The first expedition set out that very night, following Douglas down the gold trail.
Toothless Larry wasn't among them. He still had things weighing on his mind—like his position under Spike (under the under, under the under), and his prostitute girlfriend. The adventurers and the most desperate outlaws headed toward the sealed-off southeast corner, while the remaining onlookers whispered among themselves, awaiting either their return or news of their demise.
The group returned on the third day. They had left empty-handed but brought back some things. The onlookers swarmed forward, yet surprisingly, they gleaned little information: The returnees declared details from that side must remain confidential for now. Even the most loose-lipped among them grew secretive, refusing to spill the beans no matter how many drinks were poured down their throats. Some considered forcing confessions, but Spike put his foot down, declaring that anyone who touched these smugglers would be messing with a headless Spike. His words carried weight on Lame Street.
Many knew Douglas had brokered the deal, passing along a hefty reward from the southeast corner. Rumors swirled about the gift's escalating value. What sucker would pay that much for a bunch of trash's lives? Absolutely none. So the price tag must be on the goods they carried. Were those goods worth that much? Were they worth the risk of pulling a fast one under Spike's threats? People whispered the gossip, debated, speculated, and argued endlessly. Soon the story spread throughout Lame Street, reaching even those most indifferent to the outside world.
Smuggling required more than just crossing the lines. The scum of Rebell Lake had no sales channels, so they had to handle every transaction themselves. Under countless watchful eyes, the gold miners began their deals. Only a handful, after days of fruitless attempts, sold their goods elsewhere. They soon regretted it, as most others soon struck it rich.
No clear boundary separated Rebell Lake's shadows from the rest of the city. As long as they could evade the patrolmen's batons, fearing neither beatings nor arbitrary arrests, Lame Street's residents moved freely. Past mayors' crackdowns on Lame Street had been like kicking a rat's nest—only scattering the vermin to other corners of the city. Today's city administrators chose to look the other way. No one ventured into the wealthy districts. Guard dogs and bodyguards watched suspiciously at any approaching strangers. This area was far too dangerous for them, and it was a long way from Lame Street.
Between Lake Rebe's most prosperous and most decaying areas lies a vast buffer zone. Here dwell Lake Rebe's commoners—whose lifetime earnings might not match a night's spending by the wealthy elite. Yet with diligence, they needn't fear going hungry. Here, the ordinary dream of overnight riches. Here, people carry a few spare coins in their pockets, hesitate over purchases, and beam with delight over a discount of a few pennies.
This is the ideal market for smugglers.
As the streetlights came on, the rats scattered in all directions, each employing their own tactics to make a deal. Weapons were carefully concealed, and even the most menacing-looking individuals spruced themselves up a bit—smearing mud over their scars to look like grimy vagrants rather than thieves waiting to strike. At least the former made it easier to approach customers. Some headed to bustling streets where flower girls, newsboys, and itinerant artisans gathered. At dusk, those finishing their day's work often spared a glance at the shops lining their path. Vendors from Lame Street squeezed between artisan stalls, sat cross-legged on the ground, and laid out trinkets from their bundles.
Rattan rats scurried across the floor, glass birds climbed ladders step by step before sliding back down, and metal baboons clanged cymbals and drums, their sounds providing a soundtrack to the vendors' shouts. These toys were ingeniously crafted and astonishingly cheap, proving popular among those with children. In the city, toys were displayed in glass cabinets and sold at high prices. Parents of modest means often saved up for a year to buy just one, and now most felt they had gotten a bargain. When they realized the number of toys was dwindling, the remaining goods were quickly snapped up.
Some opt for door-to-door sales, timing their visits later in the evening—after the rush of cooking and eating has passed, yet before the evening routine of washing up and retiring for the night. During this period, most people were idle and bored enough to listen to sales pitches filled with exaggerated claims. Items sold at this time were often household-related, such as herbs to eliminate odors or potted plants placed in bedrooms to promote relaxation and sleep.
The "easy-to-care-for" aspect was crucial for ordinary households. Some valued practicality, while others sought to emulate wealthier families by adorning their homes with ornate plants. Different tactics were needed for different people. Those who had once scavenged or begged in the area could gauge the temperament of many households from past experiences and tailor their approaches accordingly.
Others gather at informal night markets where inexpensive, dubiously effective goods circulate: strange relics purportedly from ancient sites, unregulated concoctions of unknown efficacy and safety, and cheap jewelry that might be stolen or counterfeit. This place functioned as a half-baked black market accessible to ordinary folk, perpetually frequented by gamblers with mystifying confidence in their judgment, dreaming of overnight riches. Smugglers of magical potions who came here dressed differently from the other types—instead of disguising themselves as respectable citizens, they went out of their way to look as bizarre as possible.
