The marketplace of the Bottom Lair buzzed with a life of its own, tucked deep beneath the upper floors of the Endless Dungeon like a secret too stubborn to be forgotten.
Every corner brimmed with activity—vendors called out lazy offers, players bartered with half-smirks, and the air was thick with the scent of metal, smoke, and something that suspiciously smelled like regret.
Noah weaved through the crowd like a man trying to dodge responsibility. His footsteps tapped across uneven stone, his eyes flicking past players who looked more like they lived here than anywhere else.
Above the noise and chatter, a familiar voice chimed in his ear like a GPS with too much personality.
[Keep walking. No, don't look at the guy juggling daggers—he's terrible at it. Two more stalls, then hang a left.]
He followed the voice, ducking under a string of dried bat wings hanging from a merchant's canopy and sidestepping a merchant offering "enchanted toenails" at a discount.
[There. That one. The shop with the sword and bow.]
The shop stood quietly wedged between two towering stone columns, its sign swinging gently on a wooden post.
A painted sword and bow crossed over each other like they were in an awkward relationship. The entrance was narrow, almost like the shop didn't want to be found—until you did.
Noah stepped into the cramped little shop, the creak of the wooden door swallowed by the sheer number of things packed into the place.
Weapons of every kind hung from the walls, some gleaming with recent polish, others dulled by time. Shields leaned against shelves, spears peeked from barrels, and bits of armor looked like they were balancing on hooks out of pure stubbornness.
He had to squeeze through narrow paths between racks of blades and helmets, dodging a morningstar that swayed too eagerly overhead. Everything seemed placed wherever there was space—if not on purpose, then definitely by accident.
The counter loomed at the far end like an island made of dark, scratched-up wood. Noah stood before it, realizing he was just a few inches too short to see over it properly. He stretched onto the tips of his toes, wobbling slightly as he leaned forward.
"Y'know, even pretending to clean once a decade would do wonders in here."
He reached up and gave the small brass bell a sharp tap. It let out a tired ding, like even it had given up on trying to sound lively.
From somewhere deeper within the crowded little shop, soft footsteps shuffled over creaky floorboards.
A moment later, an old man emerged—his long white hair flowing like strands of parchment caught in a slow breeze. He didn't rush. He moved like someone who had seen too many sunrises to be impressed by the next one.
He stepped behind the counter, planting himself there like he had never left.
"Welcome, player. You've found your way to our humble, little shop. What's on your mind?"
"I need something Untiered—a flintlock. And throw in a subweapon that screams style. I want it to look like I know what I'm doing even when I don't."
"Then you're standing in destiny's doorway, player. What you want is all around you, waiting to be found."
Noah glanced around, letting his eyes drift over the organized mess. A crossbow was tucked behind a pile of mismatched daggers. A pistol rested inside a helmet. Something that looked suspiciously like a frying pan had a price tag.
"So you weren't being poetic. You really meant it."
The old man bent down with a patient sigh and, without ceremony, retrieved a flintlock from the floor. It had been resting beside a dusty pair of greaves, half-covered by what might have once been a map or possibly someone's lunch wrapper.
With steady hands, he placed the weapon onto the wooden counter, right in front of Noah, like it was an offering and not something that had just been chilling on the ground.
Noah stared at it.
"Okay, he really just scooped it off the floor like that's totally fine. Love that for me."
The old man gave the flintlock a little push, letting it glide across the counter with a slow, deliberate motion.
"This one is a classic."
"So… you mean old. Got it."
Noah reached out and picked up the flintlock, the weight settling into his hand with a quiet thud of familiarity. From his side, he drew his own—his personal one, the piece that had seen him through more close calls than he cared to count.
He held them both, one in each hand, letting the metal speak to him through touch alone. The new one was heavier at the nose, a little more stubborn in the grip. But something about it clicked with his rhythm. He let his fingers drift over the trigger, and for a moment, instinct hummed under his skin—quiet, but undeniable.
From across the counter, the old man clapped once. Then again. Slow, dramatic, like he was at a theater.
"It suits you like it was waiting just for your hands. If I were anything with teeth and a bad attitude, I'd already be looking for the nearest exit."
