Chapter 4: A Junk Dealer in a Bandit’s Den
Aethelgard Underground Black Market wasn’t literally underground. It was hidden behind a false wall in the basement of an old wine warehouse in the commercial district of the academy city. To get inside, someone had to knock three times on the largest wine barrel in a specific pattern, then say a password that changed every week.
Aster stood in front of the enormous wine barrel, pulling his black cloak tighter around himself. He’d stolen it from a clothesline behind the dormitory. It was two sizes too big and smelled like cheap laundry soap, but at least it was enough to conceal his academy uniform.
He knocked three times. Knock. Knock. Knock.
A small opening appeared in the wall, and a pair of yellow eyes stared at him from the darkness.
“Password?” a hoarse voice asked.
Aster swallowed. He’d gotten this week’s password from Toby that afternoon, after very carefully steering the conversation toward “interesting places in the city.” Toby, who apparently had an uncle in the black-market trade, had overheard the password during a family dinner.
“Crows fly north,” Aster replied, trying to make his voice sound hoarse and dangerous.
The yellow eyes blinked once, then the opening closed. A few seconds later, the false wall beside the wine barrel slid slowly aside, revealing a narrow passage lit by dim green torches.
Aster stepped inside, and the wall behind him immediately sealed shut.
Aethelgard Underground Black Market was a massive cavern illuminated by hundreds of colorful mana lanterns hanging from the rocky ceiling. The air smelled of foreign spices, weapon oil, and desperate sweat. Hundreds of stalls lined the narrow passageways, selling everything from forbidden potions and smuggled weapons to stolen artifacts from ancient tombs.
Buyers and sellers moved about with their faces hidden beneath their cloaks, speaking in hushed whispers. No one looked at anyone else for too long. No one asked for real names. Here, identity was a luxury that could get you killed.
Aster walked along the main passage, scanning the stalls. He was looking for a strategic spot that wasn’t too conspicuous—a place where he could display his merchandise without attracting too much attention.
Eventually, he found an empty corner between a stall selling fake dragon bones and one selling lucky charms that were probably nothing more than dyed bird droppings. The corner was dark enough, cramped enough, and far enough from the black market guards’ patrol route.
“Perfect,” Aster muttered, setting his backpack on the floor.
He pulled out a piece of black cloth he’d torn from an old sheet in the dormitory storeroom and spread it across the floor as a mat for his stall. From inside his bag, he took out a thick canvas bundle containing the “Fate-Cutting Nail Clipper.”
With extreme care, he opened the layers of cloth wrapping, revealing the rusty nail clipper atop the black cloth. It still looked just as pathetic—bent, rusty, and like a breeding ground for tetanus.
“Now, how am I supposed to sell this cursed thing for five gold coins?” Aster muttered to himself, rubbing his temples.
He couldn’t shout out advertisements for his merchandise like an ordinary merchant. That wasn’t how the black market worked. Here, rare and mysterious goods were sold in the quietest, most cryptic manner possible. The less information a seller provided, the higher a price they could command.
Aster took a small piece of cardboard from his bag and wrote on it in charcoal:
“Nail Clipper. Price: 5 Gold Coins. No haggling.”
He placed the cardboard sign beside the nail clipper, then sat cross-legged 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, then burst out laughing so loudly that several people turned to look.
“Five gold coins for a rusty nail clipper?!” the man mocked, turning to his companion. “This seller has to be crazy or trying to scam an idiot!”
Aster remained seated in silence, his face blank and expressionless. Inside, he was screaming in panic. Damn it! Did I set the price wrong? Is five gold coins too much for a nail clipper?! But I need that money to buy the Cracked Stone!
Thirty minutes passed. The sun had surely set outside by now, and Aster was beginning to worry that he wouldn’t sell anything tonight. If he didn’t get the money, he couldn’t buy the Cracked Stone. And if he didn’t get the Cracked Stone...
A shadow fell across his stall.
Aster looked up. An old man in a gray robe stood in front of his stall, staring at the rusty nail clipper with intense focus. The man had a long, neatly groomed white beard, sharp brown eyes behind round glasses, and a right hand missing two fingers—the ring finger and the pinky.
“Nail clipper,” the old man murmured, his voice soft yet authoritative. “Five gold coins.”
“Yes,” Aster replied curtly, trying to sound professional and mysterious.
The old man crouched down and examined the nail clipper up close without touching it. His eyes narrowed, and Aster could see his pupils constricting and dilating in an odd rhythm, as though he were scanning the object with some kind of specialized visual technique.
“Interesting,” the old man murmured. “Very interesting.”
He looked at Aster inquisitively. “Do you know what you’re selling, boy?”
