Gardener of Eden

Chapter 32: Chapter 32: Sold Out

With the five cloth-lined crates stacked safely in the backyard, Rowan called his father over. Together, they carried the boxes two at a time out to the front driveway, where the sturdy wooden handcart stood waiting.

Arthur hoisted the heavier E-Grade boxes with practiced ease, arranging them flat across the reinforced base of the cart. Rowan settled the fifth box—the delicate D-Grade specialty crop—right in the middle, wedging it firmly between the larger wooden frames so it wouldn’t shift or rattle during transport.

”That’s a solid load, son,” Arthur said, giving the cart’s side rail a firm shake to test the balance. Satisfied, he tied a thick hemp rope across the top, securing the crates against any sudden bumps on the road. ”Everything is locked tight.”

Martha walked out, locking the front door behind her and looping a woven sun hat around her neck. She smoothed down her apron, her eyes shining as she looked over the neatly packed cart. ”The morning air is perfect. If we move now, we’ll secure our assigned corner plot before the early-bird crowd fills the main avenue.”

Rowan took his spot at the rear of the handcart to stabilize the weight, while Arthur took the front handles, leaning into the push. The wheels creaked smoothly against the pavement as they rolled out of the driveway.

The streets of their neighborhood were just beginning to wake up under the soft golden hues of the early morning sun. Shopkeepers were rolling up their shutters, and the sweet smell of toasted grain and brewed tea drifted from open kitchen windows. As they neared the central district, the quiet streets gave way to the distant, lively hum of the district farmer’s market.

Rows of canopy tents were already springing up across the cobblestone plaza, filled with the bustling sound of vendors unloading crates, setting out brass scales, and calling out to early morning shoppers. Rowan adjusted the coin belt around his waist and kept a steady hand on the cart, ready to claim their space and open up shop.

***

Rowan and his parents arrived at their assigned corner plot near the central fountain of the district market plaza, where the morning sun was just beginning to warm the cobblestones.

Unloading the handcart with methodical efficiency, they set up their sturdy folding tables under a crisp, dark-green canvas canopy. Arthur immediately took up his post at the front flank, his arms loosely crossed and his sharp eyes scanning the gathering crowd for any lingering pickpockets or dishonest handlers. Rowan placed a brass ledger box on the far right edge of the counter, seating himself ready with coin trays sorted into neat copper, silver, and gold slots.

Martha carefully laid out the cloth-lined wooden crates, arranging the produce with practiced elegance. The vibrant red E-Grade Tomatoes were stacked into neat pyramids, their skins practically glowing under the morning light. Beside them rested the thick, golden ears of Ignis-Sweet Corn, while a smaller, cushioned tier in the center held the specialized D-Grade produce—the luminous soybeans and ruby coffee cherries radiating a faint, irresistible mana fragrance into the air.

The subtle, concentrated aroma of pure, nutrient-dense mana produce began to drift down the market aisle. It didn’t take long for the morning crowd to notice.

”Look at those tomatoes...” a local woman gasped, stopping in her tracks. She stepped closer to the booth, her eyes wide as she took in the vibrant color and pristine texture. ”I’ve never seen E-Grade produce look so radiant! How much are they?”

”Good morning!” Rowan’s mother greeted her warmly with a bright, welcoming smile. ”These are fresh-harvested E-Grade High-Vitality Tomatoes, perfect for nourishing your family. They’re priced at just eighteen gold pieces per kilogram!”

”Eighteen gold?” a nearby local cook chimed in, rushing over to inspect the Ignis-Sweet Corn. ”For produce with a mana density this pure? That’s incredible value! Give me two kilograms of the tomatoes and three ears of corn!”

”Right this way,” Rowan’s mother said smoothly, expertly weighing the items on a brass scale and placing them into a clean paper bag. ”Rowan will handle your payment!”

