The black market stretched out like a hidden city beneath the world.

Narrow alleys wound between crooked stalls, their tables piled high with strange goods—rare herbs, forbidden weapons, glittering stones that pulsed faintly with magic.

The air was thick with the scent of spice, smoke, and something faintly metallic, as if danger itself had a smell.

Hooded figures moved quietly through the crowd, their faces hidden in shadow. Some bartered in hushed tones, others passed small parcels under the table, coins clinking softly in exchange.

Lanterns hung overhead, their dim light casting long, uneasy shadows across the worn cobblestones.

It was a place where laws meant nothing, and every smile hid a knife.

Azhriel didn't stop for sightseeing.

He had planned to wander these streets after his tasks were done, to see the curiosities the Black Market was infamous for—but that plan was gone now.

Things had become dangerous.

His pace quickened, boots striking the uneven cobblestones with a quiet purpose. Merchants drifted toward him like moths to a flame, their voices syrupy as they offered him trinkets, potions, and artifacts of dubious origin.

He ignored them all. A few thugs also took interest, sizing him up with the casual greed of hyenas.

One of them made a move—only to find himself staring dumbly at the sky, eyes vacant, as if the world had simply forgotten him.

Azhriel kept moving.

The winding street eventually gave way to his destination: a building that stood in stark contrast to its surroundings.

Where the rest of the Black Market wore its grime and shadows like a second skin, this place was immaculate.

Its whitewashed walls caught the lanternlight and seemed to glow faintly, almost defiant in the darkness around it.

At the entrance, a sign hung above the doorway, glowing in a soft blue light.

Etched into it was the shape of a crow—wings spread, head tilted as if watching all who dared to approach. The air here felt… different.

Azhriel stepped through the doorway, letting it close behind him as the din of the Black Market faded into the more organized hum of the building's interior.

The place was alive with activity—figures in black robes lined the walls, quietly conversing, their hands occasionally brushing the hilts of weapons that glinted faintly in the dim light.

At the far counter, a row of attendants in neat uniforms spoke with customers, their tones calm, their movements precise, as if trained to handle everything from casual inquiries to life-or-death bargains.

He moved without hesitation toward one of them—a young woman with sleek blonde hair tied back neatly, her green eyes alert but warm.

She couldn't have been older than her mid-twenties, yet her composure spoke of experience. A polite smile touched her lips as he approached.

"Welcome to the Arterix, sir," she greeted, dipping her head slightly.

Azhriel gave a small nod in return.

Arterix—one of the most well-known names in the underworld.

Not a gang, not a smuggling ring, but something far more valuable: an information guild. They thrived on secrets, rumors, and knowledge, and on top of that, they held the keys to something even rarer—access to dungeons.

Dungeons, when they appeared, were usually seized immediately by nobles or powerful guilds.

That monopoly made free access scarce, and even if one somehow managed to rent an entry, the tax alone could crush an average adventurer.

Arterix circumvented that.

Here, anyone with coin could step into a dungeon of their choosing—though the unspoken rule was clear: if you died inside, your blood was your own problem.

"I would like to meet one of your information brokers," Azhriel said, his voice calm but carrying a weight that made the attendant's posture straighten slightly.

"Of course, sir. May I know the name of the broker you wish to see?"

"It's Phantom."

Her fingers danced across the screen in front of her, the soft clicking of keys filling the brief silence.

Then, a flicker of hesitation crossed her face. She checked something once… then again, brows tightening ever so slightly.

"Is there a problem?" Azhriel asked, his gaze narrowing.

"Um… sir, the broker you're asking for seems to have resigned from his position just today," she said cautiously.

Azhriel's eyes stayed on her, unreadable. "Oh. That's unfortunate."

"We do have many other brokers who could—"

"Sorry," he cut in smoothly, "but could you please tell me if he's still here or not?"

The woman hesitated, before giving a reluctant nod. "…Alright, sir. One moment."

