Outworld Liberators-Chapter 160: Discernable Quality Even with Mortal Hands

Cultivators leaned back in their seats, brows furrowing as the boards hung in the air. The first shock had passed. Now the calculating started.

Not just how a cleaner standard would ease trade, but how it would strengthen the sects that backed them, how it would make buying and crafting less like gambling in the dark.

You could almost hear abacuses clicking behind polite faces.

The mortals were not left to chew in silence. They might only own towns, but towns bred money the way swamps bred flies.

Among the guests were men who did not carry titles, yet wore wealth like armor.

Magnates. Merchants who had stacked treasures across generations, patient as termites, gnawing at every opportunity.

That was why Radeon had allowed each town owner five extra invitations. He knew the greed of men the way a fisherman knew currents.

Each slot had weight, and not just in gold, in leverage. He had not fought it. They knew town leaders would priced it and sold it.

A man in spectacles rose from the lower boxes, clearly mortal, yet draped in robes so aggressively golden they seemed to dare the heavens to complain.

He lifted his hand, posture straight, voice already rehearsed. Eldric gave him a small nod, letting him speak his mind.

"Venerable Eldric, my name is Goldman," the man said. "Not a given name, but I am called as such."

He dipped his head, then looked up with a merchant’s calm hunger.

"I would like to ask how this benefits us mortals. If you may please let us know."

Eldric’s gaze shifted to the boards. With a flick of his fingers, the green smoke tightened, and one section of the writing swelled larger, crisp and undeniable for every seat in the arena to see.

{Service and Product Levels}

[Common]

{Categories of Quality}

[Subpar → Mediocre → Satisfactory → Official → Advanced → Superior → Peerless]

"Fish by the river, meat, and tomatoes by the fields can all be using this," Eldric said, as if he were talking about salt and rain.

On cue, twenty one ghost attendants drifted in, each carrying a large tubs. The smell hit first. River damp and iron from fish.

Warm fat and spice from meat. Green sharpness from tomatoes that had never seen a cellar.

They set the tubs in neat rows, like offerings laid before a judge.

"Volunteers," Eldric called. "A hundred mortals, and fifty cultivators who want to give this old man some face."

He had pull, that much was plain. The mortals sent their fattest sharks, the big merchants whose pockets had deeper bloodlines than some clans.

The cultivators sent a mix. Young ones hungry for experience, old ones hungry for certainty, and even Emperor Gregodor himself, grinning like a boy about to cheat at dice.

Eldric pointed to the first basket.

"Come. Touch these fishes of Subpar quality."

Hands reached out. Fingers pressed into slick scales. Faces twisted. Frowns came quick. Disgust.

A few men drew back as if the stink might cling to their sleeves and ruin their reputations.

They moved down the line. Worse to better, better to finer. With each step the reactions changed, the revulsion thinning into grudging interest.

Then they reached the Peerless basket. The air shifted.

The fish lay there like something stolen from a myth. The scales caught the light with a faint, hard shimmer, as if a dragon had shrugged and left scraps behind.

The volunteers stood too close, breathing too quietly, afraid a loud sound might spoil it.

"This is amazing," someone muttered. "I didn’t know salmon could have scales like this."

Another cultivator leaned in, eyes narrowed.

"Cultivation. This fish is about to gain cultivation. Look at the sheen on the flesh."

A mortal merchant sniffed, then sniffed again, confused.

"Where does one get Peerless like these? There isn’t even a fishy scent."

Eldric watched them crowd and line up, letting the curiosity build on its own.

When the fish had been fondled and stared at like jewels, he gestured to the next baskets.

Tomatoes. Meat. The same ladder of quality, the same climb of faces from contempt to hunger to disbelief.

While everyone’s attention was pinned to tubs and bragging rights, the attendants slid in and cleared the tables.

Plates vanished. Clatter died. In their place came fresh fruit juice, cold against the fingers, and soft bread split open to reveal cream that smelled faintly of honey.

Eldric folded his hands as the last of the murmurs faded.

"Now you understand," he said. "A product of Common-Level might be cheap, however, quality is what let it raise its price on its own."

{Salmon Pricing}

[Subpar] (10 Silver)

[Mediocre] (20 Silver)

[Satisfactory] (30 Silver)

[Official] (50 Silver)

[Advanced] (1 Gold)

[Superior] (30 Gold)

[Peerless] (5 Spirit Stones)

When the numbers went up beside the word Peerless, the arena made a sound like a net hauled too fast.

Gasps. Sharp breaths. A few curses swallowed before they could reach daylight.

Emperor Gregodor pulled an abacus from his sleeve as if it were a talisman.

Beads clacked. His eyes tracked, calculating, recalculating, then he froze and slowly shook his head, not in doubt, but in mourning.

"All this time," he said, voice gone softer. "We have been underpaid. You are indeed wise, Master Eldric."

Below, the mortals did not stare at Peerless for long. Their gaze slid down to Official, and there their shoulders loosened.

The price looked like pain, but bearable pain, the kind you could justify to a wife or a ledger.

Official fish was fresh. The smell was faint, clean. The body was plump and lively, gills still working, eyes bright.

It would not shame a banquet table. A man could sell that and sleep at night.

Agrippino lifted his cup as if he meant to toast, and his voice rolled out across the seats like a drum.

"Question. A question, Senior Eldric. How would we know all this pricing?"

Eldric gestured at the boards hanging above the arena.

"These boards. I can give them to you. I do not mind." His tone stayed mild, almost generous. "I only need the maintenance costs covered, and my men will handle the operation."

A beat of silence. Then Tiberius raised his hand.

His eyes narrowed. His aura flared just enough to remind the room that manners were optional around him.

"What about us? We do covert services. How would that be priced?"

Some mortals swallowed hard. A few cultivators leaned forward, suddenly entertained.

Eldric did not blink.

"Everything has a price," he said. "Including life."

He lifted a hand as if weighing something invisible.

"Let us use an example. Tiberius’s head. He is at Peak Spirit Transfiguration stage right now."

Tiberius’s mouth tightened, but he did not interrupt.

Eldric squinted and began counting, fingers tapping at empty air, each point landing on someone in the crowd as if he could see the shape of their intent.

"I see four people who can kill you, including myself."

A murmur ran through the boxes, part disbelief, part fear, part curiosity. Eldric’s gaze drifted as if he were reading an advertisement.

"Speaking of Goldkeep Crownmarkets. I would say my service to kill you would be Legendary level with Peerless quality."

He let the words hang, clean and terrible.

Then he smiled, quiet as a knife sliding back into its sheath.

"The others, I cannot say for certain."