The cook stepped up to the counter, handing over a small stack of silver and gold coins. Rowan verified the amount with a quick glance, logged the transaction in his mental tally, and deposited the coins into the register box, handing back precise change in a smooth, fluid motion.

Within fifteen minutes, word of the new independent vendor booth had spread down the main strip. A steady line began forming in front of the stall. Local mothers, mercenary squad leaders looking for stamina boosts, and curious market-goers pushed forward, eager to grab a share of the fresh yield before it sold out.

***

The steady clink of coins into Rowan’s ledger box was abruptly cut off by a harsh, grating voice shouting over the noise of the crowd.

”Out of the way! Move aside!”

A portly man in a soil-stained leather apron shoved his way to the front of the queue, trailing three burly farmhands behind him. It was Garrek, the owner of a massive wholesale produce stall situated at the prime center of the district plaza. His face was flushed red with anger as he pointed a fat, greasy finger at the vibrant pyramids of E-Grade tomatoes and the glowing D-Grade mana-soybeans on Rowan’s counter.

”What is the meaning of this scam?” Garrek sneered, raising his voice so the entire crowd could hear. ”High-Vitality E-Grade for eighteen gold? D-Grade mana-crops sold by an unregistered street vendor? You’re feeding these good people wild, unrefined weeds painted with cheap illusion charms!”

The bustling line fell quiet as shoppers exchanged uneasy glances, stepping back slightly from the counter.

Arthur immediately shifted his weight, taking two quiet, measured steps forward. His hand rested lightly on the grip of the guard baton at his belt, his posture radiating a quiet, dangerous calm that made Garrek’s three farmhands freeze in their tracks.

Before Arthur needed to act, Rowan placed his pen down on the ledger box and stood up slowly. His face was entirely devoid of panic.

”An illusion charm, Master Garrek?” Rowan asked, his voice calm and clear enough to carry across the listening crowd. ”If my crops were masked with low-tier magic, the ambient heat from the morning sun would have disrupted the mana weave an hour ago. But please... test them yourself.”

Rowan reached into the third crate, pulled out a firm, deep-red E-Grade Tomato, and set it on the brass balance scale right in front of the counter.

”You’ve been selling standard civilian produce in this plaza for ten years,” Rowan said evenly. ”You know the weight-to-mana ratio of standard E-Grade stock. Feel the core density. Or better yet, call over the municipal market inspector sitting right across the fountain.”

Garrek sneered, snatching the tomato off the scale with a scowl. He squeezed it slightly, expecting it to turn mushy under pressure or reveal a fake magical residue. Instead, the skin remained impossibly firm, radiating a subtle, clean warmth against his palm. The natural, rich aroma of pure, unadulterated plant vitality filled his senses—so dense that even his farmhands leaned in, their eyes wide with surprise.

Garrek swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. As a veteran merchant, he knew instantly that this crop wasn’t fake—it was a top-tier cultivation that put his own overpriced, low-vitality stock to shame.

”I... well...” Garrek stammered, his face flushing even deeper as the crowd began to whisper and mock his outburst.

”If you’d like to verify our official certification,” Rowan added smoothly, pulling out the official parchment sealed with Professor Vane’s crest from the academy, ”this plot harvest was evaluated and cleared directly by Senior Lecturer Vane of the Royal Agricultural Academy. Would you like to challenge his signature as well?”

At the mention of Professor Vane and the Academy seal, Garrek went pale. Challenging an independent vendor was one thing, but accusing a senior academy master of signing off on fraud would cost him his merchant license by noon.

”No... that won’t be necessary,” Garrek grumbled, hastily dropping the tomato back onto the wooden display cloth. He turned on his heel, glaring at his farmhands. ”What are you three standing around for? Back to the stall! Move!”

The crowd let out a chorus of laughter as Garrek and his crew hurried away, thoroughly humbled.

”Well spoken, kid,” an old mercenary in iron-plated armor chuckled, stepping back up to the counter and tossing a heavy pouch of gold onto Rowan’s ledger box. ”Give me two kilograms of those D-Grade soybeans before these fools buy out your whole stock!”