She scanned her screen again, fingers tapping with renewed precision. After a few moments, she looked up. "He's still in his cabin. Cabin number eight. You'll find it down the right hallway."

"Thanks."

With that, Azhriel turned and moved toward the hall without another word, his footsteps steady.

******

Two hours later.

Somewhere deep within the winding veins of the Black Market.

The streets here were nothing like the bustling center Azhriel had passed earlier.

These were narrow, twisted corridors where crooked buildings leaned into one another like conspirators, blotting out the sky.

The faint glow of mana lamps barely touched the filth-slick cobblestones, and every shadow seemed to twitch with the promise of violence.

Through this maze, a man tore down the path with uneven strides, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

His clothes were drenched with sweat, and each step sent a shudder through his thin, underfed frame.

He was not built for this—no hardened muscles, no warrior's lungs. He was running on desperation alone.

Noel Arvis.

Once, that name had been a signal flare of prestige and genius in the noble mechanical and alchemical community. But years ago, Noel had vanished, as if erased from the board entirely.

Now, he ran like a hunted rat, teeth clenching as he bit down on a small, metallic-tasting pill. Mana surged through his veins instantly, and his speed doubled, the wind whipping harshly against his face.

He risked a glance over his shoulder.

Three robed figures, faces obscured, advanced in relentless pursuit. The hoods bore the same mark—an ink-black serpent coiled upon itself, the head raised as if ready to strike.

"Fuck," he spat under his breath, a flash of panic breaking through his practiced composure.

He forced his legs to move faster, lungs burning, his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

Every instinct screamed to keep going, just a little further. Just a bit more and he'd be fine. The crowded street ahead—noise, chaos, eyes everywhere—would be his cover.

He fumbled in his pocket and popped another pill into his mouth, the bitter powder scraping against his throat as he swallowed.

The world blurred around him as his speed surged again but this time, a sharp, stabbing pain bloomed in his skull.

His vision wavered, his steps faltering for a fraction of a second. It was enough to remind him of the price of such speed.

And the serpent-marked hunters were still closing in.

However, Noel didn't stop. He pushed off with everything he had left and burst into the outer streets.

It was crowded—chaotic, even.

The air was thick with the scents of fried food, smoke, and perhaps some song ringing.

Merchants bellowed their wares, children darted between legs, and the shuffle of countless feet made it hard to tell where anyone was going.

The three serpent-marked pursuers emerged from the alley moments later.

Without a word, they split apart, each taking a different direction like predators circling prey. Their eyes scanned the shifting sea of bodies with ruthless precision.

One of them slowed, his gaze catching on a nearby stall. The goods were scattered messily across the ground—trinkets, dried herbs, and bits of cloth strewn in every direction, as if someone had plowed straight through it in a hurry.

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

Behind the overturned stall, a man with disheveled brown hair crouched, his face twisted in fury.

Veins pulsed at his temple, and he breathed heavily—not from exertion, but from pure, unfiltered anger.

"Now what do you want?" the man growled, his voice low and sharp, every word edged with venom.

"Did you see someone running past here?" the serpent-marked figure asked, his tone clipped, all business.

"Yes, yes, I did see that fucker," the stall owner snapped. "He's the one who trampled my stall and scattered everything. If I see that bastard again, I'll beat the shit out of him!"

"Which way did he go?"

"That way," the man jabbed a finger toward a busy lane. "And if you find him, bring him here too—I'll beat the shit out of him myself."

But the pursuer was already moving, vanishing into the crowd before the words had finished leaving the shopkeeper's mouth.

Just as the shopkeeper watched the man disappear into the crowd, his entire demeanor shifted.

The fury on his face melted away, replaced by a calm, almost bored expression. He let out a long breath and dropped onto the ground with a quiet sigh.

For a moment, the street noise seemed to fade, a brief pocket of stillness settling around him.

Then, a smooth, almost amused voice cut through the silence.

"Wow… that was some really nice acting."