I tucked the thick manila folder containing Vanessa Katt's top-secret coordinates securely beneath my heavy canvas cloak, resting it right alongside my newly acquired pouch of five gold pieces. With the custom Death Chant Shotgun, the pristine black-and-silver original Tommy gun, and the single bootleg copy shifting slightly against my spine, I navigated the clean, upscale streets of the 4th District and began my descent toward the lower sectors.
My primary objective was the 6th District, the bustling merchant district. There, I would systematically raid the apothecary stalls for the precise chemical ingredients required to forge Maine's tear gas recipe, collect my custom, fire-resistant crimson trench coat from Olive's elite tailor shop, and… if my finances permitted after buying the supplies… pay a visit to Vladimir's magic gear shop to see if I could acquire an artifact or enchantment to augment my current combat lethality.
To get there, however, my path required me to cut directly through the 5th District: the Remnants of Caria City.
As I stepped across the threshold into the 5th District, the atmosphere shifted drastically. Unlike the pristine, guarded streets of the Bureau's sector, the Remnants were a grim, solemn monument to the city's violent history. This area was a sprawling maze of half-shattered stone arches, ancient moss-covered foundations, and crumbling historical structures that had survived decades of localized wars and magical cataclysms.
The air here felt noticeably thinner and colder, carrying the faint, eternal scent of old dust and stagnant mana. Shadows pooled deeply within the hollowed-out hulls of abandoned buildings, making it the perfect tactical corridor for a cloaked, one-armed bounty hunter trying to move across the city undetected. The few residents who eked out a living here were quiet, keeping their heads down and ignoring the armed mercenaries drifting through the ruins.
I tightened the front straps of my canvas cloak, keeping my hidden crimson blood-wings compressed flat against my spine, and picked up my pace. I needed to navigate these ancient stone ruins quickly to reach the vibrant markets of the 6th District before the midday rush.
The transition from the solemn, echoing ruins of the 5th District to the heavily fortified threshold of the 6th District was entirely cut short by a wave of pure, unadulterated irritation. Standing directly in front of the massive iron-reinforced gates was the exact same pretentious, insufferable gatekeeper who had made the mistake of crossing me the week before:
Betch.
The last time our paths had crossed at this exact checkpoint, his vile, classist mouth had run so far out of line that I had systematically snapped his index finger backward until the bone cracked like a dry twig under my fingers. As I approached the gatehouse today, my single jade-green eye locked onto his hands. His finger was perfectly straight and entirely free of bandages. A high-tier healer within the Bureau's payroll must have spent an exorbitant amount of holy mana resetting the joints and knitting the flesh back together over the weekend. Yet, despite receiving a masterclass lesson in the lethal reflex speed of an S-rank hunter, the man clearly possessed a memory span shorter than a cave goblin's.
Betch stepped directly into my path, his chest puffed out beneath his polished silver breastplate, his hand resting on the pommel of his standard-issue longsword.
"You!"
Betch hissed, his face instantly twisting into an ugly, sneering mask of recognition the moment he caught sight of my dark canvas cloak.
"You miserable, impure slum rat. You dare break my finger, humiliate me in front of the entire sector, and then have the absolute audacity to march right back to my gate? And yet, look at what you are wearing today!"
He leaned forward, his arrogant eyes traveling down from my shadowed hood to scan the oversized, finely woven silk polo I had stripped from Luke Granhart's corpse. To an experienced appraiser or a high-end merchant, the fabric was unmistakably luxurious, but draped over my rugged frame and hidden beneath a tattered traveler's cloak, it looked completely out of place.
"A merchant lord's silk polo? I suppose you went out and stole that from some unsuspecting noble's clothesline because you're too poor to buy a proper tunic. A pathetic commoner like you doesn't belong in the commercial heart of the city."
The insults hung in the crisp morning air, but I didn't waste a single second fumbling around for my notepad to write a response. I didn't need to justify the origin of my clothes, nor did I have the patience to tolerate a low-tier gatekeeper's pathetic ego when the heavy deadlines of my seventh-day itinerary were pressing hard against my schedule. If a broken finger hadn't successfully taught him how to respect the silent predators of the dark, it was time to introduce him to a far more agonizing tier of physical education.
Before he could even finish the final sentence of his derogatory rant, I shifted my weight effortlessly onto my right heel. Utilizing the immense, supernatural physical strength inherent in my demonic biology… the very same raw power that allowed me to carry a heavy arsenal across the sky and match hypersonic strikes in the deep forests… I snapped my boot forward in a blinding, vertical arc.
My heavy traveling boot connected directly between his legs with a devastating, localized impact.
CRUNCH.
The sheer, unbridled force of the strike bypassed the lower seams of his silver greaves entirely. Betch's eyes immediately bulged out of his head, turning a terrifying, opaque shade of white as the air was violently sucked right out of his lungs. The arrogant sneer vanished from his face, replaced by a expression of pure, unmitigated agony. He didn't even have the breath to scream properly at first; instead, a high-pitched, pathetic squeak escaped his lips before he collapsed entirely forward, clutching his crotch as he hit the hard stone cobblestones of the gatehouse, rolling around and wailing like a terrified little girl.
