I returned to Govart.
No longer as a rotten egg sneaking from the shadows, but as a potential contestant in the **Govart Annual Tournament**.
Of course, to participate, there were two important conditions I had to fulfill:
1. Own a permanent residence.
2. Pay an entry fee that *reeks* almost as bad as I do.
> "Kids, today we become merchants!"
"Fried egg vendor, Dad?" quipped Abu, bouncing slightly.
"Don't you *dare* fry yourself, son," I replied quickly. "We're selling our hunting loot."
Thanks to my Klou space—now larger thanks to spatial crystals—I had stored all our spoils from dungeon adventures: monster hides, low-grade crystals, oddly colored bones, even a singing mushroom I had silenced with my original stench.
The Govart market—or more accurately, its shady back alleys—became our selling grounds. As a "rolling golem," I couldn't talk much, but I was good at displaying product quality with… well, body language. And occasionally, a helpful aroma boost to close the deal.
After a few absurd transactions and making several monsters nauseous with my sales scent:
> [Funds gained: 1,200 Old Ash Coins]
[Property acquired: 5x5 meter plot in the Dead Mud District. Status: smelly but legal.]
And most importantly:
> [Registration for the Govart Annual Tournament: SUCCESSFUL]
[Contestant Number: 143-B – "Mysterious Smelly Golem"]
I was officially a participant.
That night, on the small piece of land we now owned, my children curled up in a protective formation. No roof, no walls. Just a shallow pit in the dirt—surprisingly cozy for a family of eggs.
I looked up at the dark sky and said in my heart:
> "Get ready, tournament. This rotten egg is rolling toward glory."