fate. Then he understood: survival meant self-reliance. Nothing else.

  Rex navigated the traps downward, toward the wreck’s deepest levels. The Chief would hunt him now. Best to vanish into the tunnels, far from reach, until the caravan departed.