Dimensional Trader: From F Rank To Top Trader-Chapter 47 - 46: Buyers Remorse

Frank squinted against the morning sun as he stepped out of the apartment.

His coat was half-buttoned, his hair still refusing to lie flat, and he was muttering to himself about Juliet, system flags, and why every meaningful cosmic event in his life happened before breakfast.

"I just wanted to sleep," he grumbled, tugging his hood over his head. "Just one day. No curses. No contracts. Maybe a breakfast burrito."

The streets were calm—mercifully. A few hunters on hoverboards zipped by, and some old guy was shouting at a floating vending machine for stealing his tokens.

Frank crossed two blocks and slipped into the corner stall bakery where the bread didn’t taste like ration chalk.

Five minutes later, he walked out with a foil-wrapped sandwich and a steaming cup of decent coffee. Victory.

For five minutes.

Until someone fell into step beside him.

"Trader Frank Hagan?"

Frank didn’t look up. Just kept walking.

"I don’t do interviews."

"No interview," the voice said smoothly. "Just business. Trade to trade."

Frank slowed.

Turned.

The man beside him looked... ordinary. Clean jacket. No visible weapons. Wristband covered in golden thread—older model. He held a flat, sealed envelope made of shimmering crystal fiber.

Frank’s system pinged.

> [Trade Offer Detected – Tier Marked: Counter-Trade Eligible]

[Sender: Trader Kael of Verdale Loom]

Frank arched an eyebrow. "I’ve been flagged for three hours. You people really don’t sleep, do you?"

Kael smiled. "First to bid. First to earn."

He offered the envelope.

"I represent a minor trading house. My employer would like a contract exchange—knowledge for a delivery job. Nothing binding. But it would mark you as... cooperative."

Frank took the envelope but didn’t open it.

His eyes narrowed. "You approach me on the street. In my realm. Uninvited. And the first thing you offer is a job with clauses hidden in it?"

Kael’s eyes glittered. "I offer what the system allows."

> [This trade is classified as a "Soft Bounty Claim." If accepted, you forfeit leverage in one open challenge tier.]

Frank handed it back.

"No."

Kael tilted his head. "You haven’t even looked at the reward."

"I’ve been in this game long enough to know that if the wrapping’s fancy, the curse is ugly."

Frank turned to walk away.

Kael’s voice followed: "The others won’t be this polite."

Frank stopped.

Turned back.

"Oh, I’m counting on it."

He smiled, cold and sharp.

"Because I don’t trade fear. I trade outcomes. And next time someone tries to bait me..."

He tapped his wristband.

> [Counter-Counter Status: Armed]

"...they better be ready to pay me."

> Realm: Clawspire Dunes – Throne of Salt and Bone

The heat shimmered over the black stone towers of the Beastkin Wastes. Beneath the great sun-bleached tusks of the council spire, Thornax, Warlord-Trader of Clawspire, sat on a throne made of petrified dragon vertebrae.

He didn’t wear armor.

He was armor—eight feet of broad, fur-matted muscle wrapped in beast-hide and half-rusted war medals. One tusk was gold-plated. His claws drummed lazily against the armrest, denting the metal every time.

Kael knelt before him, sweating in the dry heat.

"I made the offer," Kael said. "As instructed. Flagged him under soft bounty. Neutral tone. Package sealed with triple wards."

"And?" Thornax growled.

Kael hesitated. "He rejected it without opening it."

The throne creaked.

The air thickened.

"He said," Kael added quickly, "’if the wrapping’s fancy, the curse is ugly.’"

There was a long silence.

Then Thornax let out a deep, rolling laugh.

"He learns fast."

Kael blinked. "You’re not... upset?"

"I am," Thornax said, standing slowly. "But not because he rejected you. I’m upset because I underestimated him."

He stepped forward, each movement radiating heat and weight.

"You said he was clever. I thought you meant clever like a mage."

Thornax turned toward a rack of bound scrolls and leather-bound crates.

"But he’s clever like a merchant."

"Then shall I—"

"No," Thornax interrupted. "No more soft moves. Traders will crawl over themselves to break him now. Sarina’s foolish bounty will draw out the greedy."

He opened one crate, pulling out a glowing strip of mana-rich pelt. It pulsed with power—beautiful, dangerous.

"He’s already survived Moggrel and Zaruun. If he survives the next five bids..."

Thornax tossed the pelt on the table with a heavy thud.

"...I want him trading with me."

Kael looked up, uncertain. "You want to make him an ally? After he refused you?"

Thornax’s eyes gleamed.

"If a man tells you no and survives the consequences, he’s worth listening to."

He leaned forward, voice low and certain.

"Send him a real offer. Not a wrapped trap."

"And if he refuses again?"

Thornax grinned, all teeth and raw hunger.

