Luciel set his chopsticks down, his voice calm and measured. "I want twenty of that kind of snake."

Waldo blinked, surprised. "Only twenty?"

Luciel nodded lightly. In truth, he needed just one. One was enough to study, to understand, to see whether such a creature could be domesticated under his control.

For every beast species in this world, only a single individual could be tamed once. The bond formed between tamer and beast was unique and unrepeatable.

Otherwise—Luciel thought faintly—he might have already tamed a dozen rock tortoises, linking them into a vast moving fortress, a mobile continent crawling across the wasteland.

The remaining nineteen snakes, however, had a different purpose. He meant to raise them for the future—small seeds of balance for the ecosystem he envisioned. Trees alone could not form a living forest; they needed animals, life that slithered, breathed, and hunted. Only then could true nature return.

"Twenty…" Waldo frowned slightly. "That's fewer than I expected."

He raised hundreds of these little snakes himself. They fed daily on fresh meat and scraps, growing fat and glossy. The creatures were his pride—his own special breeding stock, often traded to other landlords as rare pets or curiosities.

Luciel took another bite of fried meat, unhurried. "I collect animals to enrich the diversity of my plantation," he said mildly.

"Ah, a plantation." Waldo's brows rose, the tension easing a little. "Then it makes sense."

If someone could afford so many fresh vegetables, it was obvious they must have a plantation. Even he had one—though half the crops there clung to life weakly, taking dozens of days just to sprout.

Luciel pointed at the dish of glistening greens on the table. "How about this for trade?"

Waldo froze. "You mean… green vegetables?"

"Yes."

The city lord's composure cracked. His eyes widened like saucers. The others at the table exchanged looks of disbelief.

Even if Luciel's group was wealthy enough to eat vegetables, they'd never imagined he would trade them. It was one thing to boast with extravagance—it was another to barter away what was rarer than silver.

The hosts murmured among themselves. Every one of them had tried to grow vegetables before; every one of them knew how hard it was to sustain a crop that didn't wilt, didn't turn yellow from the soil's poison, didn't dry from the endless heat.

"Two cabbages," Luciel said evenly, "for twenty of your little white snakes."

The words fell like stones into a still pond.

"Too little," Waldo replied instantly, his pupils narrowing. He wanted more. Much more.

The others whispered—so that dish, those bright green leaves, were called cabbage? The name sounded almost alien in their world of dust and meat.

Luciel met Waldo's gaze with calm indifference. "You should understand," he said softly, "that two cabbages are already an expression of my goodwill."

The little white snakes were interesting, yes—but they were no precious beast. Hardly more valuable than a rabbit, perhaps. For Luciel, it was simply an experiment. And yet, to trade green vegetables? That was generosity beyond measure.

In the wasteland world, fresh greens were as rare and coveted as spices or wine had once been on the old Earth. They were treasures of vitality in a dying world.

Waldo exhaled slowly. "Fine," he said finally. "Two cabbages." His tone turned light again, as though pretending it was no great loss. Thick-skinned as ever.

Another landlord across the table leaned forward eagerly. "Your Excellency, I've caught a triangle-horned sheep. Can I trade two cabbages for it?"

The man's face gleamed with hope. Meat, they all had plenty of. What they craved now were greens—fresh, alive, green like memory.

Luciel's expression remained unchanged. "Only one."

"One?" The man's jaw dropped. His triangle-horned lamb was large, more valuable than Waldo's snakes—why was the exchange rate lower?

Luciel's tone stayed quiet, almost detached. "I don't force anyone."

He lifted his tea calmly and sipped. If the quantity were greater, he might have offered another. But he wasn't here to bargain by emotion.

After a moment of hesitation, the landlord gritted his teeth. "Deal."

Around the room, several gasps broke the silence. To trade a whole sheep for a single cabbage—such luxury was madness. Yet only those with abundance could afford such madness.

For ordinary survivors, even ten heads of cabbage couldn't buy a single sheep. But for the ruling hosts of the Tenth-Floor City, pride was worth less than longing. They missed the taste of life itself.

"I'll also need some cloth," Luciel said suddenly, glancing across the group. "And medicinal herbs. Either can be traded for cabbage as well."

Yue Qinlan noted the shift immediately. Black Tortoise City lacked fabric—badly. Even simple clothing was scarce among the workers.

Technically, they could harvest silk from the red ghost spiders; those creatures spun threads finer than gold. But their silk was a resource of power—woven into cloth, it was as strong as low-grade spirit armor. Far too valuable for common use.

"For cloth…" Waldo rubbed his chin, thinking. "We have some. How many cabbages will you trade for a piece—or for several?"

Most cloth in the wasteland was crude: coarse fur fiber, or thread spun from insect silk. Linen was unheard of; cotton had long vanished. Most people wore beast hides—or nothing at all.

