Valdren stepped into Shumul's modest tailor shop, his voice echoing with childlike delight.
"Shumul, my friend! Where are you?"
The shop was quaint, neatly divided—elegant dresses and robes for women on the right, sharp, formal menswear on the left. Each piece was a testament to expert craftsmanship.
In the White City, elegance was a necessity. Most citizens here were adventurers—professionals who risked their lives for missions in return for hefty rewards. They either rose to wealth or perished in obscurity. The survivors often retired early, enjoying their fortune. The rest of the city's affluent were merchants, nobles, or owners of large businesses. It was an expensive place to live—but far safer than the Grey Zone.
From behind a curtain, Shumul emerged, chuckling with that warm, unmistakable laugh. He was an old man with spectacles perched on his nose and measuring tapes draped over his shoulders. A tailor in every sense.
