Why would there be Black Market so close to the academy?

At first glance, it sounded absurd—reckless, even. But Azhriel knew better.

Alaric knew about it.

Of course he did. He wasn't just aware; after all, he had allowed it.

Everything in this world had a dark side.

Alaric had lived long enough to see it in every form, in every corner. The brighter something shone, the deeper the shadow it cast.

So why allow it?

The answer lay in human nature—particularly in the nature of nobles.

Unlike the enigmatic Headmaster and main cast, who treated commoners and nobles without distinction, not all shared their ideals.

To some nobles, commoners were nothing more than tools to be used and discarded.

Alaric could forbid them.

He could punish them.

But habits woven into the bones of generations could not be erased so easily. They would find a way to surface—through slaves, through gambling, through all manner of vices.

So instead of trying to crush it outright, Alaric gave it a cage.

He allowed the Black Market to exist in the first city—a place where all manner of indulgence could thrive, under one rule: no one touches the academy's students.

Within those walls, anything was permitted. Morality, law, and order did not exist here—only power decided who walked away.

Azhriel stood before an old, run-down building that looked as if it might collapse at the next gust of wind.The walls were cracked, the paint long faded, and the wooden beams bowed with age.

But he knew it was only an illusion—on the outside, it looked like a ruin, but inside, it was a den that thrived in shadows.

He pushed the door open, the hinges screaming in protest. The scent of stale ale and unwashed bodies hit him instantly.

The hall inside was dim, lit only by scattered lanterns whose flames flickered against the haze of smoke.

Several tables were spread out, each occupied by figures who looked like the usual mix of drunkards, gamblers, and street trash one could find in any back alley.

But he knew better.

The moment he stepped in, every head turned toward him. Dozens of eyes swept over his form, sharp and calculating, searching for cracks in his armor.

This was a dark world—show weakness here, and they would strip you of everything, right down to your corpse.

Azhriel's height—188 centimeters—gave him a natural presence.

His frame wasn't hulking, but the dense, balanced strength of a warrior was written in the way he stood, in the way he moved.

From a distance, he could have passed for a seasoned fighter. But to the keen-eyed, his youth was still apparent in his face.

However it didn't matter.

Unflinching, he returned their stares.

Cold, jewel-like blue eyes locked onto them, steady and unyielding.

Some men narrowed their gaze, testing him; others felt that quiet weight and quickly looked away.

The message was clear—he was not prey, so fuck off.

He stepped further into the dim-lit bar, each footfall echoing faintly against the warped wooden floorboards.

The air smelled of smoke, spilled liquor, and faint traces of blood too old to notice unless one had a nose for such things.

Reaching the counter, he stopped before the bartender—an old man dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, a stark contrast to the grime and ruin around him.

His face was lined with age, but his expression was warm, almost grandfatherly, the kind of smile one would expect at a countryside inn, not in the heart of a black market den.

"Good evening, What would you like to have, dear sir?" the bartender greeted, voice smooth and polite, his tone revealing nothing of the man's true nature.

"I'd like an old Scurzhe," Azhriel replied, standing rather than sitting, his posture radiating quiet impatience.

"Oh my… quite an impatient one, I see." The man chuckled softly, the sound calm yet practiced. "How much?"

"Give me one that's ice cold. If possible, in a bottle," Azhriel said.

The bartender's hands moved without hesitation. Glass clinked as he fetched a beaker, the amber liquid catching the dim light as it poured.

With deft, almost elegant movements, he shook the mixture with ice, then decanted it into a long-necked bottle.

"That will be three gold, sir," he said, placing the bottle neatly on the counter.

Azhriel set the coins down with a metallic chime, as he picked up the drink, then—rather than heading back toward the door—he turned toward the shadowed rear of the hall.

Beyond the scattered tables, half-hidden behind a crooked partition, was a stairwell descending into the earth.

Small mana-lamps lined the narrow passage, their pale glow barely illuminating the way.

Azhriel before walking into the floor, glanced at his right side.

However, then he simply moved inside the pathway.

At the end stood a massive iron door, its surface pitted with age and faintly stained. It was the door that connected the Black Market to the first city.

Slumped beside it was a man in filthy clothes, hair hanging in unkempt clumps over his face. Azhriel looked at him, as he shaked his head and muttered something.

Azhriel uncorked the bottle and held it out, letting the sharp, rich scent of alcohol drift toward the man.

Almost instantly, the figure stirred, his bloodshot eyes snapping open with a predatory gleam.

He lunged for the bottle with such sudden speed that even Azhriel almost missed the movement.

Without ceremony, the man tilted it back and gulped half its contents in a single pull, the liquor spilling slightly down his chin.

"Haa…" he exhaled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's some damn fine stuff, boy." His voice was gravelly, and it didn't take him more than a glance to size up Azhriel's age.

"I want to go in," Azhriel said simply, his voice calm, but his gaze never wavered from the iron door looming behind the man.

"Hm? Go ahead then, who's stopping you?"

The man replied lazily, already lifting the bottle for another long drink. But as the rim touched his lips, he felt—the weight of the boy's unblinking stare pressing down on him.

His brow raised.

"…Ah," he muttered, realization dawning. "It's only me who can open the door. Sorry, sorry."

He rubbed the back of his tangled hair, grinning sheepishly, though it was more habit than sincerity.

Azhriel exhaled a quiet, tired sigh.

With a casual snap of his fingers, the man coaxed life into the gates mechanism. The great iron slab groaned, its hinges protesting as it slowly swung inward, revealing the dark space beyond.

Azhriel stepped forward without hesitation, his boots tapping lightly against the stone.

But as he crossed the threshold, the man's voice followed him, quieter now, but carrying a strange weight.

"Since you gave me some good liquor… let me give you a piece of advice, boy."

"Be wary of the people with a serpent mark on their head."

Before Azhriel could respond, the door slammed shut behind him with a metallic snap, sealing the words in his mind like an omen.

'What? Why are the Legion of Deceit's demons here?'

Azhriel's thoughts raced, gears turning as his mind spun through possibilities.

In the game, the gatekeeper—when given a fine drink—would always offer a piece of advice, something useful that could help the player later on.

Across his many playthroughs, Azhriel had heard countless variations of those tips: warnings about shady men with snake-like, half-closed eyes, reminders to check weapon quality twice before buying, or clues about rare items hidden in plain sight.

But never—not once—had he heard anything about them being in the Black Market.

He let out a slow breath, steadying himself, pushing the initial jolt of surprise aside to focus.

The Legion of Deceit… they were nothing like the Legion of Tyranny's blunt brutality, nor the Legion of Lust's subtle corruption.

These ones were like serpents in human skin—creatures who smiled as they measured where to sink their fangs.

And they never struck when you were ready… only when they were certain you were at your weakest.

Azhriel's fingers brushed lightly against his chin, his expression calm but his mind a storm of shifting possibilities.

Countless scenarios flickered through his thoughts—ways to maneuver around the problem while still accomplishing his task here.

Yet no matter how he reshaped the approach, every plan began the same way.

He needed information.

The demons' presence in the Black Market wasn't just unusual—it wansn sjsj. Zhjs s dangerous. And there was one person here who could tell him exactly why they had come.

"That decides it," he muttered under his breath, the words sealing his intent.

He strode forward, the dimly lit passage narrowing before him until the faint glow ahead began to swell. The stale air gave way to the scent of spice, metal, and smoke. Then, with a step past the final archway, the Black Market unfurled before his eyes—an underground sprawl of shadowed stalls, crooked alleys, and merchants whose smiles were as sharp as their wares.

Somewhere in this labyrinth of whispers and gold, his answers waited.