The clock struck 8:00 PM as Kyle slipped out of his room, the academy halls eerily quiet. Aurelia had left a note saying she would be working late.
He moved swiftly through the dimly lit streets of Valtheris, hood pulled low, until he reached the mana train station.
The automated gates hummed as he swiped his ticket, the glowing blue rails carrying him toward Ashon City's underbelly.
The train deposited him in a district the city maps conveniently ignored.
Crumbling brick buildings leaned against each other like drunkards, their windows boarded up or glowing with suspiciously colored lights. The air smelled of fried street food and something far less legal.
Kyle pulled the black mask (Artifact) he had ordered few days ago. It will conceal his face from the prying eyes at least from low and Mid Rankers.
At the end of a narrow alley stood an unmarked door, its peeling paint the same shade of grime as the walls around it.
Two men flanked it, their arms crossed over chests that suggested they bench-pressed boulders for fun.
The one on the left—a bald giant with knuckle tattoos—eyed Kyle as he approached.
"Evening, stranger. You lost?"
Kyle kept his voice low, rough. "Depends. Heard there's a place around here that sells… specialty inks."
The second guard, a wiry man, smirked. "Inks, huh? What kind?"
"The kind that doesn't smudge."
The bald one grunted. "You a collector?"
"Depends on the collection."
The two exchanged glances.
Then Wiry man nodded toward the door. "Third shelf on the right. Ask for the nightingale edition."
Kyle dipped his chin. "Appreciate it."
The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit staircase descending into the belly of Ashon's black market.
That was the password for entering the black market he had known from the novel.
Kyle descended the stairs, the air growing thicker with the scent of incense and something sharper—mana-infused stimulants, probably.
The black market sprawled before him, a labyrinth of stalls and shadowed alcoves.
Weapons dealers hocked enchanted blades with "no questions asked" warranties. Alchemists peddled glowing vials of who-knows-what. Information brokers lurked in corners, their eyes sharp for loose lips and looser coin.
Kyle exhaled, rolling his stiff shoulders as he navigated the crowded black market streets.
The air smelled of sizzling meat, cheap incense, and the sharp tang of illegal mana cores being sold under the counter.
Stalls lined the narrow alley, their owners shouting over each other to hawk their wares.
A hunched old woman grabbed his sleeve, her fingers bony but strong.
"Young master! Best luck charms in Ashon! Protect you from curses, poisons—even bad ex-lovers!" She shook a string of dubious-looking talismans in his face.
Kyle gently peeled her fingers off. "Maybe next time."
Further down, a man wearing a half-mask and too many gold teeth blocked his path. "Hey, hey! You look like a man who appreciates fine weapons!" He gestured to a table of gleaming daggers.
"Enchanted blades! Cuts through steel like butter!"
Kyle eyed the nearest dagger—its edge was visibly chipped. "Looks like it cuts through butter like butter."
The vendor scowled as Kyle moved past.
At the end of the row stood a squat building with a sign that simply read "BLADES" in peeling red paint. The door creaked as Kyle pushed inside, a bell jingling overhead.
The shop was cramped but orderly, walls lined with racks of swords, axes, and polearms.
Behind the counter stood a broad-shouldered woman with her dark hair tied back in a tight bun, with a mask, polishing a curved dagger with a rag.
She looked up, her gaze sharp. "You here to browse or buy?"
"Buy" Kyle said. "Need a tachi. Decent quality, but nothing flashy."
The woman set down the dagger and wiped her hands on her apron. "Got a few in the back. What's your budget?"
"Around 1000 crystas."
She raised an eyebrow. "For 1000, you are not getting masterwork steel, but I have got something serviceable." She disappeared into the back room and returned with a long, cloth-wrapped bundle.
Unfolding the fabric, she revealed a sleek tachi with a dark wooden sheath. The blade itself was unadorned but well-balanced, the steel polished to a muted shine.
"900 crystas," she said, handing it to him.
Kyle tested the weight, then drew the blade halfway. The edge was sharp, the steel free of flaws. Not academy-grade, but better than most black-market weapons.
"Kuroda smithy, out in the eastern provinces," she said. "No fancy enchantments, but it won't snap on you mid-swing."
He counted out the crystas and slid them across the counter. The woman pocketed them without bothering to check.
Kyle paused just as his hand touched the door handle. He turned back toward the shopkeeper, who was already wiping down the counter with her rag.
"Actually, I will also take a scabbard for it." He pointed at his Tachi. "Something sturdy."
The woman snorted. "What, planning to actually sheath it instead of waving it around like every other idiot who buys here?" She turned toward the back room.
"Got a few that might fit."
She returned with three scabbards slung over her shoulder—one plain black leather, another wrapped in blue fabric, and a third made of lacquered wood with minimal decoration.
"Leather's 30 crystas, cloth-wrapped is 25, lacquered is 40," she said, laying them on the counter. "All reinforced lining so your blade doesn't rattle."
Kyle picked up the black leather one, testing the fit with his tachi. It slid in smoothly with a satisfying click.
"This one work with a belt loop?"
"Yeah, strap adjusts." She watched as he fastened it, then smirked. "You are not from around here, are you?"
Kyle paused. "What makes you say that?"
"Locals either buy the flashy crap or try to haggle me down to copper scraps." She leaned on the counter. "You actually know what you are looking at."
Kyle shrugged, counting out 30 crystas. "Just don't like wasting time."
"Smart." She pocketed the crystals.
As Kyle walked out. The door shut behind him, the market's noise swallowing the jingle of the bell.
Once he was a few stalls away, he ducked into a shadowed alcove and slid the sheathed tachi into his spatial ring. The weight vanished from his hip, stored safely away.
He hadn't come to the black market just for a weapon.
Pushing through the throng of merchants and shoppers, he made his way toward a nondescript building wedged between a spice stall and a fortune teller's tent.
He reached real destination, where he could get two crucial things: reliable information on the Vipers gang in Maplewood town, and a new identity that would hold up under scrutiny.