Concept Sovereign

THE BLACK MARKET

The Rust District earned its name honestly.

Kal walked through streets where the integration between human and fantasy species had failed hardest. Crumbling apartment buildings stood beside abandoned storefronts, their windows boarded or broken. Streetlights flickered—half magic, half electricity, all failing. The smell of rust and decay hung thick in the air, mixing with something chemical that made his eyes water.

This was where the system's losers ended up. Failed dungeon runners who'd blown their savings on healing potions. Humans who never awakened systems at all. The occasional vampire or werewolf who'd fallen from grace. Everyone here was desperate, dangerous, or both.

It was also the only place Kal could afford to live.

"Third alley on your left," Regis directed, floating beside his head. The golden crown glinted in the dim light. "There's a door marked with three red slashes. Knock twice, pause, then three times."

"How do you know this?" Kal asked, pulling his hood up. He'd changed into darker clothes—black hoodie, worn jeans, scuffed sneakers. Nothing that screamed "target."

"I know many things." Regis's tone was infuriatingly smug. "Let's call it... inherited knowledge."

"From where?"

"Does it matter? I'm helping you, aren't I?"

Kal bit back a retort. The countdown timer in his vision read 23:42:18. He didn't have time to argue with his narcissistic admin about information sources.

The alley Regis indicated was darker than the street, lit only by a single dying fluorescent bulb. Trash bags piled against the walls, and something skittered in the shadows—rats, probably. Maybe worse.

The door was metal, reinforced, with three jagged red marks scratched across its surface. Could've been paint. Could've been blood.

Kal knocked twice. Paused. Three times.

Nothing happened.

Then a slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of yellow eyes—werewolf, probably—that studied him with obvious suspicion.

"What do you want?" The voice was gravelly, hostile.

"Equipment," Kal said, keeping his voice steady. "Weapons. Armor. Whatever I can afford."

"This ain't a charity. Got credits?"

Kal pulled out his phone, showing his account balance. Three hundred and forty-seven credits. Everything he'd saved over the past three months. "This enough?"

The yellow eyes narrowed. Then the slot closed.

For a moment, Kal thought he'd been rejected. Then multiple locks clicked, and the door swung inward.

"Get in. Quick."

Kal stepped through into a narrow corridor lit by harsh red lights. The werewolf—massive, easily seven feet tall with gray fur and scars crossing his muzzle—locked the door behind them with practiced efficiency.

"Name's Rake," the werewolf grunted. "You're here for the market. Rules: Don't touch what you can't afford, don't ask where things came from, don't start fights. Break the rules, I break you. Clear?"

"Clear."

Rake studied him for a moment longer, then gestured down the corridor. "Market's through there. You got twenty minutes before closing."

The corridor opened into a surprisingly large space—some kind of converted parking garage. Stalls lined the walls, each lit by floating orbs of magical light. The air buzzed with conversation, negotiation, the occasional argument. Kal saw humans, vampires, elves, even a dwarf haggling over a set of enchanted hammers.

And the *gear*. Weapons hung on every wall—swords, spears, axes, bows. Armor of every type imaginable. Potions in bottles that glowed with inner light. Artifacts that pulsed with magical energy.

"Welcome to the real economy," Regis said, sounding pleased. "Where desperation meets opportunity."

Kal moved through the market, hyper-aware of eyes following him. He looked young, inexperienced. Easy prey. His hand instinctively went to his pocket where he'd stashed his phone and credits.

"Don't look scared," Regis advised. "Confidence is currency here. Act like you belong."

Easy for him to say.

Kal approached the nearest weapons stall. A human woman with silver-streaked hair and hard eyes looked him up and down.

"What rank?" she asked without preamble.

"E."

"Dungeon type?"

"Collapsed subway. Monsters unknown."

She grunted, then pulled out three weapons. "Sword, spear, or axe. Your pick. One-fifty each."

