Raven logged in inside Ironmoss Citadel, nestled among the windswept sas of the Stoneweft Plateau. The capital of the Cindraleth Union still buzzed with the quiet aftermath of mass player logouts that had followed the Throne War rollback. The controversial patch had been deleted. The version had been reset. The chaos muted.
As always outside dungeons, Raven wore his default summoner gear—plain robes, low-tier armor, and the twin blades strapped at his sides. He kept the Cursed Chain hidden, along with Tattered Cloak of the Phantom Seer garb and anything remotely tied to his dungeon identity. Special gear was reserved for raids and boss fights. Out here, in the cities, blending in was survival.
He looked like any other mid-tier summoner passing through.
That was the point.
And now, he had no reason to linger.
This was just a pit stop. A mont of calm before his next dungeon subjugation.
He wasn’t here for nostalgia.
He was here to move.
Before the Throne War, before the rollback, his target had been clear: Thornspine Estate.
A dungeon buried deep in the lowlands, overgrown with vines and saturated in toxic fog. It didn’t drop weapons. It didn’t yield armor. But it bled potion-grade reagents and poison sacs in droves—exactly the kind of materials he used to mass-produce consumables back at Goblin Nest.
The Goblin operation was long burned. Thornspine was ant to be the replacent.
And now, with the rollback in place and attention elsewhere, it was ti to finish what he started.
After the chaos of the Throne War, public attention finally shifted.
The Emberstone Massacre—the incident that had once put Raven under Titan Corp’s quiet suspicion—was fading into the background.
Which ant freedom.
Which ant power.
Raven could now safely deploy assets he had kept hidden:
The Emberforge Titan from Emberstone Burrow — a siege-class boss, long unseen.
The Root-Soul Ascendant from Vault of the Rootbound — his personal clone-generating warlord.
The Ironbark Seneschal — a living bastion and debuffer, able to patch the gaps in his evolving army.
He had the pieces.
He had the forces.
He had a rising, silent dominion.
But now, a new enemy erged:
Oversupply.
One account.
Fifty sale slots.
That was the hard cap for every player in Primordial Abyss’s market system.
No exceptions.
His rchant alt account—dedicated solely to moving dungeon loot—was already choked every day.
And the flood was only growing worse:
Basic dungeon ingredients.
Rare crafting ores.
Elite monster cores.
Alchemical reagents.
The Vault of the Rootbound dungeons yielded items in bulk. His Emberstone Burrow operation still bled fire resistance materials daily. Even old dungeons like Bone Ruins and Hollow Fang were passively churning trash and treasures alike. Not to ntion Veilshade Catacombs and Hollow Fang Den.
And yet, he wanted to subjugate a dungeon for his new line of potion and poison production
At this pace, Raven realized, he wasn’t just managing a black-market boutique anymore.
He was drowning in product.
And worse—he was wasting ti.
He refused to beco another desperate grinder — logging in 24/7, hustling pennies like a beggar.
That was not survival.
That was not sovereignty.
He needed a system.
He had considered joining a rchant guild once.
Not for friendship. Not for raids. Just access to a better stall.
It would’ve solved the sale slot problem—piggyback off soone else’s infrastructure, slip items into their stall rotation, maybe even hide his listings beneath theirs.
But there was one problem.
Visibility.
He couldn’t afford it.
rchant guilds ant rosters. Records. Eyes.
Soone would notice when a lone summoner started funneling raid-class materials into the economy without ever showing up on the boss leaderboards. Soone would trace the loot tags. Check the dungeon logs. Ask the wrong questions.
And if they connected him to the wrong identity—if the devs realized he was fielding dungeon bosses instead of standard summons?
That wasn’t just a ban.
That was deletion.
Total wipe.
So no. Joining an existing guild was suicide dressed as convenience.
Then he considered the other option: starting his own.
Yes, starting his own guild had crossed his mind — but the idea was tossed aside almost imdiately.
Yes, guilds had a distinct advantage: they ca with expanded marketplace privileges. More mbers ant more sales slots—a shared guild stall could list triple or even quadruple what a single player could manage alone. It was tempting. Efficient. The kind of loophole any sane rchant would exploit.
But Raven wasn’t just any rchant.
Primordial Abyss required five players to form one guild—and Raven didn’t have a single na on his friend list. Trusting others ant opening doors, accepting questions, tolerating noise. Guild chat. Party invites. Mandatory raids. Help with this. Join for that. Distractions, dressed as favors.
Worse—guildmates talked. And he already had a team: Emberforge Titan, Root-Soul Ascendant, Ironbark Seneschal, Phantom Seer, Duskrunner. Dungeon bosses. Not companions you bragged about in Discord.
The idea of a guild? Heh. Laughable.
He didn’t need friends.
He needed silence. Control. Sovereignty.
