The Merchant

I step out of the classroom with the LED still humming like a tiny lighthouse, Rikka’s voice echoing behind me. “Yuuta! The tyrant’s eye has been revived! But every tyrant must be fed—its power source must be replenished!” she declares, clutching the eyepatch as if it were a relic from an ancient war. I nod, already knowing the next line.

The hallway is a blur of lockers and posters for the school festival. My backpack feels heavier than usual, not from books but from the weight of Rikka’s grandiose expectations. I glance at her, see the gleam of adventure in those crimson pupils, and I smile despite myself.

“First stop,” she says, pointing toward the narrow street that leads to the local electronics shop. “The merchant of miracles! She trades in the very essence of power!” Her hand gestures dramatically, as if summoning a deity of circuitry.

We turn the corner and the shop’s sign flickers in neon pink: “Miyako’s Gadgets & Curiosities.” The window displays a clutter of cables, old game consoles, and a rubber duck wearing a superhero cape. Inside, a faint smell of solder and incense mingles with the scent of cheap coffee from the counter.

The bell above the door chimes, and a voice as steady as a metronome greets us. “Welcome, travelers. How may I assist your quest today?” The shopkeeper—a woman whose hair is a silver waterfall pulled back into a tight bun—looks up from a ledger. She wears a plain cardigan, but there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s seen more than the average customer.

I clear my throat. “We need a battery… for an LED.” The words feel anticlimactic compared to Rikka’s rhetoric, but the shopkeeper doesn’t flinch.

She pushes her glasses up with a thumb and sets a small metal case on the counter. “Ah, the tyrant’s eye, you say?” She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have just the thing. A CR2032—standard issue for most minor world dominators.”

Rikka gasps, clutching her eyepatch tighter. “Standard issue? No! The tyrant demands a battery forged in the fires of a thousand suns!” She flutters her hands, a tiny storm of imagination.

The shopkeeper chuckles, a sound that seems to have been calibrated for calm. “We do have a batch of ‘Sun-forged’ batteries. They’re just the regular CR2032, but I’ll call them that for you.” She slides the small, silver disc across the wood.

I take it, feeling the cool metal against my palm. “How much?”

She taps the ledger, eyes never leaving the page. “One hundred yen. A fair price for a tyrant’s continued reign.” She slides a receipt toward me, the paper crisp as if freshly printed from a printer that knows the importance of the transaction.

Rikka squeals, “Yuuta! You have secured the weapon of destiny!” She thrusts the battery into the air like a jewel, then catches it clumsily, letting it wobble between her fingers.

I watch her, the absurdity of the moment balancing on the edge of my composure. I’m grateful for the shopkeeper’s calm, for how she never questions the fantasy but simply fuels it.

“Anything else?” the shopkeeper asks, her tone still steady, but a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Rikka’s eyes dart around the shelves. “Do you have… any wiring? The tyrant’s eye must be connected to the great network of destiny!” She points at a tangled heap of wires that look like a spider’s web in the corner.

The shopkeeper rises, moving with the practiced ease of someone who has rearranged countless cables for strangers. She pulls a coil of red wire from a bin, the insulation bright as if painted with enthusiasm. “For the network,” she says, handing it over. “A length of ten centimeters should suffice for most minor world-binding rituals.”

Rikka claps her hands. “Perfect! The tyrant’s eye shall now see the whole universe!” She wraps the wire around her forefinger, then untangles it with a dramatic sigh. “Alas, I am still missing the sacred conduit—”

I interject before she can finish, “The soldering iron?” I point to a small soldering station in the back, where a lone iron glints under a fluorescent bulb.

She looks at me, surprised that I’ve spoken, then nods approvingly. “Indeed, the conduit is forged by fire. Do you have a source of heat, young scribe?”

I glance down at my backpack again, remembering the small portable charger I keep for emergencies. “I have a charger, but no iron.” I shrug, feeling the absurdity settle like a stone in my pocket.

The shopkeeper’s expression softens. “Fear not. I have a spare iron, used for occasional repairs. It’s seen many battles, though none as grand as yours.” She retrieves a compact soldering iron from a drawer, its cord coiled like a sleeping snake.

She places it on the counter, the tip warm to the touch even before it’s plugged in. “Consider it a loan, for the sake of the tyrant’s eye. Return it when the battle is won.”

Rikka beams, her cheeks flushed with triumph. “Yuuta, you are truly the hero of this saga!” She reaches for my hand, but I pull it back gently, aware of the distance between fantasy and reality, yet not wanting to break her flow.

The shopkeeper watches us, her eyes reflecting a patience that seems to have been honed over years of dealing with teenagers who think their lives are epic narratives. “May I offer you a beverage while you work?” she asks, gesturing to a small fridge humming in the back.

Rikka’s head snaps toward the fridge. “A potion of vigor! The tyrant’s eye will need strength after the resurrection!” She opens the door, pulls out a can of soda, and shakes it vigorously as if summoning a storm.

I take the can, feeling the cold condensation against my palm. “Thanks,” I mutter, more to the shopkeeper than to Rikka. She nods, her smile widening just enough to suggest she understands the unspoken gratitude.

Rikka pops the tab with exaggerated flourish, the hiss of escaping gas sounding like a dragon’s sigh. “Drink, Yuuta! The potion will grant you the stamina of a thousand scribes!” She raises the can, then pauses, looking at the shopkeeper with a seriousness that betrays her playful demeanor.

