The Trash King's System

The Black Market Gamble

Chapter 3: The Black Market Gamble

Deyvok didn’t wait for Jorvik to take that second, fatal step back into the alley. As the giant began to turn, his heavy boots grinding against the gravel, Deyvok scrambled backward into the crawlspace beneath the tenement building. His breath hitched, stinging his lungs like needles as he pressed his back against the damp, mold-slicked foundation.

He watched through a gap in the rotting floorboards as Jorvik peered into the darkness, his heavy brow furrowed.

"Strange," Jorvik muttered, his voice echoing off the brickwork. "I could have sworn there was a spark. Maybe the fatigue is finally rotting my brain."

Deyvok remained frozen, his hand locked around the shard in his pocket. He didn’t dare exhale.

"Whatever," Jorvik grumbled, spitting a thick glob of phlegm onto the pavement. "If the kid actually has something worth a credit, he won’t be able to hold onto it for an hour in this district anyway."

He turned and lumbered away, his heavy, rhythmic footsteps fading into the distance. Only when the silence of the night settled back over the street did Deyvok allow himself a ragged, shaking breath. He crawled out from under the structure, his clothes covered in filth, his mind racing.

He couldn’t stay in his room. He couldn’t go to the Guild. If he wanted to survive—and if he wanted to keep the mithril—he needed capital. And in this city, capital didn’t come from honest work.

*

The Under-City was a labyrinth of steam pipes, flickering neon signs, and shadows that moved with intent. Deyvok pulled his hood low, keeping his head down as he navigated the crowded, narrow walkways of the Black Sector. This was where the city’s discarded items went to be traded, sold, or melted down for parts.

He found the entrance to the Auction House—a rusted metal door marked with a crudely painted eye—and tapped the rhythm he’d heard whispered in the pits: three short, one long.

The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of smoke-filled air and the scent of bitter rot and expensive stimulants. A man sat at a desk inside, his eyes magnified by thick, wire-rimmed lenses that made him look like a predatory insect.

"You’re late," the man said, his voice a dry rasp. "And you look like you’ve been dragged through the vents. What do you want, scrap-boy?"

Deyvok stepped inside, the door clanging shut behind him. "I’m looking for Tervan Kross. I was told he’s the only one who handles rare-grade intake without asking too many questions."

The man peered over his glasses, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his face. "Tervan doesn't see just anyone. What makes you think you've got something worth his time?"

Deyvok reached into his pocket. He didn't pull the shard out, but he loosened his grip, allowing a faint, violet shimmer to bleed through the fabric of his jacket. The man’s eyes widened, the lenses reflecting the sudden, pulsing light.

"Is that..." the man started, his tone changing instantly from dismissive to greedy.

"Take me to him," Deyvok demanded, his voice stronger than he felt. "Or I walk. There are plenty of buyers in the Sector who would kill for a chance at this."

The man stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. "Wait. Just… stay here. I’ll see if Tervan is taking appointments."

Minutes later, Deyvok was ushered into a small, windowless backroom. Tervan Kross sat behind a polished mahogany desk—an anomaly in a place built of scrap. He was lean, dressed in a sharp, dark coat that looked completely out of place against the grime of the Under-City.

"Rhamelis, isn't it?" Tervan said, not looking up from a stack of ledgers. "I heard you were kicked out of the Assessment Hall. Quite a spectacular failure, I hear."

Deyvok didn't blink. "They were wrong."

"Everyone says that." Tervan leaned back, his eyes sharp and analytical. "So, let’s see this miracle you’re peddling. If it’s just another piece of polished copper, I’ll have my guards toss you into the sump."

Deyvok slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. He placed the mithril shard onto the mahogany desk. The violet light illuminated the small room, casting sharp, beautiful shadows against the walls.

Tervan’s composure vanished. He stood up, his hand hovering over the shard, though he didn't touch it. "Where did you get this? This isn't just grade-superior mithril. This is mana-resonant."