”Coming right up,” Rowan smiled, taking the gold as his mother resumed weighing the crops and Arthur relaxed his stance, giving Rowan a proud, subtle nod.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of reinforced iron wheels echoing off the plaza cobbles signaled their arrival long before they came into view.

The market crowd parted instinctively as Barney navigated a massive, dark-iron transport vehicle through the narrow central aisle. The cart was clad in thick, rune-etched steel plates that radiated a soft, frosty mist from its internal cold-storage matrix, instantly cooling the humid morning air around it. Sitting up front beside Barney, his thick arms crossed over his leather apron, was Brokk Ironforge himself, his silver beard braided tight and his sharp, steel-gray eyes surveying the market stalls with gruff indifference.

”Look at the size of that rig,” a nearby shopper whispered, pulling their child back as the heavy vehicle came to a smooth halt right beside Rowan’s booth.

Barney hopped down from the driver’s seat with a broad grin, waving at Rowan. ”Hey, Rowan! Perfect timing! Grandpa insisted on coming along to inspect the delivery himself!”

Brokk climbed down with a thud that shook the stone flags beneath his heavy boots. He walked straight past the admiring line of customers, his gaze locking onto Rowan, who stood behind the counter with a calm, welcoming nod.

”Rowan,” Brokk rumbled, his voice cutting through the market chatter like a heavy forge hammer. ”We brought the iron-chilled transport as agreed. Let’s see if your harvest matches the big talk from yesterday.”

Rowan gestured toward the far side of the counter, where crate Box 5 sat lined with extra-thick cotton cloth alongside two additional reinforced wooden crates bearing the Ironforge anvil crest.

”As promised, Master Ironforge,” Rowan said, stepping over to open the latches. ”Eighty percent of my high-grade production yield. Twenty kilograms of D-Grade Luminous Mana-Soybeans and twelve kilograms of D-Grade Stimulant Coffee Cherries.”

Brokk leaned over the crate, his thick, scarred fingers carefully picking up a cluster of the dark ruby coffee cherries. The instant he touched them, his eyes widened slightly. The sheer concentration of pure, unadulterated stamina-restoring mana radiating from the cherries was unmistakable. He then picked up a handful of the Luminous Mana-Soybeans, feeling their dense weight and crisp vitality.

”By the Ancestors...” Brokk muttered under his breath, rolling a soybean between his thick thumb and forefinger. He looked up, a rare, genuine grin breaking through his bushy silver beard. ”This isn’t just standard D-Grade... the mana purity is practically pushing into C-Tier threshold! My furnace apprentices will be working double shifts on these without a single drop of exhaustion!”

He slapped a heavy, calloused hand down onto the wooden frame of the crate with an approving roar.

”Barney! Load ’em up! Get them into the cold chamber before the morning heat affects the mana saturation!”

”On it, Grandpa!” Barney cheered, eagerly hoisting the heavy crates and sliding them into the frosty interior of the iron-chilled cart, securing the insulated heavy steel hatches with a firm latch.

Brokk turned back to Rowan, pulling a sealed parchment contract and a heavy brass stamp from his vest pocket. He stamped the agreement on the counter with a sharp thump, marking the first weekly batch payment as officially cleared and satisfied.

”Batch one of your debt is paid in full, kid,” Brokk declared, giving Rowan a firm, heavy nod of respect. ”If you keep delivering produce of this caliber every weekend, your Grade-C tools will be completely paid off ahead of schedule. We’ll be back same time next week!”

”It’s a deal, Master Ironforge,” Rowan replied smoothly, accepting the stamped parchment. ”See you next weekend.”

As Barney took the reins and the heavy cold-storage cart rumbled back down the plaza aisle, the surrounding market crowd stared in awe—now completely certain that Rowan’s modest family booth was supplying the premier smithy in the entire district.