They painted bizarre patterns on their faces and arms with potions, often unaware of what monstrosities they'd created, yet insisting these marked the heritage of some obscure tribe or scars from ancient ruins. They styled their hair into bizarre shapes and adorned themselves with haphazard trinkets, proclaiming themselves stranded outsiders. In the past, before Eryan became a unified empire, such flair was called exotic charm. Now that foreign allure held less sway, a touch of alien flair was harmless enough. Few in the black market overreacted to this. Most novice gamblers would pant at such hints, convinced they were about to snag a lucky bargain.
These charlatan peddlers had no clue whether their concoctions worked. They just hyped them up—if they didn't, well, buyer beware. Yet those who bought a vial or two kept coming back. Business boomed beyond their wildest dreams. Whispers spread about the sources of these concoctions, and many lamented missing out. "Tell me the next time you get a shipment!" they pleaded.
The first batch quickly turned into cold, hard cash. Soon, Douglas reappeared to collect—the residents of Lame Street had no capital; they'd bought on credit. Some hid, swallowing the entire proceeds from selling the goods. This wasn't surprising at all on Lame Street. In fact, onlookers were quite astonished that so few chose to abscond with the money.
"Those little bastards. I think they're asking for a beating," Spike said with a grim smile, gesturing toward Douglas. Douglas merely shook his head with a smile. "No need. They'll regret it themselves."
Toothless Larry stood in the middle of the room, temporarily unable to fathom what exactly they might regret. But that didn't matter to him, because Douglas had already begun organizing the second smuggling operation. Not only did he need to replace those who had fled, but he also recruited several new members.
Larry signed up immediately.
Time had passed since the first run, and participants were less tight-lipped than before. News from the southeast corner trickled in—some true, some false, some promising, some grim—but none suggested conditions were much worse than on Lame Street itself. The first smugglers' haul had sparked envy, and sign-ups far exceeded the available spots.
Now Larry was one of the gold seekers. The night before, he'd tossed and turned, dreaming sometimes of being rich beyond measure—eating well, dressing well, taking his sweetheart to the theater—and other times of being caught red-handed by the patrol, dragged out, and hanged. Waking the next morning with huge dark circles under his eyes, he anxiously pondered the safety of the route Douglas had described. How would they cross the border? Larry's mind raced through countless action movie scenes, while Douglas began distributing metal cards, signaling everyone who received one to board the wagon.
A colossal carriage, drawn by six horses, adorned with gaudy, jingling decorations—as flashy as Douglas himself.
Only a blind and deaf fool would let this thing cross the border! Larry thought, horrified. But once aboard the sinking ship, it was too late to jump. Those who'd been on the last trip, however, seemed remarkably calm. Larry sat in the carriage, heart pounding, watching as it stopped before the southeast checkpoint. His heart raced as Douglas presented something to the sentry and they were waved through with surprising ease.
This journey... well, it was remarkably ordinary.
Larry had imagined dramatic, high-stakes border crossings, but the guards let them pass with expressionless faces. He'd expected to see shadowy contacts lurking in the southeast corner, only to find a "border trade market" (whatever that was) with everything clearly priced and currency exchange surprisingly easy. He'd assumed the southeast corner would be chaotic—how else would they let people like them in? But here, everything was orderly and normal—except for some things that weren't quite "normal."
The market was dazzlingly full of goods, and the people were just as varied. Short figures moved through the crowds, a group so uniformly short that they blended into one height. Some shared identical styles of dress—and this wasn't the haphazard exoticism they'd thrown together for scams. At the potion exchange stall, the plump woman sported pointed ears. Pointed ears? Larry momentarily suspected he'd stumbled into the black market, encountering fellow con artists exploiting this quirk.
"Here's your pass."
The attendant returned his processed metal card, now adorned with intricate patterns Larry couldn't decipher—though he couldn't read anyway. Everyone coming to trade (smuggle—the formal atmosphere here almost made one forget it was smuggling) carried such a card, supposedly serving as ID, transaction history (what was credit limit?), and entry pass.
A woman's voice drifted in from somewhere, announcing brief precautions: keep matters confidential for now, surrender principal after transactions, and keep the remainder as commission. Before arriving, Larry had planned to sell intelligence about this place for a hefty price. But hearing these words, he somehow lost interest. It was strange—as if swept up in the atmosphere, he found the logic compelling, and any defiant thoughts dissolved naturally.
Most people nodded, seemingly sharing Larry's reaction. But the man standing beside him before leaving suddenly snapped out of it, his face hardening with defiance. "What if someone doesn't play along?" the troublemaker grinned at Douglas. "If someone defies the rules, will Spike take their head?"