“You,” she says, pointing at the shopkeeper, “are the Keeper of the Sacred Supply.” The shopkeeper raises an eyebrow, then bows slightly, as if accepting a title she never asked for.

“Just a shopkeeper,” she replies, voice as calm as a lake at dawn. “But I do enjoy a good story. It makes the day less… ordinary.” She gestures to the LED on the counter, a tiny red dot blinking like a heartbeat. “Your tyrant’s eye is a fine piece of engineering. I’m glad it found a home.”

Rikka leans in, eyes narrowing. “Do you know the legend of the Crimson Eye? It was forged by the Great Engineer, who imbued it with the power to calculate the fate of worlds!” She pauses for dramatic effect. “And it can only be powered by the purest of batteries, harvested from the core of a meteorite!”

The shopkeeper chuckles, a sound that seems to ripple through the aisles of gadgets. “I’m afraid I only have meteorite-themed stickers, but the batteries work just as well.” She slides a small pack of stickers onto the counter, each one a tiny gray rock with a starburst.

Rikka snatches them up, eyes sparkling. “These shall be the insignia of our cause!” She sticks one onto the side of the LED case, pressing it with reverence. “Now the tyrant’s eye will not only see, but also be seen!”

I watch the scene, the absurdity of it all, and feel a warmth spreading through my chest. It’s not the drama of the tyrant, nor the grandeur of Rikka’s proclamations, but the simple fact that this woman—this unflappable merchant—has chosen to indulge a teenage delusion without a hint of sarcasm. She is the anchor in a sea of imagination.

She leans back, wiping her hands on a towel. “You’ll need to solder the wire to the LED, I presume?” She points at the tiny circuit board perched on Rikka’s desk. “I can show you a quick method, if you like.”

Rikka nods enthusiastically. “Teach us, wise merchant! The tyrant’s eye shall be reborn brighter than before!” She looks at me with expectation, as if I were the only one capable of performing the ritual.

I take the soldering iron, its tip glowing orange. The shopkeeper guides my hand, her fingers steady as she positions the wire. “A little heat, a little pressure,” she murmurs. “And you have a connection.” The solder drips, forming a tiny bridge between the wire and the LED’s lead.

Rikka watches the process with rapt attention, her eyes reflecting the red glow as it steadies. “The tyrant’s eye awakens!” she whispers, voice soft enough that I can almost hear a tremor of genuine awe beneath the theatrics.

The shopkeeper steps back, hands clasped. “There you have it. The eye is powered, the network is linked, and the battery is… metaphorically forged in the fires of a thousand suns.” She smiles, a warm, unassuming smile that makes the fluorescent lights seem less harsh.

Rikka claps again, this time more gently, as if she doesn’t want to shatter the moment. “Yuuta, you have done well. The tyrant’s eye shall now guide us through the equations of destiny!” She presses the newly soldered wire against the LED, and the red dot pulses brighter, a steady heartbeat in the quiet shop.

I feel a strange sense of accomplishment, not from the act of soldering, but from seeing Rikka’s imagination find a foothold in the real world. The shopkeeper watches us, eyes soft, as if she’s witnessing a small miracle in an otherwise ordinary day.

“Thank you,” I say, the words simple but heavy with gratitude. “For the battery, the iron, and… for playing along.”

She tilts her head, a faint crease forming between her brows. “It’s my pleasure. Sometimes the most mundane objects become the stuff of legends in the right hands.” She gestures toward the door, where the hallway outside hums with the distant chatter of students.

Rikka turns, her eyepatch catching the light, casting a crimson halo around her face. “We must return to the battlefield! The tyrant’s eye must be installed before the next class ends!” She grabs the battery and the wire, tucking them into her bag as if they were sacred relics.

I follow her out, the shop’s bell chiming once more. The cool autumn air greets us, and the street feels a little brighter, as if the world has been subtly altered by the exchange we just completed.

The shopkeeper stands in the doorway, watching us leave. “Good luck, heroes,” she calls, voice steady. “May your tyrant’s eye never dim.” There’s no sarcasm in her tone, only a genuine wish that seems to echo beyond the shop’s walls.

Rikka looks back, waving a hand dramatically. “Farewell, Keeper of the Sacred Supply! May your shelves always be stocked with destiny!” She shouts, then turns, the red glow of the LED now hidden in her bag, pulsing like a tiny secret.

I walk beside her, the weight of the battery warm against my side. The hallway is still buzzing with the teacher’s lecture, but the ordinary sounds feel different now—less like background noise and more like a soundtrack to an adventure. I catch a glimpse of the shopkeeper’s reflection in the glass of a storefront, her eyes meeting mine for a split second. In that moment I understand something simple: the world is made of small acts of kindness, and sometimes the most heroic deeds are the ones that happen behind a counter, with a steady smile and a willingness to believe.

We reach our classroom, the door closing with a soft thud. Rikka pulls out the LED, the battery, and the wire, her hands moving with a purpose that seems larger than the space they occupy. She attaches the battery, taps the soldered wire, and the red dot blazes brighter, as if fed by the gratitude of the merchant we left behind.

The teacher’s voice fades into the background, replaced by the soft hum of the LED. I watch the light, the tiny crimson beacon that now feels like a shared secret between a chuunibyou heroine, a deadpan narrator, and an unflappable shopkeeper who knows that sometimes, a battery is more than a battery.