"I know you're just layering on the salesman spice... but I'm still walking out of here with this."
"Excellent choice. Truly, a splendid pick."
[You can put them both on your gear slot now.]
Noah gave a small nod and brought up his gear interface, a faint shimmer of light outlining the space in front of him. He dragged both flintlocks into the gear slot with practiced ease, and as soon as they touched the interface, the weapons dissolved into streams of soft blue particles—glimmering like fireflies before vanishing into nothing.
They were stored now. Bound to his call. A flick of thought, and they would appear in his hands again, ready for chaos.
"And now we move to part two of today's shopping spree. I need a subweapon—something clever, something flashy. I'm running on Mana Bullets, so give me a partner-in-crime that gets along with magical explosions. I want something that adds extra 'wow' to the double flintlock drama."
The old man paused, a hand resting thoughtfully under his chin. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might say something wise.
Then, like a sunrise arriving just a little too smug, a wide smile spread across his face—one of those slow, creeping ones that carried the energy of a magician about to pull a rabbit, a pie, or something dangerously questionable out of a hat.
[That smile is practically shouting, Get ready for something absolutely unhinged.]
Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the maze of the shop's cluttered depths, weaving between towering piles of gear and barely balanced racks.
A moment later, he reappeared, cradling something in his arms like it might bite if shaken too hard.
It was small, red, and round—somewhere between a crab and a mechanical puzzle.
Its surface was smooth but marked with faded rune-lines, and a single oversized red eye blinked slowly from the center. Little stubby claws twitched occasionally, as if it had opinions.
Noah leaned forward, eyebrows raised.
"That your lunch? Because if so, it looks undercooked and a little too self-aware."
The old man's grin didn't fade—it grew deeper, curling at the edges like he was savoring the reveal more than the actual item.
"This, dear customer, is what they call a Clockwork Familiar. A modest little companion, classified under subweapons for the Gunner class. Especially effective when you dabble in the Engineer subclass."
He chuckled, the kind of laugh that came from someone who knew he was about to flip the script.
"Now, let me toss a question your way—why stop at two flintlocks when you could fire three at once?"
Noah slowly leaned onto the counter, resting one elbow as he narrowed his eyes at the mechanical crab.
The red eye blinked back, almost smug. Tiny gears whirred faintly beneath its shell, like it was breathing with tiny metallic lungs.
"You've officially hijacked my curiosity. Alright, clock-boy. Sell me the dream."
The old man leaned in like he was about to whisper the secrets of the universe—if the universe was mostly built out of gears, smoke, and reckless ideas.
"This tiny thing right here? Don't be fooled by the harmless appearance. It scales with your Intelligence stat and fires magical laser beams. No need for bullets—it draws directly from your mana pool with every shot."
Noah raised a hand, cutting through the pitch with all the grace of a man who had already made up his mind three sentences ago.
"Say no more. Shut up and accept my shiny currency, oh mysterious peddler of ridiculous weaponry."
He reached into his interface, pulled out two gleaming gold coins, and slapped them down on the counter with dramatic flair.
The sound echoed like punctuation on a deal that probably shouldn't have been made, but definitely was.
[Fantastic. Truly incredible. I don't know why I thought you'd walk away like a normal person.]
Noah lifted the tiny crab-like robot with both hands, its smooth red shell cool to the touch, the weight just enough to feel real but not heavy. He moved to place it into his gear slot, expecting it to dissolve into blue light like everything else.
But this one had other plans.
The moment it touched the interface, the crab twitched—once, then twice—then sprang to life with a sudden jolt. Tiny legs unfolded in a blink, gears spun with a cheerful click, and before he could even react, it launched itself from his palms and landed neatly on his shoulder.
Its single red eye pulsed with magic, glowing in rhythm with the mana in the air. The little machine shifted slightly, scanning its new perch like it had already accepted the mission and was ready to rumble.
Noah's grin stretched wide as he watched the thing settle in.
"Now this is the kind of energy I want on my team."
•••••
GEAR SLOTS:
Main Weapon 1: [Untiered] Flintlock.
Main Weapon 2: [Untiered] Flintlock.
Subweapon/Ammunition: [Untiered] Clockwork Familiar
•••••