2026-07-05 02:56:20The Aethelgard Underground Black Market wasn't literally underground. It was hidden behind a false wall in the basement of an old wine cellar in the academy city's commercial district. To enter, one had to knock three times on the largest wine cask in a specific pattern, then recite a password that changed every week.
Aster stood before the giant cask, pulling his black cloak—stolen from a clothesline behind the dorms—tighter around himself. The cloak was two sizes too big and smelled like cheap laundry detergent, but it was enough to hide his academy uniform.
He knocked three times.
A small hole in the wall slid open, and a pair of yellow eyes peered at him from the darkness.
"The password?" a raspy voice asked.
Aster swallowed hard. He’d gotten this week's password from Toby earlier that afternoon, after carefully steering the conversation toward "interesting places in the city." Toby, it turned out, had an uncle who was a blackmarket merchant and had overheard the password during a family dinner.
"The raven flies north," Aster replied, trying to make his voice sound gravelly and dangerous.
The yellow eyes blinked once, and the small hole closed. Seconds later, the false wall beside the wine cask slid open slowly, revealing a narrow corridor lit by dim green torches.
Aster stepped inside, and the wall behind him sealed shut.
The Aethelgard Underground Black Market was a cavernous hall illuminated by hundreds of colorful mana lanterns hanging from the stone ceiling. The air smelled of exotic spices, weapon oil, and desperate sweat. Hundreds of stalls lined the narrow alleys, selling everything from illicit potions and smuggled weapons to artifacts stolen from ancient tombs.
Buyers and sellers moved about with their faces hidden beneath hoods, speaking in hushed tones. No one looked at each other for too long. No one asked for real names. Here, identity was a luxury that could get you killed.
Aster walked down the main aisle, his eyes scanning the stalls. He was looking for a spot that was strategic but not too conspicuous—a place where he could display his wares without drawing too much attention.
Finally, he found a vacant corner between a stall selling fake dragon bones and one selling "lucky charms" that were most likely just dyed bird droppings. The corner was dark, narrow, and far enough from the black market patrols.
"Perfect," Aster muttered, setting his backpack on the floor.
He pulled out a piece of black fabric he’d torn from an old sheet in the dorm storage and spread it on the floor as a display mat. From his bag, he pulled out a thick canvas bundle containing the "DestinySevering Nail Clippers."
With extreme care, he unfolded the layers of cloth, revealing the rusty nail clippers atop the black fabric. The object looked just as pathetic as ever—bent, rusted, and resembling a source of tetanus.
"Now, how do I sell this cursed thing for five gold coins?" Aster muttered to himself, rubbing his temples.
He couldn't shout to promote his wares like a normal merchant. The black market wasn't the place for that. Here, rare and mysterious items were sold in the quietest, most enigmatic way possible. The less information the seller provided, the higher the price they could command.
Aster took a piece of scrap cardboard from his bag and wrote with charcoal:
"Nail Clippers. Price: 5 Gold Coins. No bargaining."
He placed the sign beside the clippers, sat crosslegged behind his stall, and waited.
Ten minutes passed. No one stopped.
Twenty minutes passed. A masked man walked past his stall, glanced at the cardboard sign, and laughed so loudly that several people turned to look.
"Five gold coins for rusty nail clippers?!" the man mocked his friend. "This seller is either crazy or trying to con some fool!"
Aster remained silent, his face blank. Inside, he was panicking. Damn it! Did I set the price wrong? Are five gold coins too much for nail clippers?! But I need that money to buy the Crack Stone!
Thirty minutes passed. The sun outside must have set by now, and Aster began to worry that he wouldn't sell anything tonight. If he didn't get the money, he couldn't buy the Crack Stone. And if he didn't get the Crack Stone....
A shadow fell over his stall.
Aster looked up. An old man in a gray robe stood before him, staring at the rusty clippers with intense focus. The man had a neatly groomed long white beard, sharp brown eyes behind round spectacles, and a right hand missing its ring and little fingers.
"Nail clippers," the old man murmured, his voice low but authoritative. "Five gold coins."
"Yes," Aster replied curtly, trying to sound professional and mysterious.
The old man crouched down, studying the clippers from a short distance without touching them. His eyes narrowed, and Aster could see his pupils contracting and dilating in a strange rhythm, as if he were scanning the object with some sort of special vision technique.
"Interesting," the old man muttered. "Very interesting."
He looked at Aster with a probing gaze. "Do you know what you’re selling, lad?"
Aster swallowed. I don’t know! I just made these nail clippers out of a rusty spoon and a broken clock spring! Please don't ask me things I don't know!
"I know exactly what I’m selling, sir," Aster replied with a deadpan expression, hoping his voice wouldn't tremble. "That is why the price is five gold coins."
The old man went silent for a moment, looking at Aster with unreadable eyes. Then, he pulled a leather pouch from his robes and tossed it onto the black fabric in front of Aster.
The pouch landed with the heavy clink of metal. Aster didn't need to open it to know there were at least fifty gold coins inside, not five.