"The defier's ID card will be revoked," Douglas replied. "Meaning they lose their right to be here."
"But for many of us, a card isn't worth as much as the goods we carry," the troublemaker pressed.
"Compared to prospects like a future, goods aren't worth much," Douglas chuckled.
"The people who came with you are all worthless lives," the troublemaker persisted. "Forget prospects—our lives aren't worth much either."
"True, you all came here with worthless lives," Douglas shrugged, leaping onto his horse. "But once you arrive—as long as you don't abandon the opportunities in your hands—things change."
His tone was so assured, as if the ordinary town before them were some magical place where dreams came true and lives were transformed. Larry remembered discussing this with him, on some drunken night before he'd even decided to come. "You make it sound so great," Toothless Larry slurred, "so great. What did you get out of it yourself?"
Douglas didn't look like he was rolling in money. He wasn't dressed in fancy clothes, riding a fine horse, or holding a beautiful woman. Larry's question sounded like a challenge, muttered under his breath, but Douglas turned to him and flashed a smile far more sincere than usual.
"Everything," he said. "Everything I ever dreamed of."
So Larry came, taking the maximum goods his credit allowed. If he couldn't sell them, selling himself piece by piece wouldn't cover the debt. He'd never imagined making a living through trade, but luckily the timing was right—goods from the southeast corner were in high demand.
All first-time buyers received only a small credit limit. Even if they sold everything, the total entering Lake Rebe would be a mere drop in the bucket. Scarcity tactics left many potential buyers salivating. They might agonize for weeks over whether to buy something right outside their door, only to rush forward when smugglers reappeared a week later, happily shelling out cash and feeling lucky.
The black market's clientele was the most enthusiastic. The number of people lingering here had multiplied several times over. Smugglers dressed for the occasion felt as though they'd been caught red-handed by official spies or troublesome complainants, nearly turning tail and running the moment they appeared. The crowd swiftly intercepted them. Faces that were far from pleasing to the eye broke into wide, obsequious grins that made one's skin crawl.
"That one! That medicine!" gasped a balding middle-aged man, having fought his way through the crowd to the front. His money-filled hand thrust forward, practically shoving it in the dealer's face. "I'll take ten portions—no, I'll take it all!"
"I'll pay double!" shouted someone hiding behind a mask.
"Triple!"
The aphrodisiac was undeniably the star product, its reputation somehow spreading far and wide, laying bare a certain aspect of human nature. While many buyers for personal use hid their identities, middlemen and henchmen from pleasure establishments arrived openly, their eyes gleaming greedily. All aphrodisiacs sold out on the first night, with the last few units going to auction. The bidding war nearly erupted into a brawl. "Do you know who my boss is?!" bidders shouted at each other, faces flushed and necks strained. The information exchanged in these shouts alone would have made an intelligence broker grin from ear to ear.
The hemostatic potion sold in the southeast corner proved remarkably effective, though its supply was scarce. Yet it wasn't the second most popular item. Following the aphrodisiacs was a green clay-like beauty herb. Applying it to your face promised skin that would be "radiantly smooth, luminous, and as delicate as a flower," while also "extending your lifespan and preserving eternal youth." The former's effects were visible to the naked eye, while the latter was pure nonsense. But refuting the latter would take years—and with other potions delivering instant results, many bought the peddlers' tall tales hook, line, and sinker. Smugglers who seized the opportunity made a killing, turning green with envy among those who missed out.
Larry knew nothing about the market. He'd stocked a little of everything, but the potions sold out instantly. The rest left him with a headache. "I'm not cut out for this," he grumbled to his sweetheart, baring his toothless grin. "Look at my face—does it look like a salesman's?"
"You blockhead!" his girlfriend Michelle snapped. "Stop spending the medicine money—go buy clothes first!"
Buying the entire outfit—jacket, pants, and shoes—was a hefty expense, nearly depleting all the money Larry had earned from selling medicine. The pain of parting with so much cash made him gasp in dismay. Michelle practically dragged him through the store to buy the clothes, then pulled him along to watch how the businessmen riding in carriages carried themselves. And sure enough, once Larry donned the outfit and strode toward the gallery with the confidence of a gentleman, the guard who had kicked him several times before didn't recognize him at all. The man opened the door for him and bowed respectfully. Larry felt a rush of warmth surge through his chest, walking with an extra spring in his step.
This outfit granted Larry access to places he'd never dreamt of entering before. Now, when he knocked on doors, housewives were less likely to shoo him away with a broom. A step above the barely subsisting common folk, those with modest means and a curiosity for novelty eagerly tried buying fresh goods from him. While market goods were safe and reliable, the military-first policy restricted many items. Those with decent living conditions harbored no aversion to itinerant salesmen peddling gray-market goods.