I didn't offer him a single glance as he whimpered on the ground. Keeping my left sleeve pinned limply against my side to completely hide the absence of my arm, I reached into my purse with my remaining right hand. I pulled out the required silver toll coin and casually flipped it through the air, letting it clatter loudly onto the stone right next to his twitching, armored helmet.
"Keep the change," I thought with a cold, internal smirk.
Since the agonizing pain had rendered him completely incapable of performing his basic administrative duties, I walked right past his writhing form and approached the glowing verification stone mounted on the iron gatepost. I pressed my S-rank status card flat against the smooth, enchanted surface. The device let out a low, resonant ding, its blue runes flaring to life in a brilliant wave of light as the heavy iron-reinforced gates of the sector slowly groaned inward.
I swept my heavy canvas cloak tightly around my frame, ensuring the Death Chant Shotgun and the dual Tommy guns remained perfectly concealed from public view, and marched proudly across the threshold. The heavy gates clicked shut behind me, locking the pathetic wails of the gatekeeper out of my mind as I officially stepped into the grand, bustling marketplace of the 6th District.
The transition was immediate and overwhelming. The quiet, dust-choked air of the ruins was instantly replaced by a vibrant symphony of commercial chaos. The 6th District was the true financial engine of Caria, a sprawling metropolis of multi-story brick buildings, colorful canvas awnings, and endless rows of tightly packed vendor stalls that stretched as far as the eye could see. The air was thick with a dizzying mixture of aromas: the sharp, metallic tang of forging iron from the blacksmith quarters, the rich, aromatic scents of exotic spices imported from the eastern waters, and the pungent, medicinal odor of rare herbs radiating from the high-end alchemy quarters.
Thousands of citizens, wealthy merchants, and seasoned mercenaries navigated the crowded thoroughfares, their voices merging into a continuous roar of bartering, shouting, and laughter. They paid absolutely no attention to a quiet, solitary cloaked figure drifting through the shadows of the main avenue.
My single green eye scanned the crowded signs hanging over the cobblestone streets, immediately mapping out my priorities. I had a precise, calculated checklist to execute before the midday sun reached its peak. My first destination was the high-end apothecary stalls tucked away in the northern quad of the market, where I would use my five gold pieces to purchase the volatile chemical components, glass vials, and stabilizing agents required to brew Maine's lethal tear gas formula. Once my tactical non-lethal assets were secured, I would chart a course directly toward Olive's elite tailor shop to collect my fire-resistant crimson trench coat, followed by a potential stop at Vladimir's magic gear shop to hunt for any artifact capable of augmenting my combat capabilities.
With a clear path forward, I tightened the straps of my purse, adjusted the dark canvas folds hiding my crimson blood-wings, and plunged directly into the sea of merchants.
The dynamic energy of the market was almost dizzying as I threaded my way through the dense crowds, but my single green eye remained completely focused on the hanging wooden storefront signs. I bypassed the noisy jewelry stalls and weapon smiths, guiding my path toward the quieter, aroma-heavy northern quad of the sector.
Finally, tucked between a high-end spice merchant and a crystal appraiser, I spotted exactly what I was looking for: a prominent apothecary shop overflowing with rows of tinted glass jars, dried hanging herbs, and neatly stacked crates of alchemical equipment.
But what truly arrested my attention was a massive, hand-painted canvas banner draped across the front wooden awning:
GRAND ALCHEMICAL CLEARANCE: 50% DISCOUNT ON ALL RAW COMPOUNDS & MEDICAL SUPPLIES!
A cold, sharp surge of satisfaction flared beneath my hood. A 50% discount. The gods of fortune were practically handing me the keys to my own martial ascension today. With the five gold pieces from Don Anthony's bounty resting heavy in my purse, this massive sale meant I could double my purchasing power. I wouldn't just be buying enough ingredients to brew a single, cautious batch of Maine's tear gas; I could stockpile an entire tactical crate of chemical components, high-grade glass vials, and stabilization filters without burning through my operational funds.
I adjusted the heavy folds of my canvas cloak, ensuring the triple threat of my shotgun and dual Tommy guns remained perfectly anchored against my spine, and stepped into the shade of the apothecary shop. The interior was quiet, smelling strongly of crushed eucalyptus, sulfur, and concentrated rubbing alcohol.
This stall was officially the ignition point for my next phase of evolution. With the classified files on Vanessa Katt pressed against my ribs and the raw chemical ingredients for a localized chemical weapon within arm's reach, I was about to transform myself into an entirely different caliber of predator. I approached the wooden counter, sliding my right hand out from my cloak to retrieve my notepad and stubby pencil, ready to draft the precise, volatile shopping list that would seal the fate of the Immoral Knights.