"I’ll take them," the old man said, his tone flat but with a subtle tremor of excitement hidden beneath. "But I need a demonstration. Show me what these clippers can do."
Aster froze. A demonstration?!
He stared at the rusty clippers in horror. That thing could cut through soul contracts. It could cut through shadows. It was a physical anomaly that shouldn't exist in this world. If he demonstrated it here, in front of hundreds of mages and criminals, he’d immediately become the number one fugitive in the entire kingdom!
However, the old man was looking at him with a gaze that brooked no refusal. And Aster needed the money. He had to buy the Crack Stone tonight, before Valerius's messenger arrived.
"I... cannot demonstrate them here," Aster answered carefully, his brain racing to find an excuse. "The effects of these clippers are too... vast. If I use them in a crowded place, the consequences will affect far too many people."
The old man raised an eyebrow, looking even more intrigued. "Oh? How far is the range?"
Aster looked around. This black market was packed with people. If he clicked these clippers and accidentally severed the "contractual bonds" of everyone here, or cut their "marriage vows," or severed the "magical bonds" keeping the cavern ceiling from collapsing...
"The entire district," Aster lied with an innocent face. "If I use them here, the entire commercial district above us will feel the impact."
The old man fell silent. His eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, Aster saw a flicker of surprise on his aged face.
"You..." the old man looked at Aster as if seeing a monster in human form. "You’re selling a catastrophelevel weapon for five gold coins?"
Aster nodded slowly, trying to look mysterious and wise. Yes, I am selling a catastrophelevel weapon. Please just buy it and go before I faint from panic.
The old man picked up the nail clippers with extreme caution, as if holding a dragon egg about to hatch. He placed them into a manalined iron box he pulled from his robes, then locked the box with three layers of magical seals.
"My name is Balthazar," the old man said, standing up and looking at Aster with a sense of respect Aster didn't understand. "If you have more items like this, find me at the Northern Tower. I will pay whatever price you ask."
Aster nodded slowly, trying not to show that he was shaking violently inside. Balthazar? That name sounds familiar... but where have I heard it?
The old man—Balthazar—turned and walked away, disappearing into the black market crowd. Aster stared at the pouch containing fifty gold coins in front of him, then let out a long breath he felt he’d been holding for an hour.
"I did it," he whispered to himself, a relieved smile forming on his lips. "I have the money. I can buy the Crack Stone."
However, his smile vanished the moment he heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching from behind.
"Hey, new peddler," a raspy, threatening voice sounded. "You haven't paid your stall rent to us yet."
Aster turned. Three large men with dragon tattoos on their necks stood behind him, their hands resting on the hilts of the swords at their waists. In the middle, a thin man with a burn scar covering half his face looked at Aster with a malicious grin.
"We are the Black Snake Gang," the thin man said, crouching in front of Aster’s stall and grabbing the pouch of fifty gold coins without permission. "And in our territory, every peddler must pay thirty percent of their sales as protection money."
Aster looked at the money pouch the man had snatched, then stared at the thin man with a blank expression.
"Sir," Aster said in an incredibly polite and calm tone. "Please return that money. I really need it."
The thin man laughed loudly, joined by his three henchmen. "Or what? You’re going to report us to the market guards? Do you think there’s any law in this place, kid?"
Aster stared at them for three seconds. Then, he sighed, as if dealing with naughty children who refused to do their homework.
"Sir," Aster said again, his tone still perfectly polite. "I don’t want to cause a scene. But please return the money. If you don't..."
"If you don't what?" the thin man challenged, standing up and towering over Aster with a condescending look. "What are you going to do? You’re just a junk peddler who—"
Aster didn't let him finish. With a move of extreme speed and precision, he grabbed a small object from his backpack—a wooden comb he’d made that afternoon from scrap wood in the craft workshop.
The system in his head flickered.
[Item: Scrap Wood Comb (Quality: F)]
[Concept Imbued: Absolute Entropy Reversal.]
Aster swiped the wooden comb through the air, as if smoothing out his own messy hair.
Swish.
There was no explosion. No blinding light. Yet, the thin man suddenly stopped dead. His eyes widened, and the hand holding the money pouch trembled violently. Behind him, the three henchmen fell to their knees in unison, their faces pale and covered in cold sweat.
"What... what did you do to us?" the thin man whispered, his voice trembling with fear.
Aster stared at them, bewildered. What just happened? I just swung a comb!
But before he could ask, a cold, authoritative voice echoed from the main aisle of the black market, causing every stall and peddler to fall silent instantly.
"Who just used a godtier artifact in my territory?"