The sword was simple steel, slightly worn but well-maintained. The spear had better reach. The axe looked brutal but heavy.

"I've never used any of these," Kal admitted.

The woman's expression softened slightly—the first hint of sympathy he'd seen. "First solo run?"

"Yeah."

"Take the spear." She pushed it toward him. "Reach is your friend when you don't know what you're fighting. Keep distance, poke holes, stay alive. One-twenty for you, since you're green."

Kal wanted to argue the price down further, but something in her eyes told him this was already a favor. He transferred the credits. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me if you survive." She wrapped the spear in cloth. "Next stall over has armor. Tell Viktor I sent you. He'll treat you right."

Kal moved to the indicated stall where a dwarf with a magnificent red beard was arranging leather chest pieces.

"Viktor?" Kal asked.

"Aye. Mara send you?" The dwarf's voice was thick with an accent Kal couldn't place.

"She did."

"Then you're buying armor and you're broke." Viktor pulled out a leather vest, worn but sturdy. "This'll stop claws, maybe a weak blade. Won't do nothing against magic or crushing damage, but beggars and choosers and all that. Eighty credits."

Kal had one-forty-seven left. He needed potions too. "Seventy?"

"Seventy-five and I'll throw in bracers."

"Deal."

Viktor handed over the armor with a grunt. "You're going to die, you know. E-Rank solo? That's suicide."

"So I've been told."

"But you're doing it anyway." The dwarf's expression was unreadable. "Either brave or stupid. Sometimes there ain't much difference." He paused. "Potions are three stalls down. Ask for Lyra. Tell her Viktor says you need the survival package."

Kal nodded his thanks and moved on, armor bundled under his arm.

"You're doing well," Regis commented. "Making connections. Building rapport. Very diplomatic."

"I'm trying not to die."

"Same thing, really."

The potion stall was run by an elf woman who looked far too elegant for this underground market. Her skin had a faint luminescence, and her silver hair was pulled back in an intricate braid. Her admin—a delicate butterfly made of light—fluttered around her shoulders.

"Lyra?" Kal asked.

"That's me." Her voice was musical, at odds with the harsh environment. "Let me guess: Viktor sent you, you're broke, and you need potions for a suicide run."

"The collapsed subway, actually."

"Same thing." She pulled out three vials. "Basic healing—stops bleeding, closes wounds. Won't save you from fatal damage but might buy you time. Stamina restoration—one dose, drink it slow. And this—" She held up a small black vial. "Emergency escape. Crush it, it creates a smoke screen and minor spatial distortion. Might give you a few seconds to run."

"How much?"

"All three? Seventy."

Kal had seventy-two credits left. "Done."

Lyra handed over the potions with surprising gentleness. "Can I ask why you're doing this? E-Rank solo runs don't end well. Especially not for..." She paused, clearly trying to be tactful.

"For kids?" Kal finished.

"For anyone who values their life." Her eyes were kind, pitying. "There's no shame in waiting. Getting stronger. Finding a party."

"I don't have time to wait."

Something in his voice must have conveyed the truth of it. Lyra studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Then take this too." She pressed a fourth vial into his hand—this one glowing with soft blue light. "Mana restoration. I'm guessing you don't have much, but if your system has any active abilities, this might help. No charge."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can. Call it karma. Maybe if I help you, the universe will help me." She smiled sadly. "Good luck, kid. Try not to die."

Kal left the stall with his potions and two credits to his name. He'd spent everything. Committed fully to this insane plan.

"Well," Regis said, floating in front of his face. "You're equipped. Barely. But it's something."

Kal looked down at his purchases. A worn spear. Leather armor that had seen better days. Four potions that might buy him a few extra seconds of life.

Against an E-Rank dungeon.

Alone.

"I'm going to die," he said quietly.

"Possibly." Regis's tone was matter-of-fact. "Probably, even. The odds are certainly not in your favor."

"You're supposed to be encouraging me."

