Once the ghost wagon left Rockrun’s valley, the road widened.
The gravel road became a dirt road. The mountains on either side fell away, revealing a vast expanse of sky. Sunlight spilled through gaps in the clouds, landing in patches across the grass like someone had knocked over a tray of gold coins.
The black cat merchant leaned against the wagon bed, legs swinging, turning the Duskmark Glowstone over and over in his hand. He had already unwrapped it from the rough cloth. Its deep purple color looked even richer in the sunlight, while the luminous veins within it flowed slowly, like a river taking an afternoon nap.
“How am I supposed to sell this?” he muttered, raising the glowstone to eye level and peering at the sun through it with one eye narrowed. “Selling the whole thing would be a shame. The luminous veins are so intact that cutting it would ruin it. But if I sell it whole, there aren’t many buyers who can afford the price...”
Lolo’s leftmost head glanced back at him.
“You’re right. No need to rush.” He wrapped the glowstone in the cloth again and stuffed it into his leather satchel. “Good things are meant to wait for the right person. Master used to say that the best medicinal ingredients shouldn’t go to the highest bidder, but to the person who needs them most—and of course, the person who needs them most can usually afford the highest price, too.”
He chuckled at his own words, then pulled the note from his leather satchel and read it again.
“By Slime Marsh, a slime town.” He read it aloud, a light note of anticipation in his voice. “Lolo, have you ever been to a place inhabited by slimes?”
All three of Lolo’s heads shook at once.
“Neither have I.” He tucked the note back into his notebook, leaned backward, and lay down on the wagon bed. His two tails hung over the side, swaying with the wagon’s rocking. “But I’ve heard there’s a famous ice cream shop there.”
Lolo’s rightmost head perked up its ears.
“It’s supposed to be really famous.” He gestured with a finger. “Last time I ran into a traveling merchant at a border market, he said the shop used slime mucus as the base for its ice cream. The texture was completely different from ordinary ice cream—smooth, incredibly smooth. It melted the moment it entered your mouth, but afterward it left a cool film on your tongue. The coolness lasted half an hour.”
Lolo’s leftmost head stuck out its tongue and licked its lips.
“And apparently the owner is a young man who built the whole business from scratch by himself.” His tone grew a little more serious. “Think about it. He opened an ice cream shop in slime territory, where the climate is hot and humid and the marsh is practically saturated with moisture. Ordinary ice cream would melt before it could hold together. If he can make ice cream that doesn’t melt, he must really know his stuff.”
He rolled over onto his stomach, rested his chin on the back of his hand, and watched the road ahead. The dirt road began sloping downward. The distant horizon blurred, and a trace of damp sweetness entered the air—the scent of the marsh.
“Once we get there, we’re eating ice cream first,” he told Lolo, his tone like he was announcing an extremely important decision. “Then we’ll go find the person who needs those acid burns treated. You eat before doing business. That’s the rule.”
Lolo’s middle head sneezed, as if expressing some kind of opinion.
“You get a share, too,” he added. “One bite per head. Fair’s fair.”
All three of Lolo’s heads turned toward him at once, six eyes gleaming. Then she picked up her pace, and the ghost wagon’s speed noticeably increased. Its wheels rolled over the dirt road without making a sound.
The sudden acceleration jolted the black cat merchant, nearly sliding him off the wagon bed. He grabbed the edge and laughed.
“What’s the rush? We’ve still got half a day to go.”
But he didn’t make Lolo slow down.
The farther south they went, the denser the vegetation became. Dry grassland gave way to mossy ground glittering with water. Tree roots sat submerged in shallow pools, while strands of translucent vines hung from the trunks like frozen drool. The air grew stickier and stickier, and the black cat merchant’s fur began to puff up slightly—he didn’t like humidity. A cat’s instincts.
He dug a wide-brimmed straw hat out of the wagon and put it on, pulling the brim low. His ears poked through holes on either side. He had modified the hat himself, specifically leaving room for them.
“Gran said they’re looking for a merchant who can treat acid burns,” he thought as he adjusted the hat. “Slime bodily fluids are mildly acidic by nature, so they wouldn’t normally be burned by them. But if it’s an outside source of strong acid... or if something went wrong with their own bodily fluids...”
He pulled out his little notebook, flipped to a blank page, and began writing:
“Slime town. To be confirmed: source of acid burns—external injury? Internal cause? Environment? Need to understand the situation before prescribing anything. Brought abrasive compound made from stone-eating bug shell residue; may be useful for acid-base neutralization. Leave the Duskmark Glowstone untouched for now. Wait and see.”
When he finished, he added another line beneath it:
“Ice cream shop owner—a good person to ask about the local situation. Start there.”
He closed the notebook and tucked it back into his leather satchel.
At the end of the road ahead, the outline of the marsh began to emerge. A thin layer of mist floated over the water, and something glowed within it—not the light of ore, but a softer, jelly-like light that flickered here and there, scattered across the marsh.
The black cat merchant sat up straight and narrowed his eyes as he looked ahead.
The lights were moving.
They drifted slowly through the marsh. Some were as large as washbasins, while others were as small as fists, and they came in all sorts of colors—pale blue, light green, pink, and transparent. Their shapes constantly shifted, like clumps of water rolling along the ground. Every now and then, one would extend something like a tentacle to poke at the grass beside it, then retract it.
“We’re here.” The black cat merchant stood up. His two tails rose straight into the air, and his ears spun in several directions.
He took a deep breath. The air was sweet, with a hint of sourness, like some fruit that hadn’t ripened yet.
Lolo stopped at the edge of the marsh. Her three heads lowered to sniff the ground, then all sneezed at once. Her paws stepped onto the wet, yielding moss, finally kicking up the tiniest splash of water. Even ghosts couldn’t leave absolutely no trace here.
The black cat merchant jumped down from the wagon. His paws sank into the soft mud, and his pads stuck for a moment with a wet plop. He looked down at his mud-covered paws and wrinkled his nose.
Then he raised his head and saw the town.
It wasn’t carved into a mountainside like Rockrun. Instead, it sprawled across the marsh like a puddle of spilled paint. The buildings were round and translucent, like enormous drops of water solidified on the ground. Some of their surfaces flowed slowly, colors spreading from one end to the other like something alive.
There was no gate at the town entrance, and no gatekeeper. Only a crooked wooden sign, its lettering blurred a little by the damp, though still readable:
“Welcome to Jelly Town. Please don’t step on the residents.”
The black cat merchant stared at the sign, the corners of his mouth slowly curling upward.
He glanced back at Lolo. All three of her heads were watching a pale blue slime slowly moving along the ground with six eyes, their expressions caught somewhere between curiosity and confusion.
“Don’t step on anyone,” he said.
Then he walked into Jelly Town, the ears beneath his straw hat swiveling nonstop and his two tails held high like flags flying in the wind. Warm