He needed sothing else.
Sothing already established.
Sothing small, dying, forgotten.
Sothing he could control without ever showing his face.
He needed a rchant.
A true businessman.
Soone who didn’t care about politics, raids, or fa.
Soone who lived for the market.
Soone who would ask no questions about where the flood of rare goods ca from, as long as the profits kept rising.
Not a partner.
Not a friend.
A rchant who would unknowingly plant the first seed of his empire.
Raven pulling up the guild listings one by one.
Dead rchant guilds.
Empty stalls.
Forgotten nas.
It was ti to choose a graveyard.
And plant the first poisoned seed inside it.
Raven leaned back inside the capsule, his body drifting in zero-pressure stasis.
Only his mind moved—sharp, restless, focused.
The auction boards glowed before him in layered screens, data spiraling as he scrolled.
He had no ill will toward the Cindraleth Union or the Velkarin Axis. But ridian Fold made more practical sense. Thornspine Estate—his next dungeon conquest—was nestled deep within the Gilded Thorns zone, and the Fold’s most active trade hub, Virenthyre, sat right in that sa region.
If Thornspine bled potions and poison materials like he expected, then Virenthyre would be the bloodstream to carry them straight into the hands of thirsty buyers. No need for risky shipping or cross-zone black market deals.
It was efficiency incarnate.
Like planting your farm in your pharmacist’s backyard.
He needed to stay close. But not exposed.
First, the obvious:
Glassein Court — capital of the ridian Fold.
A-tier stalls.
High-traffic, high-rent, high-risk.
The ruling rchant syndicates prowled there like sharks. Any sudden activity from a new face would be dissected, catalogued, targeted.
Raven swiped them away without hesitation.
Next:
Virenthyre — Trade Capital of the Gilded Thorns.
B-tier stalls.
A tempting hub: lush markets, poison pacts, canopy cities buzzing with craft guilds.
But saturated. Watched.
Big rchant guilds—extensions of strear collectives or massive factions with over a hundred active mbers—had already carved it into pieces.
He needed sothing less obvious.
Sowhere prestigious enough to offer cover—
but forgotten enough that no one would be watching.
Finally, his gaze dropped to House Seravin — the ancestral manor-city of Serravelle Verge, zone that neighboring Gilded Thorns.
Technically a C-tier location.
But still wrapped in the velvet of old prestige.
House Seravin was a na that lingered in the mind like fine wine:
noble blood, gilded corridors. The kind of place that made even casual players straighten their posture as they walked—just to feel like they belonged.
To the casual buyer, a rchant stall operating under Seravin’s crest would still feel exclusive, even if buried three halls past the main market.
Perfect.
He pulled up the rchant guild listings specific to House Seravin’s marketplace.
Dead guilds.
Empty kiosks.
One by one, he eliminated them:
Stalls with only white-grade trash.
White to green low level gear.
Beginner-level potions that barely restored HP or MP.
Then, one caught his eye.
A small stall tucked deep within the third pronade.
Not a splashy presence.
No banners.
No sponsorships.
But the inventory—
He scrolled carefully.
Blues—not rare, but uncommon for this district.
Purples—a few, mixed in quietly.
All items priced exactly 20% above the current market average.
Curious, Raven pulled up the stall’s transaction history over the past month.
Consistent, low-volu sales.
No sudden price crashes.
No desperate dumping of inventory.
Whoever managed the stall understood basic market behavior — steady hands, no panic.
Professional.
Quiet.
Exactly the kind of operator he could use.
Not greedily.
Not stupidly.
Just smart enough to maximize profit without scaring off casual luxury buyers.
Raven tapped the guild roster, letting the data scroll past his eyes in cold silence.
One online.
Seventy-four offline.
No new recruits.
No sponsorship banners.
No expansion notices.
A dead guild running on habit and dust.
He thought carefully.
If this guy was smart, if he had even half a brain for the market—
then Raven needed to be careful.
Too direct, and the rchant would get suspicious.
Too aggressive, and he’d scare him into closing the door.
Too subtle, and he’d miss the window altogether.
He needed the perfect approach:
Soft enough to seem harmless.
Sharp enough to create reliance.
Quiet enough to slip in, anchor, and take root without a whisper.
Raven scrolled back to the guild leader field.
Theo.
Simple na.
Simple profile.
But Raven had learned the basic rule of guild life in ga:
"Never underestimate the ones who stays online when everyone else is gone."
He stared at the screen a mont longer, calculating possibilities.
No alarms.
No sudden moves.
He would approach this as a client.
A small rchant looking for selling space.
Unimportant.
Disposable.
He would offer nothing threatening.
Just opportunity.
Let Theo think it was his idea to let Raven in.
After all, no empire ever started with an invasion.
It started with a handshake.
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