Chapter Three: Garlic, It’s Truly You

There were many passersby on East Street, but Duck Neck hadn't managed to get any business for quite some time. He kept talking to Zhang He, who only listened quietly without replying; in truth, Zhang He’s attention was fixed on the official road at the village entrance.

This official road sloped down into the village, leading directly onto East Street, so the hawkers operating their stalls here needed keen eyesight. The saying “keep your eyes and ears open” was practically a golden rule for "Dynasty," applicable to every profession.

While Duck Neck chattered on, Zhang He’s gaze sharpened, and his expression changed. He swiftly picked up a brush from the wooden counter and wrote a line on a paper placard.

This kind of paper placard was actually the stall’s advertisement board, and like the brush, it was an electronic tool, though outwardly indistinguishable. If the placard already had writing, when you wrote on it again after a minute, the previous words would vanish automatically, revealing the new advertisement.

A group of five entered the village. They seemed unremarkable, but the hawker-players, seasoned by years of business, saw through them at a glance.

These three men and two women wore gray-yellow traveler’s garb. None had headgear, but each draped a light cloth cloak over their shoulders, their sashes cinched tight, and their cloth boots bore many scuffs and dark reddish stains.

With these clues, the hawkers on East Street had already surmised: this group, dressed uniformly, must be fellow disciples from a small sect. Yuhua Village was a novice village; it was rare enough to see even minor sect members here. As for major sects—even disciples from nearby Qingcheng were treated with respect in Yizhou City, let alone the legendary elite factions like Shaolin or Wudang.

Moreover, the scuffed boots suggested they’d traveled far, and the dried bloodstains implied encounters with violence along the way. Adding up these details, it was clear they were likely on a quest to Qingluan Peak and, after their long journey, would need to purchase supplies in Yuhua Village.

Of course, everyone had eyes, but clinching a sale took genuine skill.

So the hawker-players shouted and hawked noisily, each trying to attract buyers. Duck Neck’s voice, in particular, thundered above the rest: “Sesame bun, green-cap buns, buy one get one free! Sir, come over and take a look! My buns are superb—soft skin, luscious filling, charming as a snake, just like my little wife back home...”

The chorus of shouts was overwhelming. As the group of five reached Zhang He’s stall, they finally stopped.

Because on Zhang He’s placard, the advertisement was not only concise but downright arrogant: “Selling medicine. Buy it or don’t, I don’t care.”

And Zhang He himself sat there with an indifferent air.

The leader was a middle-aged man with a sword at his waist. Amused, he said, “Sisters, come look at this. Strange things happen every year, but this year there seem to be more than ever. Here’s someone selling medicine as if others have to beg him for it. Let’s see what sort of miraculous pills he’s offering.”

Zhang He’s tactic worked brilliantly. In fact, his assessment was sharper than Duck Neck’s: this party was probably a group of level 20-something, first-rebirth players. According to game rules, before the first rebirth, each level-up grants 5 attribute points, so with 100 attribute points distributed across Constitution, Strength, Vitality, Inner Force, Agility, Will, and Courage—about 14 points each—and with one point equaling five HP, their HP would be around 70. With such constitution, lasting long on Qingluan Peak would be risky.

Of course, someone might have higher levels, but sects had their own attribute requirements, not necessarily focused solely on Constitution.

If these people had stopped here, it meant their martial arts weren’t focused on external strength, but likely on agility and inner force.

This intricate reasoning was something the other hawkers simply couldn’t replicate.

Now that the swordsman had stopped, Zhang He was confident—he had over a seventy percent chance to close this sale.

The sample pill was quickly handed to the swordsman. It was black and shiny, much like a hawthorn ball. Upon seeing its properties, the swordsman’s eyes lit up:

“Garlic Supreme: Restores 5 Constitution per second for 30 seconds.”

The swordsman sighed, “Now I understand why your sign says ‘buy it or don’t.’ This is truly good medicine!”

His appreciation was well-founded. Currently, the only Constitution potion in the official apothecary was the Small Blood Vial, restoring 1 Constitution per second for 10 copper coins apiece. Even in town, the Medium Blood Vial restored only 2 per second for 15 copper coins each. Official potions were beyond the reach of most, so player-made medicine was in high demand.

By comparison, Garlic Supreme’s value was evident.

The swordsman looked at Zhang He with interest. “Are you a combat class or non-combat?”

Zhang He replied coldly, “Are you here to buy medicine or buy information? If it’s information, that’s one copper per question.”

The swordsman laughed—this medicine seller was just his type. “I want both: medicine and information!”

Zhang He nodded. “Combat class.”

The group was surprised. Combat-class players could only learn two life-skills, while life-class players could learn six. Generally, combat players focused on martial training, yet this medicine seller’s Garlic Supreme clearly indicated he had chosen Alchemist as his subclass, and not at a low level.

The swordsman asked curiously, “What level are you?”

Zhang He answered coolly, “That’s not for sale.”

The swordsman chuckled. “Very well. What’s your price for this medicine?”

“Forty copper coins per pill,” Zhang He replied.

All five drew sharp breaths. The swordsman’s tone cooled. “That’s expensive.”

Zhang He ignored him, merely pointing at the placard: “Buy it or don’t.”

The swordsman couldn’t help but smile again. “How about this—I’ll take fifty pills, thirty copper coins each.”

“If you buy a hundred, I might consider it,” Zhang He replied.

The other four looked at the swordsman, their eyes showing both eagerness for the medicine and concern at the price.

The swordsman was straightforward. “No room to negotiate?”

“Almost none,” Zhang He said.

The swordsman grew anxious; he needed the medicine, or their trip to Qingluan Peak would be doomed. “Thirty-five copper coins per pill, I’ll take sixty, and buy information as well. We can team up and take you up the mountain—any loot, you get a share. We’re here to increase our chivalry points; as long as you don’t die, I won’t short you a penny. My offer is fair—think it over.”

In these times, no one was a fool. The swordsman could tell Zhang He was a novice, probably around level ten.

He’d been a beginner himself once; the struggles of new players were well known to him. Below level twenty, if you trained solo, you could only kill chickens or mice near the village, or queue for chores from Auntie West Street. As for Qingluan Peak, you’d best not even dream—boars there would trample you, because without money, medicine, or gear, you were simply powerless.

The saying went: “The economic base determines the superstructure.” The realism of "Dynasty" was not just in its immersive world, but in its mirroring of real-world principles—whether in reality or virtuality, money and social connections always decided your fate.

To make Garlic Supreme, Zhang He had gone to great lengths to gather ingredients through various channels. Were it not for the pressing urgency of his rent, he’d never have lowered his price, which was already fair—these people simply didn’t recognize its value.

Yet the swordsman’s offer, while not generous, presented a chance worth taking. Zhang He’s level was indeed low, and he was eager to enjoy the privileges the neural system granted new players once more.

“Deal!” Zhang He nodded.

The swordsman reached out and sent a team invitation. “Welcome aboard!”

Zhang He shook his hand, but his brows remained furrowed. Two taels of silver plus a hundred copper—converted to real money, that was barely fifty yuan at the current black market rate. He’d need ten such buyers in five days—two a day—to make rent, and he didn’t even have enough Garlic Supreme in stock to fill such orders. Rent remained a distant dream, just out of reach.

Next to him, Duck Neck looked on enviously. Look at this guy’s business—earning money, leveling up, and getting gear all at once! I’ve been shouting for two days and haven’t made a hundred copper, but this guy’s only stood here for half an hour and already pocketed two taels of pure silver. Really, people can’t be compared!