The second pot of gold went toward buying clothes for Michelle. "I didn't buy this for myself—it's to make more money!" Michelle insisted repeatedly. She purchased a proper outfit for respectable folk, pairing it with high heels she'd bought earlier. Larry hadn't known when she acquired them, though he was aware Michelle often stared blankly at women crossing the bridge toward the theater during her downtime, murmuring about their headdresses, dresses, and shoes.
The next evening, Michelle had Larry change back into his old tank top while she adopted a different approach. She approached his stall as if they were strangers, engaging in lively banter about his wares. Sometimes she came when no one was shopping—a bustling stall drew more customers than a deserted one. Other times she emerged when customers hesitated. "Your goods are simply splendid!" she'd exclaim, feigning familiarity and lavishing exaggerated praise. Finally, she'd pretend to pay for whatever remained on the stall—by which point genuine customers usually reached for their wallets first.
They moved from spot to spot, using this method to quickly sell off most of their stock. Larry had never handled so much cash in his life. Michelle counted the money with a grin that wouldn't fit on her face, energized by the profits, even murmuring plans in her sleep ("We could buy more stuff elsewhere and say it came from the southeast corner..."). . While she was busy planning her next move, Larry took it upon himself to buy her a hat. He remembered Michelle staring at a similar style for ages.
It cost as much as his own clothes. When Michelle saw it, she stared blankly for a long time, then cursed him out as a wasteful fool. "I had it all planned!" she declared. But given that she immediately threw herself at him for a kiss, smearing her heavy eyeliner all over his face, Larry figured she must have been pretty pleased after all.
A few days before the third smuggling operation began, someone stopped Larry and Michelle.
It was a well-dressed middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard, even carrying one of those canes popular among big businessmen. He interrupted their latest sales pitch, cutting straight to the point: "I've been watching you two for a while."
Larry instantly tensed, wondering if this man might be one of Michelle's former clients. Michelle, however, was equally nervous and bewildered (understandably so, given the stark contrast between her heavy stage makeup and her current appearance). The merchant continued, "Quite a few traders have been coming from the southeast corner lately. The mayor never said it was open, but the road to Red Gum County seems to be unblocked..."
He rambled on about things they couldn't understand. Larry looked to Michelle for help, but she was feigning calm, utterly clueless—even though Larry believed his lover was exceptionally smart, Michelle was just a prostitute born on Lame Street, illiterate and no more worldly than Larry. They exchanged glances, their escape route planned and ready to execute, when the middle-aged man finally stopped.
"I thought you two were different from the rest," he muttered, realizing his earlier show of knowledge had been pointless. "Turns out you're just pawns. Anyway, I want in."
"That's not my call," Larry said stiffly.
"You just need to deliver a message for me," the middle-aged merchant said. "I have what you need."
Trade with the Southeast Corner wasn't just about exchanging goods for money. The border market displayed a long list detailing what the Southeast Corner was willing to pay for.
Larry couldn't read the characters on the form, only the enormous numbers following each item—numbers so staggering the top one had multiple zeros! The figures stunned many smugglers, who eagerly memorized the list, planning to profit from both sides. Staff nearby read the contents aloud for those who wanted to listen, but Larry paid no attention. First, his memory was terrible. Second, he felt selling what he had was already a stroke of luck—better not to get his hopes up too high.
Clearly, this merchant had heard rumors from somewhere. What was on that list? Larry couldn't recall a single item, but he remembered Douglas mentioning that securing a buyer could also mean a profit.
On his third trip, Larry brought along Anthony, a middle-aged merchant, and Michelle, who'd insisted on joining. With Michelle around, Larry had little to do. She wandered the market, scribbling symbols only she understood in her notebook, and struck up a lively conversation with a young lad named Aaron. Anthony struck a deal with the leaders in the southeast corner and returned early. He looked ecstatic, even sharing business insights with Larry, who couldn't understand a word.
"That'll bring in a fortune," he said contentedly. "But let me tell you, no business beats 'that one' for profit. You know what I mean?"
Larry shook his head, uninterested.
"Slaves," Anthony snapped his fingers with his cane. "Especially 'those kinds'. Too bad my money line broke. I'd have bought the latest shipment—those tails and ears were perfect. Five of them were top-grade. Just a quick flip and..."
Snap.
Anthony didn't finish. His cane fell. A gust swept past Larry, blowing away his drowsiness.
Someone charged forward so swiftly it seemed she materialized out of thin air. Her arm shot out, clamping around Anthony's throat as she straightened her arm, lifting the taller human off his feet. Her sharp claws dug into the middle-aged merchant's neck, blood trickling down.
The girl with white beast ears spoke slowly, enunciating each word: "What were you just saying?"