Chapter 7: 7. The Merchant’s Shadow
The morning broke clear, sunlight draping itself over the village fields. Goats bleated lazily near the fences, farmers bent to the soil with ease, and children's laughter rang from under the oak tree where lessons were about to begin.
It felt… settled. Alive. Almost ordinary.
He let himself savor that illusion for a while. The firewall shimmered faintly at the edge of his vision, a guardian no villager even noticed anymore. The irrigation channels ran steady, crops flourished in neat rows. Even the crude houses had begun sprouting improvements—stone foundations, sturdier roofs—all sparked from his experiments.
For once, things were working.
Then he heard it. The faint creak of a cart, the jangle of metal fittings. A sound out of place.
He turned. Down the forest road, a mule-drawn wagon rolled into view. The driver was cloaked, hat shadowing his face. But the moment he crossed into the firewall, the wards shivered.
Unauthorized. Not hostile—yet—but unfamiliar.
The man lifted his head. "Well, now. This is unexpected." His voice was calm, practiced. A merchant's drawl.
Villagers emerged from their homes, murmuring. Strangers were rare here; most roads bent far around the forgotten valley.
Maren strode forward, wary but polite. "What brings you this way, traveler?"
The merchant smiled easily, eyes sharp despite his genial tone. "Trade. Word in the last town said a little village here thrives while others scrape by. Fine crops, sturdy goods, safe borders. Thought I'd see for myself."
The programmer's stomach knotted. Already, rumors.
The villagers welcomed the man cautiously. They brought him food, asked what wares he carried. Spices, trinkets, bolts of cloth—things they hadn't seen in years.
But the merchant's gaze kept straying. To the impossibly green fields. To the children scratching logic puzzles in the dirt. To the faint shimmer in the air, visible only when the sun caught it at the right angle.
Too observant.
That night, while most celebrated the visitor with roasted goat and song, he found himself shadowing the merchant's cart. Peeking.
The man wasn't just a trader. His bags carried parchment scrolls filled with glyphs, worn prayer beads, and a small emblem—silver, stamped with a circle-and-flame motif.
A temple sigil. Minor order, perhaps, but unmistakable.
A priest hiding as a merchant. Or maybe both.
The programmer's pulse quickened. Religion. Authority. Systems older than his code. If they learned what he was doing here—rewriting their "gods' laws" as if they were faulty scripts—would they see him as savior… or heretic?
The next day, the merchant watched his lessons under the oak.
He let the children explain instead, curious what an outsider would see.
"Oracle taught us rules!" a girl chirped. "Like… if it rains, then the river fills. If the river fills, then the crops grow!"
She scratched a crude diagram in the dirt, proud.
The merchant leaned down, brows lifting. "Logic. Interesting way to teach."
Another boy waved a pebble. "And look, he can make stones float!"
The pebble rose with a flicker of glyphs only the programmer could see. The children squealed in delight.
The merchant's eyes, though—they didn't widen in awe. They narrowed in calculation.
Later, when the villagers scattered, the man approached him. Alone.
"You hide power in clever words," the merchant said softly. "Not incantations. Not prayers. Something… else."
He fought to keep his expression neutral. "Just tricks. Teaching children to think."
The man chuckled, low. "Oh, I've seen tricks. Yours aren't tricks. They're systems. Patterns. You're not chanting spells—you're… editing them."
The word cut like a blade.
Editing. Debugging. Hacking.
The merchant's eyes gleamed. "Careful, Oracle. The temples do not look kindly on those who tamper with the divine."
That night, he couldn't sleep. He stood again at the firewall's edge, watching the shimmer dance against the stars.
The system felt fragile suddenly. Not the code itself—that held fine—but the secrecy.
One whisper from that man, one report to the wrong ears, and his sanctuary became a beacon. Villagers could be branded heretics, crops burned as "unnatural," children taken as wards of the temple.
He clenched his fists. He had wanted peace. To build, to teach, to grow. But peace was a system too—and all systems eventually faced intrusion.
Behind him, Maren's voice broke the silence. "You don't trust him."
"No," he admitted.
She stepped closer, arms folded. "He smells profit. All merchants do. But you think he smells more."
He glanced at her. In the moonlight, her face was firm, unreadable. He envied that steadiness.
"If he spreads word," he said slowly, "this village changes. Not tomorrow, not the next day—but soon. And not in ways we want."
Maren didn't flinch. "Then what will you do, Oracle?"
He stared into the dark forest, mind racing. Firewalls could keep beasts at bay. Lessons could shape children into thinkers. But systems couldn't stop human ambition.
For the first time, he wondered if he needed more than defenses.
Maybe he needed a counter-script. Not just to protect the village—but to mask it.
Not just firewalls. Illusions. Obfuscation. A cloak for the code itself.
And as that idea settled into his mind, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: the peaceful days were drawing to an end.
The merchant had arrived. Others would follow.
The system was being probed.
And soon, someone would try to break it.
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