The rain was coming down in freezing sheets by the time I made it back to the Guild tavern. It was exactly 8:50 PM.
The main room was almost completely empty, save for a few drunk sailors passed out at the corner tables. I walked up to the bar, my ruined coat dripping water onto the floorboards.
The bartender didn't say a word. He reached under the counter and slid a plain, featureless white porcelain mask across the wood.
"The cellar door in the back alley," he murmured, wiping down a glass. "Three heavy knocks, a two-second pause, then two light taps. Put the mask on before you go down. The moment you step into that room, you have no name, no past, and no face. Do not ask for anyone's identity, and do not reveal your own."
I nodded, taking the cold porcelain mask. "Understood."
I slipped out the back door into the dark, rain-swept alleyway. At the far end, barely visible in the gloom, was a heavy oak door reinforced with iron. I pulled the white mask over my face. It fit perfectly, leaving only my eyes exposed.
I stepped up to the door and followed the code. Knock. Knock. Knock. A breath. Tap. Tap. A small viewing slit slid open, then snapped shut. A heavy lock clicked, and the door creaked inward, revealing a dimly lit stone staircase leading deep underground.
Alright, Kallisto, I thought, letting a tiny sliver of royal blue Ether coat my vocal cords. It was a trick I had figured out on the walk over—by wrapping my throat in a localized gravity field, I could artificially deepen my voice until it sounded like a heavy, raspy baritone. Keep an eye on the Ether signatures in the room. Tell me if anyone is strong enough to be a threat.
[Notice: Understood. Scanning area.]
The basement was massive, lit only by a few flickering gas lamps that cast long, distorted shadows against the damp brick walls. It felt entirely divorced from the world above. About twenty people were gathered in the room, sitting in a loose circle of high-backed wooden chairs. Every single one of them was wearing a mask or a heavy cloak. No one spoke loudly. It was quiet, tense, and suffocatingly secretive.
I took an empty seat near the back, crossing my legs and leaning back into the shadows to observe.
It didn't take long for the trading to start. The center of the circle acted as a stage.
A figure wrapped in a heavy green cloak stood up, pulling a thick, leather-bound journal from their robes.
"I have the complete Tier 3 advancement ritual for the Sequence of Valor," the figure said, their voice artificially distorted. "A Virtue path. Highly stable. I am not looking for coin. I will trade this only for the artifact known as the Sword of Heaven and Earth, or a weapon of equal caliber."
A Virtue ritual, I thought, watching the room. Several people shifted in their seats, clearly interested, but no one stepped forward. The Sword of Heaven and Earth sounded like a high-tier relic, way too expensive for a simple Tier 3 ritual. The cloaked figure eventually sat back down in disappointment.
The gathering continued. Potions, cursed items, and rare monster cores were passed around and traded in hushed whispers. I just watched, waiting.
Then, a massive, hunched figure stepped into the center. They reached into a heavy iron lockbox and pulled out a gun.
It was a revolver, but it was absurdly large. The metal was an oily, matte black, inscribed with deep, glowing crimson runes along the barrel. It looked less like a firearm and more like a hand-held cannon.
"I present an artifact from the Second Dark Era," the hunched man growled. "A revolver named Bad News."
Just looking at it made the Cenotaph of Pride hum in my chest.
"It fires condensed Ether rather than standard lead," the seller continued. "It is Bad News for whoever is standing in front of the barrel. It can blow through standard Tier 4 defenses with a single shot."
A murmur went through the room. A weapon that could break Tier 4 defenses was terrifying.
"However," the man held up a hand. "It comes with a Constraint. Every time you pull the trigger, the gun feeds on the user's emotional state. If you feel even a drop of fear, hesitation, or panic when you fire, the gun will misfire, backfiring the blast directly into your own hand. You must be absolutely fearless to wield it."
[Notice: A high-risk artifact. However, due to your Sin of Pride and your absolute Constraint against fleeing or bowing, fear is effectively nullified within your psyche. This weapon is perfectly suited for you.]
A predatory grin spread beneath my white mask. I know.
"The price," the hunched man declared, "is twenty thousand pounds. Cash or equivalent high-tier crystals."
Twenty thousand pounds. That was a staggering amount of money. Most Awakened didn't see that in a decade. The room went dead silent. A few people looked at the gun with greed, but no one moved. No one had that kind of liquid wealth on them.
Except me.
I stood up.
Every masked face in the room turned to look at me. I walked slowly into the center of the circle, my silver cane tapping sharply against the stone floor. My altered voice came out deep, heavy, and dripping with authority.
"I will take it," I rumbled.
The hunched seller looked at me skeptically. "Do you have twenty thousand pounds on you, stranger?"
"I do not have twenty thousand pounds," I said simply.
A few scoffs echoed in the dark room.
"But," I continued, reaching into my inner coat pocket, "I have this."
I pulled out the Tier 5 condensed Boss core—the remnants of Emperor Charles IV.
The moment the golden, pulsing crystal hit the dim air of the cellar, the entire atmosphere of the room violently shifted. The sheer density of the Tier 5 Ether was suffocating. It radiated an aura of pure dominion, lighting up the dark bricks and casting long, golden shadows across the stunned faces of the attendees.
Someone in the back actually gasped. Several people half-stood from their chairs, completely mesmerized.
"A... a Tier 5 core," the hunched seller stammered, his eyes wide behind his mask. "And the purity... it's condensed from a sovereign entity..."
"The price is fifty thousand pounds," I said coldly, cutting him off. "I am taking the revolver. You—or whoever else in this room has the capital—will give me the gun and thirty thousand pounds in bank notes. Right now."
The silence was deafening. I was holding a nuclear bomb in a room full of people fighting over scraps.
Suddenly, a figure sitting near the front—a man wearing an expensive velvet suit under his cloak—stood up. His hands were literally shaking.
[Notice: His Ether signature is highly unstable. He is at the absolute peak of Tier 4. He is likely desperate for a Tier 5 crystal to stabilize his soul and begin his advancement ritual.]
"I... I will buy it," the velvet-suited man said, his voice cracking with desperation. He reached into his robes and pulled out a thick stack of bearer bonds and high-denomination bank notes. "Thirty thousand. I have it right here. Please."
He didn't even care about the money. To a dying Tier 4, a pure Tier 5 crystal was priceless.
I looked at the hunched seller. He swallowed hard, handing me the massive black revolver.
I took Bad News in my left hand. It was incredibly heavy, but the grip felt perfect. The crimson runes flared slightly, sensing my royal blue Ether, but finding absolutely zero fear in my heart, they settled into a low, satisfied hum.
With my right hand, I took the thick stack of cash from the desperate noble and dropped the glowing Tier 5 crystal into his trembling palms.
"A pleasure doing business," I rasped.
I didn't stick around to chat. I turned my back on the stunned room, slipped the money and the cannon-like revolver into my coat, and walked calmly back up the stone stairs.
I stepped out into the freezing Bransy Town rain, my heart hammering against my ribs, an arrogant smirk plastered across my face.
I had a lethal weapon, a fortune in cash, and my Tier 4 Boss core safely tucked away. The Grounded Angel of War (Tier 7 BTW) wanted a hunt?
Let him come. I brought Bad News.