The crowd was thick, voices blending together with offers, trades, and threats. Asher moved at a steady pace, hood low, his crimson eyes hidden. He watched and listened but didn’t speak. Every step was controlled.
The Dimensional Credits in his cloak weren’t money to him—they were tools. Tools to buy silence, power, and knowledge.
He glanced at stalls: black-edged blades humming with killing intent, bottles of lightning rattling inside glass. Interesting, but not what he needed.
What he wanted was information. The memories he had taken from the worshipper were broken—faces with no names, tunnels with no maps, whispers with no clear source. To make use of them, he needed someone who dealt in secrets.
He walked into the deeper alleys. The atmosphere shifted. The air was darker, voices quieter. Stalls here sold things far more dangerous—contracts in blood, poisons that could kill body and soul, carved bones carrying curses.
Among them, he saw a small black pavilion with a symbol on its entrance: an eye crossed by a broken chain. An information broker’s den.
Asher approached. Before he touched the curtain, a voice called out:
"Welcome, crimson-eyed traveler. Do you seek information or opportunity?"
Asher placed a hand on the obsidian card in his cloak. His reply was calm.
"Information. On the worshippers who move through the cracks."
There was silence, then a quiet laugh.
Asher’s eyes glinted faintly under his hood. Thɪs chapter is updated by novelFirｅ.net
Inside, the place was small and dim, with shelves full of scrolls, maps, and tokens. A thin man with pale skin sat behind a desk, his face half-covered with a mask. He leaned forward.
"You want worshippers? Then you want the places they use. Hidden dungeons, forgotten tunnels. I can tell you."
He slid three maps across the desk. Each marked with blood-red ink.
"The first," the broker tapped, "is the Serpent Maw Cavern. A mid-tier dungeon. Full of venomous beasts and cursed waters. Good for harvesting cores, but risky."
"The second," he tapped again, "is the Ashen Depths, burned-out ruins where fire and shadow creatures linger. Stronger rewards—soul crystals, rare flames—but the danger is high."
"And the third..." he paused, pushing the last one forward, "...the Hollow Vein Labyrinth. A dungeon the worshippers sometimes use. It is unstable. Blood constructs and void-born things inside. If you survive, you’ll gain rare materials, maybe even relics. If not... you’ll be nothing but another corpse feeding the walls."
Asher studied the maps. These were exactly what he needed—sources of power and growth. The Hollow Vein, especially, interested him. If the cult used it, then he could cut them at the root while growing stronger himself.
He placed the obsidian card and a few credit chips on the desk. The broker nodded, sliding the maps into a black case.
"Pleasure doing business, traveler. But take care. Too much digging in the cracks, and the cracks will stare back."
Asher said nothing, just took the case and left, his pace steady as always.
The alleys fell quiet behind him as Asher stepped back into the main road of the market. People shoved past each other, voices rough with deals and threats, but he moved through them without care. His cloak brushed shoulders and blades alike, yet none dared stop him.
The case in his hand felt light. The broker’s warning echoed in his mind, but instead of worry, it made him grin faintly. The worshippers weren’t hiding anymore—they had taken dungeons for themselves. That wasn’t danger. That was arrogance. And arrogance meant loot waiting to be claimed.
He slowed in a shadowed corner and opened the case. The Hollow Vein map pulsed faintly, blood-red lines twisting across the parchment like living veins. He touched the edge, and fragments of memory stirred. One of the hooded faces he had pulled earlier matched the strange routes of the map. Not exact, but close enough.
That was all he needed.
He folded the map, tucked it away, and set his plan. Serpent Maw and Ashen Depths could wait. The Hollow Vein came first. Enemy base, resource mine, and now his hunting ground. Perfect.
He needed a few things before diving in—blood reagents, soul anchors, and maybe a blade that cut through voidspawn like butter. No stockpiles, no baggage. Just the right tools for profit.
Two mercenaries stumbled past, drunk and loud.
"...another team went in yesterday. None came back. Hollow Vein chewed them up."
"Good. Only fools chase relics there."
They laughed, but Asher’s smirk deepened. To him, their warning wasn’t fear. It was proof the place was ripe for the taking.
He walked on, calm and steady. Tonight he would rest. Tomorrow he would descend into the Hollow Vein.
And the worshippers waiting inside? They weren’t hunters. They were credits—already his, just waiting to be collected.
Asher didn’t waste time looking for an inn or a quiet place to rest. He didn’t need rest. Sleep meant nothing to him now—it was only lost time. His body and his soul already carried everything they needed. He had no reason to gather charms, potions, or talismans like others did. The Blood Rose Scythe rested in his grip, its blade giving off a faint hum, a quiet hunger only he could feed. Inside him burned enough strength to crush what most people thought was certain death.
Others filled their bags with protections, but Asher relied only on himself. What he held could not be bought. What he had could never be copied.
When night fell, he chose the tallest rooftop near the edge of the district. He stood there without a sound, looking down at the city below, where gamblers, drunkards, and scavengers still moved about. From above, he watched them like a ghost. His eyes closed—not for sleep, but to let his cultivation flow. Each pulse of his soul force sharpened him further, each breath turned his will harder.
By dawn, he was gone.
The road leading to the Hollow Vein was filled with warnings. Torn banners hung on broken poles. Empty camps lay scattered, their owners long dead or fled. Dried blood stained the stone paths like scars. Many slowed down there. Asher did not. His cloak dragged softly across the ground as he walked, steady and certain. Whispers rose behind him—another fool heading to his death.
The entrance to the Hollow Vein looked like the open mouth of a beast. Faint red mist rolled out of it in twisting streams, as though the land itself was bleeding. Adventurers gathered nearby, faces pale, arguing with one another about whether the danger inside was worth their lives.
One man called out, mocking him. "Oi, stranger! No banner, no allies? You’ll be dead before the sun sets!"
Asher’s steps never slowed. His voice cut through the air, calm and cold:
"Then I’ll make sure they choke on me."
The laughter behind him died at once.
The Hollow Vein waited, and he entered without fear. Whatever waited inside—beasts, cultists, or worse—he already counted them as corpses.
They just hadn’t realized it yet.