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Chapter 145: Back to the Shop
Nine o'clock at night.The bell above the door of Vale Junk Shop rang. Ting.The sound was small, rusty, and slightly out of tune. But to Aster Vale, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. A sound that meant he was home. A sound that meant the workday was over. And most importantly, a sound that meant it was time to count his money.Aster stepped inside, closed the wooden door with creaking hinges, and locked the double latch. He did not turn on the main light right away. Moonlight filtering through the front window was enough to guide him to the rocking chair behind the counter. The chair creaked in protest as he sank his tired body onto its thin cushion.From inside his woven rattan bag, he pulled out a notebook, a pen, and a broken mechanical calculator with a snapped indicator needle. Then, he began taking out bags of coins.Clink. Clink. Clink.The sound of gold hitting the wooden counter was tonight's symphony. Aster lined up the piles of coins, sorted them by income sour
Chapter 144: Two Different Paths
The corridor connecting Floor One to the surface was still intact. The stone steps creaked under the footsteps of Helena and Kael—two figures who should have never walked side by side. The Grand Inquisitor of the Church of Sacred Light. The General of the Valdris War Faction. Two institutions that had stood on opposite sides for two hundred years.Behind them, four royal knights escorted them. Not escorting them as prisoners. Escorting them as... witnesses. As people who did not know what to do about two individuals who had just stopped being themselves.Sunlight poured in from above. Real sunlight. Not crystal light. Not the glow of moss. Not mirror reflections. Sunlight that was warm, honest, and reflected nothing other than itself.Helena stopped at the dungeon gate.The black stone arch towered before her—ancient symbols eroded by three hundred years, security seals that were now dark, a surface no longer glowing. The gate looked old. Tired. Like someone who had stood for too long
Chapter 143: From Cult to Community
Malachar did not walk like a Grand Priest. There was no cape billowing without wind. No eyes burning with the fire of conviction. No voice sounding like dry bones scraping together inside a cave.He walked like an old man who had just woken up from a forty-year sleep, realizing that all his dreams belonged to someone else.His steps were short. Hesitant. His old shoes touched the mirror floor without confidence—without direction. Where should he go? What should he do? Who was he, if not the Grand Priest of the Abyss Remnant Cult? Who was he, if not a hunter of God? Who was he, if not anything at all?The Cracked Mirror still lay on the floor. Its cracked surface now reflected the ordinary light of the Maze—a light that showed no souls, no truth, nothing other than the surface. But Malachar did not need to look at the mirror anymore. He had already seen it. And what he saw was still burning behind his eyes.A former bishop. Alone. Fired. Without friends. Talking to walls.Not a Grand P
Chapter 142: Toby, the Unwanted "Prophet"
He found a gap between two cracked mirrors—a narrow two-meter space hidden behind the reflection of light. There, far from the battle, far from the screams, far from poison daggers, mana nets, and giant fists slamming into the floor, Toby did the only thing he could do while the world was collapsing around him.He cooked.The Kerosene Stove burned with a small blue flame. Its bent chimney puffed out thin steam that smelled like chicken broth mixed with damp moss and a hint of ozone from the dungeon air. Inside the dented pot he brought from the shop, dungeon water boiled—water he scraped from the leaks along the Maze walls, water no sane person with an appetite would ever drink.Toby stirred the soup with a wooden spoon he had chewed on in three places. A greasy apron was tied around his neck—an apron he found in a supply sack when they first entered the dungeon. It was way too big for him, but enough to keep his fur safe from splatters.This was not the thick, black, asphalt-smelling
Chapter 141: Aster Faces the Three Leaders
Reinforcements arrived in four minutes and thirty seconds.A platoon of Aethelgard royal knights—forty men in silver armor with golden lion crests on their chests—entered Floor Four in a two-column formation. Their captain, a woman with a scar on her temple and eyes that had seen too much to ever be shocked by anything, swept her gaze across the Maze.And even she stopped.Twenty Valdris shadow soldiers sat on the floor. Weapons lay beside them. Masks unfastened. Empty eyes. Not fighting back. No need to bind them—they weren't even trying to stand up.Twelve cult followers knelt on the other side of the Maze. Their red eyes blinked with a confusion never before seen on the face of any cultist. Some were crying. Some were staring at their own hands. Some just stayed quiet.Kael's five guards lay near the shattered mirror wall. Unmoving. Breathing, but unmoving.And in the middle of it all, three people sat in front of a small cracked mirror. Crying.The platoon captain swallowed hard.
Chapter 140: The Last Line of Defense
The effect of the Rusty Shop Bell pulled everyone to a single point. The effect of the Dusting Broom erased intent from everyone within a ten-meter radius. But not everyone was within that radius. And not all intent could be erased.Kael's five personal guards stood at the edge of the Maze. They felt the pull of the bell. They felt the broom's erasing effect. But they were veterans of three border campaigns—their souls had been forged too hard, too many times, for the outer layer of their intent to be wiped away by a single sweep of a broom.And four of Malachar's followers—four of the twelve who had been brainwashed too deeply, for too long, for the chains on their souls to be loosened by a single wave of cleansing—stood up. Their red eyes glowed. Ritual knives were drawn.Nine figures moved. Not toward the mirror. Not toward the three crying leaders. Toward Aster.Toward the old man crouching on the moss, his back to the world, pressing the buttons of a broken calculator.Kaelen mov
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