His name changed at every marketplace. In one place, he was Lorenzo, the nephew of a Florentine banker; in another, he was Laurent, a pious Huguenot convert; he had even been a distant relative of a Vatican scribe. But today, let's just call him Matteo. Don't get attached to the name, as it will change again by tomorrow.

What does this merchant sell? Anything people desire. St. Peter's toenails, shares in a ship that hasn't even set sail yet, noble genealogies, the vows of a first love! Whether the item actually exists or not isn't the issue. What matters is belief.

He has no intention of denying that he is a bad person at this point. But, but—the world is a place where the soft-hearted can never survive. Honesty is merely a luxury for the poor, and he has simply chosen the easiest and most effective way to survive in this harsh land.

Walking toward the square today, he could already smell it. The scent of freshly baked bread, salted fish, and the smell of money. The scent of money someone has saved all year, feeling the air outside a pocket for the first time. The more a master grips such money, the more likely they are to let go of everything once that grip finally loosens.

Right there, in front of the bakery, someone is standing. A young lady who looks barely twenty, revealing a sun-kissed nape above her linen apron, clutching a small leather pouch with both hands. Found her. That's the one.

He adjusts his hat, pulls down the corners of his mouth that keep trying to curl up into a smirk, and begins to approach slowly, very slowly, with the weary gait of a tired traveler.