"I'm supposed to be *honest* with you." Regis floated closer, his tiny face serious. "Yes, you might die. The quest has an eight percent success rate for a reason. But consider the alternative. You go back to your apartment, refuse the quest, stay E-Rank forever. Marcus finds you eventually. Or someone else like him. And you die anyway—helpless, weak, unmourned."

Regis gestured at the equipment. "This way, at least you die *trying*. Fighting. Making an attempt to change your fate. And if—*if*—you survive? You unlock your first Concept. You take the first real step toward power. Toward mattering."

Kal's hands tightened on the wrapped spear. "What if I'm not strong enough? What if I fail?"

"Then you fail spectacularly." Regis's smile was sharp. "But failure is only permanent if you die. Every other outcome is just data. Information. A lesson for next time."

"Assuming there is a next time."

"There's always a next time. Until there isn't." Regis did a lazy flip. "Now come. We have fifteen hours before the dungeon. You need food, rest, and basic training with that spear. Can't have you stabbing yourself before the monsters get their chance."

Kal started walking toward the exit, equipment bundled awkwardly in his arms. The other market-goers watched him go—some with pity, some with indifference, a few with what might have been respect.

They knew what his purchases meant. Where he was going.

What his chances were.

"Hey, kid."

Kal turned. Rake, the werewolf bouncer, stood at the corridor entrance.

"Yeah?"

"Collapsed subway's got rats. Big ones, mutated by ambient dungeon energy. They swarm. Don't let them surround you." Rake's yellow eyes were unreadable. "Keep moving. Stay near the exits. And if you hear screaming? Run."

"What's the screaming?"

"Nothing you want to meet." Rake stepped aside, opening the door. "Good hunting."

Kal stepped out into the alley, the door closing and locking behind him with finality.

The countdown timer read 22:47:33.

Less than twenty-three hours.

"Let's go home," Kal said quietly. "I need to practice with this spear before I die holding it."

"*If* you die holding it," Regis corrected. "Optimism, Khalil. It's very important."

"You literally just told me I'd probably die."

"I said *possibly*. There's a difference." Regis floated ahead, crown glinting in the streetlight. "Besides, I have a good feeling about this. Call it intuition."

"Your intuition or mine?"

"Does it matter? We're the same person, after all."

Kal wanted to argue that point, but exhaustion was setting in. The adrenaline from earlier had faded, leaving him hollow and shaky. He'd died, been resurrected, accepted a suicide quest, and blown his life savings on equipment that probably wouldn't save him.

It had been a very long day.

"Regis?"

"Yes?"

"If I die tomorrow... thanks for trying. For bringing me back. Even if it doesn't work out."

Regis was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You're not going to die."

"You said—"

"I know what I said. But I'm changing my assessment." Regis's voice was firm, certain. "You're going to walk into that dungeon, face impossible odds, and you're going to *survive*. Not because the odds favor you. Not because you're prepared. But because you've already died once, and you know how much it costs. That knowledge? That fear? That's going to keep you alive when skill and equipment fail."

"You really believe that?"

"I believe in *us*." Regis met his eyes, and for the first time, Kal saw something genuine in that golden gaze. Not arrogance. Not narcissism.

Conviction.

"We're going to be extraordinary, Khalil. Tomorrow is just the first step."

Kal nodded slowly, letting the words settle. Believing them, just a little.

He made it back to his apartment and spent the next six hours practicing basic spear thrusts against his wall. Regis critiqued his form with relentless precision, adjusting his stance, his grip, his weight distribution.

When exhaustion finally pulled him down, Kal collapsed on his bed fully clothed, spear within arm's reach.

The countdown timer glowed in his vision.

16:23:47

Tomorrow, he would face monsters designed to kill teams of trained users.

Tomorrow, he would either unlock his first Concept or die trying.

Tomorrow, Khalil Morrison would discover what eight percent really meant.

He closed his eyes and dreamed of golden crowns and impossible odds.