Aster swallowed. I don’t know! I just made a nail clipper out of a rusty spoon and a broken clock spring! Please don’t ask me about things I don’t know!
“I know exactly what I’m selling, sir,” Aster replied with a blank expression, hoping his voice wouldn’t shake. “That’s why it costs five gold coins.”
The old man fell silent for a moment, studying Aster with an unreadable expression. Then he pulled a leather pouch from inside his robe and tossed it onto the black cloth 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 buy it,” the old man said, his tone flat, though a faint tremor lay hidden beneath it. “But I need a demonstration. Show me what this clipper can do.”
Aster froze. A demonstration?!
He stared at the rusty nail clipper in horror. It could cut soul contracts. It could cut shadows. It was a physical anomaly that should never have existed in this world. If he demonstrated it here, in front of hundreds of mages and criminals, he’d instantly become the number-one fugitive in the entire kingdom!
However, the old man was looking at him with an expression that would accept no refusal. And Aster needed that money. He had to buy the Cracked Stone tonight, before Valerius’s envoy arrived.
“I... can’t demonstrate it here,” Aster replied carefully, his mind racing for an excuse. “The effects of this clipper are too... extensive. If I use it in a crowded place, the consequences will affect too many people.”
The old man raised an eyebrow, looking even more intrigued. “Oh? How far does its range extend?”
Aster glanced around him. The black market was packed with people. If he snapped the clipper and accidentally cut everyone’s “contract bonds,” or their “marriage bonds,” or the “magical bonds” keeping the cavern ceiling from collapsing...
“The entire district,” Aster lied with an innocent expression. “If I use it here, the entire commercial district above us will be affected.”
The old man fell silent. His eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, Aster saw surprise flash across his aged face.
“You...” The old man looked at Aster with a new expression, as though he were seeing a monster in human form. “You’re selling a catastrophe-grade weapon for five gold coins?”
Aster nodded slowly, trying to look mysterious and wise. Yes, I’m selling a catastrophe-grade weapon. Please buy it and leave before I pass out from panic.
The old man picked up the nail clipper with extreme care, as though he were holding a dragon egg about to hatch. He placed it inside a mana-lined iron box pulled from beneath his robe, then locked the box with three layers of magical seals.
“My name is Balthazar,” the old man said, rising and looking at Aster with a respect Aster couldn’t understand. “If you have more items like this, find me at the North Tower. I’ll pay whatever price you ask.”
Aster nodded slowly, trying not to show how violently he was trembling 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 that felt like he’d been holding it for an hour.
“I did it,” he whispered to himself, a relieved smile beginning to form on his lips. “I have the money. I can buy the Cracked Stone.”
But his smile vanished the moment he heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind.
“Hey, new merchant,” a hoarse, threatening voice called out. “You haven’t paid us your stall rent.”
Aster turned around. Three large men with dragon tattoos on their necks stood behind him, their hands resting on the hilts of the swords hanging from their waists. In the middle of them, a thin man with burn scars covering half his face stared at Aster with an evil grin.
“We’re the Black Snake Gang,” the thin man said, crouching in front of Aster’s stall and taking the pouch containing fifty gold coins without permission. “And in our territory, every merchant has to pay thirty percent of their sales as protection money.”
Aster stared at the pouch the man had taken, then looked at the thin man’s face with an empty expression.
“Sir,” Aster said in an extremely polite, calm tone. “Please return that money. I really need it.”
The thin man burst out laughing, followed by his three underlings. “Or what? You’ll report us to the market guards? You think there’s law in a place like this, brat?”
Aster stared at them for three seconds. Then he let out a long sigh, as though he were dealing with naughty children who refused to do their homework.
“Sir,” Aster said again, his tone still extremely polite. “I don’t want to cause a scene. But please return that money. Otherwise...”
“Otherwise what?” the thin man challenged, standing and looking down at Aster condescendingly. “What are you going to do? You’re just a junk dealer who—”
Aster didn’t let him finish. With a swift, precise movement, he pulled a small object from his backpack—a wooden comb he’d made that afternoon from scrap wood in the Crafting workshop.
The system in his head flashed.
[Item: Scrap Wood Comb (Quality: F)] [Granted Concept: Deconstruction of All Forms of Chaos (Absolute Entropy Reversal).]
Aster swung the wooden comb through the air as though he were combing his messy hair.
Swish.
There was no explosion. No blinding flash of light. Yet the thin man suddenly stopped moving. His eyes widened, and the hand holding the pouch trembled violently. Behind him, all three of his underlings dropped to their knees at the same time, their faces deathly 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 in confusion. What just happened? I only swung a comb!
But before he could ask, a cold, authoritative voice echoed from the main passage of the black market, instantly silencing every stall and merchant.
“Who just used a god-tier artifact in my territory?”