"Does it matter?" Deyvok asked, his voice steady. "I’m looking to sell. Cash, no questions, and I want out of this sector by morning."

Tervan didn't answer immediately. He picked up a jeweler’s loupe and examined the shard, his breath catching in his throat. "Do you have any idea how much this could bring? If this hits the open market, the Guild will be knocking down my door within the hour."

"Then don't let it hit the open market," Deyvok countered. "Buy it, and disappear it. You’ve got the reach."

"You’re a clever one," Tervan murmured, his gaze shifting to Deyvok. "But you’re also a target. Someone saw you with this, didn't they?"

"A scavenger, and a thug named Jorvik," Deyvok admitted, figuring the truth was the only currency that might buy him protection. "I need enough to clear my debts and get a head start on a new life."

Tervan drummed his fingers on the desk. "I can give you five hundred credits. And I can make sure you’re transported to the outer gates by dawn."

Deyvok’s heart hammered. Five hundred credits was a fortune. It was more than his father had made in three years.

"Five hundred is a steal," Deyvok said, though he knew he had no leverage. "But it’s a deal."

"Wise," Tervan replied, reaching for a ledger. "Now, let’s—"

Suddenly, the red lights lining the ceiling pulsed, a low, rhythmic thrumming sound filling the room. The building began to shake.

"A raid?" Tervan hissed, his face draining of color. "The Enforcers? How did they find this place?"

"You tell me," Deyvok snapped, his instincts screaming. He grabbed the shard back from the desk.

"Hey, what are you doing? Put that back!" Tervan barked, but he was already scrambling toward a hidden panel in the wall.

"I'm not letting them seize this," Deyvok said. He didn't wait for Tervan’s permission. He darted toward the side exit, his mind cataloging the architecture. He had worked these foundations for years; he knew the drainage tunnels better than anyone.

"You idiot!" Tervan yelled. "You won't survive the street!"

Deyvok kicked open the side door, slipping into the dark, narrow crawlspace between the walls. Outside, the sounds of shouting and heavy, mechanized boots echoed through the alley. The Enforcers were everywhere, their searchlights cutting through the smog like blades.

He didn't run into the street. Instead, he pried open a rusted grate he had loosened months ago, slipping into the murky, stagnant water of the primary drainage tunnel. It was freezing, the stench of industrial waste almost overwhelming, but it was his only path.

He waded through the waist-deep sludge, his clothes soaking up the filth. Every splash sounded like a gunshot to his ears. He kept his hand clamped over the mithril shard, the cool, rhythmic pulse of the metal grounding him. Just keep moving, he told himself. Don't look back.

He emerged into the outer outskirts, near the rusted perimeter fence that separated the city from the wasteland. He was exhausted, his body failing him, but he was alive. And he still had the shard.

He slumped against a concrete pylon, trying to catch his breath. The silence of the wastes felt heavy, a stark contrast to the chaos of the Under-City.

"That was quite the performance, Rhamelis," a voice said, low and smooth.

Deyvok spun around, his hand flying to his pocket. Standing at the edge of the light, half-hidden by the shadows of a derelict crane, stood a figure in a high-collared, tailored coat.

Deyvok backed away, his heart sinking. "Who are you? Did Kross send you?"

The figure stepped forward, revealing a face that was thin, pale, and entirely unfamiliar. "Tervan Kross is a small-minded merchant. I have much grander plans for a boy with a talent like yours."

Deyvok felt the System flutter, a notification blinking into his field of vision.

[Warning: High-Mana Presence Detected.]

"You’re not an Enforcer," Deyvok whispered, his grip tightening on the mithril.

"No," the man said, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory amber light. "I’m an opportunist. And you, Deyvok, have just become the most valuable piece of scrap in the city."

Deyvok didn't wait. He tur

ned and sprinted toward the fence, the stranger’s laughter trailing behind him like a cold, biting wind.