"Then we take his realm... and trade it for scraps."

***

Frank pushed open his apartment door with his elbow and kicked it shut behind him, balancing a foil-wrapped breakfast sandwich, lukewarm coffee, and a plastic bag with soap, duct tape, and three new power cells.

The kind of trip that was supposed to be boring.

And after everything that had happened lately?

Boring sounded like a vacation.

He dropped the bag on the counter and exhaled deeply.

"No bounty hunters. No curses. No spontaneous rune-etching. Good morning."

He shed his coat, draped it over a chair, and wandered into the kitchen, pausing only to side-eye the sticky note Juliet had left weeks ago:

> ’Wipe down your gear at least once. Blood does not count as polish.’

He stuck it to the fridge door with a magnet shaped like a screaming banana and went to work.

Frank was barefoot, wearing mismatched socks, and scrubbing a mana-burned skillet with Earth soap and a rune-damp cloth.

The skillet sparked once, glowed faintly green, then sizzled harmlessly as he muttered, "I told you, no more soul eggs in my cookware."

He rinsed it, dried it, and stacked it beside a chipped teapot marked "DO NOT HEAT IN SPIRIT FORM."

Then he opened his inventory chest—a real one, not a system screen—and started sorting through trade clutter.

A cracked chi-armor glove (still warm).

A bottle labeled "Fae Tears – Do Not Mix with Sad Music."

A coupon for one (1) free hug signed by Moggrel.

And a sealed envelope from Zaruun with a wax stamp that just read "Not Yet."

He stared at it, then carefully tucked it away into his "Deal With Later" box.

Then he turned to his real desk

Frank sat in front of his glowing trade dashboard, crunching numbers.

"Alright. Two bulk orders pending to the Sky Isles. One special request from the Tarka martial market—wait, why does he want... six yoga mats?"

He tapped through shipping options, scribbled pricing notes on a pad covered in food stains, and then labeled a package:

TO: Y’tani the Bloomed

INCLUDES: Limited batch Earth mulch, herbal incense sticks, and three handwritten compliments.

Frank shook his head. "I swear, this realm trades like a therapy garden."

A soft beep interrupted him.

> "Reminder: You’ve been sitting too long. Stretch or suffer."

He rolled his eyes. "You know, I built you to handle logistics. Not guilt."

Frank stepped out onto the small balcony, sipping coffee gone lukewarm. The city skyline stretched ahead—soft blue haze over distant towers, power lines humming like lullabies.

He leaned his elbows on the railing, gaze drifting.

For once, no pings. No contract alerts. No system whispers trying to bait him into godhood through trickery.

Just the distant sound of traffic, a kid’s laughter somewhere two floors below, and the smell of cheap toaster waffles from the apartment next door.

And in that moment—he remembered.

His family’s shop had been a real mess. Crooked sign. Worn counters. A bell above the door that rang three seconds late.

Hagan & Son – Not Just Junk (Mostly Junk)

He’d hated the name.

His dad had loved it.

"Frankie," his dad used to say, "people don’t come here for quality. They come here for deals they can laugh about later."

He remembered the sound of the receipt printer jamming. The time his mom bartered three radios for a guitar they couldn’t play. The way his dad made every sale feel like a secret handshake.

No glowing screens. No ranked hunters stomping around in mana armor. Just trade. Pure and clumsy and human.

They hadn’t known what was coming.

The first time a system window had ever opened in front of them, Frank had been fifteen. Still reeking of solder and old battery acid. He’d thought it was a prank—until a hunter crashed through their alley wall two days later chasing something that bled shadows.

Life shifted after that.

Not all at once.

But completely.

Back in the present, Frank’s fingers gripped the coffee cup a little tighter.

"I liked it better when trade was messy," he murmured. "When it was face-to-face. No system audits. No realm taxes. Just haggling and handshakes."

He took a breath.

Let it out slowly.

Then turned back toward the apartment.

He passed the kitchen, brushing a hand over the fridge as he walked by. A photo was pinned there—old, slightly water-warped.

Him. His parents. Dusty smiles. A crooked shop sign in the background.

He stared at it for a long second.

"Still trading, old man," he whispered. "Still not folding."

The sun hung low over the city skyline, casting a bronze glow on the rooftops. Down below, Earth’s version of normal still thrived—cafes opening, runners jogging, a local merchant trying to sell bootleg mana crystals to teenagers.

Frank watched for a while, sipping reheated coffee.

For just a moment... this felt like a life he could hold on to.

Peaceful. Manageable. Slightly ridiculous.

Then came the knock.

Slow. Steady. Intentional.

Frank lowered the mug.

He didn’t move right away.

Then calmly he reached under the coffee table, pulled out a short blade laced with shimmer-thread, and stood.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t flinch either.

"...And there goes the morning."