Luciel's gaze stayed steady. "One cabbage for one piece of cloth."

Waldo didn't even hesitate before scoffing. "Impossible. Too little. Cloth costs more than meat. It takes countless hides to weave, and every beast slain for fur is food lost."

Luciel's eyes glimmered faintly. "I wasn't referring to a mature cabbage," he said softly, a faint curve lifting his lips. "I meant… a seedling."

"Seedling?" Waldo's breath caught. The word itself seemed to shimmer in the air.

A seedling was more than food—it was hope. Unlike a harvested vegetable, a seedling held the potential for more. A seedling could multiply. A seedling could transform barren dust into life.

"Yes," Luciel said, voice low and persuasive. "Seedlings. If you can grow them until they bloom and bear seed, you can harvest countless generations."

His tone carried a subtle rhythm, as if whispering a spell of possibility into their minds.

He remembered well—his first crop of cabbage had produced many seeds. And now, with the power of the sixth-level Starlight Realm infusing his land, those seeds sprouted into finger-length shoots within only two or three days. Miracles, by the standards of this dying world.

"I'll trade twenty pieces of cloth," Waldo said suddenly, gritting his teeth. The thought of his dry, dying plantation flickered behind his eyes. If he could obtain these seedlings, maybe he could revive it. Maybe he could restore green to his city.

"I'll offer ten hides!" another voice called.

"Twelve here!"

"Fifteen!"

One after another, the landlords spoke, voices urgent, greedy. They all thought the same thing as Waldo—this was a deal too good to miss. Even if they spent heavily now, the returns could multiply tenfold later.

After all, one living seedling could mean a whole future of harvests.

Of course, that assumed they could keep the seedlings alive long enough to grow.

At the corner of the table, Yiliyi stayed silent. She didn't join the bidding. It wasn't that she didn't want cabbage—she wanted it more than anyone—but her plantation had long since withered away. The water allocation from her district had been cut by half. The little she had left barely sustained her people.

When desperation came, she had been forced to harvest the last green vegetables and eat them. She hadn't planted since.

Now, she could only watch.

"One hundred and ninety-two pieces of cloth," Yue Qinlan said finally, flipping open an animal-skin ledger and jotting down the trades. Her handwriting was neat, precise, practiced.

Luciel leaned back, satisfied. "In addition," he said, voice smooth, "I have some cabbage seedlings available for exchange with beast spars. No cloth required."

Waldo's head jerked up. "Beast spars? What grade?"

The mention of that term rekindled his interest instantly. The Tenth-Floor City captured hundreds of beasts each year, accumulating piles of spars—some used for alchemy, some traded for low-tier weapons. But most simply gathered dust in storage.

"Twelve low to mid-grade beast spars per seedling," Luciel said casually.

Waldo's eyes widened. "That's… expensive."

Even Yue Qinlan glanced at him in surprise. Her blue eyes shimmered faintly.

She remembered Yue Feiyan once trading one hundred mid-grade spars for a pouch of Starlight tea leaves—a transaction that Luciel had carefully guided. The tea's effects had indeed been worth the cost, but still, this price… twelve spars for a single seedling was astronomical.

Luciel didn't flinch. "I have about three hundred seedlings remaining," he said. "Once they're gone, there will be no more."

His tone was absolute. Firm. Final. He didn't lower the price. He didn't need to.

Even if he did, none of these landlords could afford to buy them all anyway. But he knew how people worked—how greed worked. When the sense of scarcity sank in, they'd convince themselves to act.

A clever thief's plan, Yue Qinlan thought silently, glancing at him with a small smile. He wasn't stealing with hands—he was stealing with temptation.

Waldo hesitated visibly. He wanted more. He already had twenty seedlings promised, but… what if they didn't all survive? What if this was his only chance?

His hands clenched. The beast spars were his wealth, his power, his city's foundation. To part with them felt like cutting away flesh.

Luciel waited silently, the faintest smile still at his lips.

Finally, Yue Qinlan spoke softly, rescuing him from indecision. "No hurry. We'll remain in your city for a few days. Perhaps we'll even set up a small stall outside."

"A… stall?" Waldo repeated blankly, startled.

"Yes," Yue Qinlan said with graceful ease. "We'll trade beast spars for water, for pottery, and for vegetables."

She glanced at the ledger again, adding "pottery" with neat strokes. The red-haired girl, Feiyan, could now craft beautiful clayware in large quantities. After refining the firing temperature and timing, she had learned to make durable pottery even from common firewood—something ordinary citizens could replicate.

Luciel had praised her for it personally.

"I see," Waldo murmured. His pupils contracted slightly.

He studied the people before him again—these travelers from Black Tortoise City who could afford to trade water, pottery, and vegetables as if they were coins.

For the first time, he truly understood—these were not mere visitors. They were wealth, power, civilization itself, walking in human form.

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