I continued my walk deeper into the subterranean market. More merchants called out to me, their eyes lingering on my clothes, likely sensing the deep pockets of an easy mark. I ignored them all, letting the noise wash over me as I navigated the winding, tented streets.
After a few minutes, the crowds began to thin. The grand, flashy stalls gave way to smaller, shabbier setups.
Eventually, I reached the very edge of the cavern.
I stopped, frowning behind my mask.
'This shouldn't be here,' I thought, my eyes narrowing.
In my novel, I had explicitly written that the Black Market ended in a sheer, dead-end wall of solid bedrock. A place where shady deals went south and bodies were quietly disposed of.
But right in front of me, nestled into the rock face itself, was a store.
It didn't have a flashy sign or glowing magical wards. It looked ancient, built from dark, splintering wood that seemed to sag under the weight of the cavern ceiling above it. The windows were caked with decades of grime.
My curiosity, a dangerous trait in this world, flared to life. I pushed open the creaky wooden door and stepped inside.
The interior was aggressively old-fashioned. It smelled like dust, decaying parchment, and rust. There was nothing eye-catching. No glowing crystals, no legendary armor. Just cluttered shelves piled high with tarnished goblets, cracked leather bound books, and chipped amulets.
I stood in the center of the room. It was dead silent. There was no shopkeeper in sight.
I ventured deeper, my boots kicking up small clouds of dust. I picked up a dull, brass compass, felt the pathetically weak mana signature inside it, and set it back down. Junk. All of it was low-grade junk.
I sighed, feeling a wave of disappointment. 'Just a glitch in the world-building, I guess.' I turned on my heel, ready to leave.
[Oh? Another little guy has come to browse the trash.]
I stopped dead in my tracks.
The voice was distinctly feminine, melodic, but dripping with an arrogant sort of boredom. It echoed slightly, though I couldn't pinpoint the source.
I looked around the empty store. "Who's there?"
The voice paused for a second. Then, it spiked with sudden, desperate energy.
[Hey, wait! You can hear me?!]
"How is it possible?" I muttered to myself.
[Hey! Stop talking to yourself and quickly come here! Over here!]
I spun in a circle. "Where is 'here'? And who are you?"
[I don't have hands to wave, you idiot! Just turn two steps back and look toward the left corner, down by the bottom shelf!]
I followed the bossy instructions, taking two steps back and pivoting left.
Leaning against the rotting wood of the bottom shelf, half-buried in a pile of dusty rags, was a sword. It was sheathed in a cracked, completely unremarkable leather scabbard. The hilt was wrapped in faded black cloth. It looked like the kind of cheap, mass-produced weapon a village militia would hand out to a farm boy.
'I'm hallucinating,' I thought. 'The fumes in the slums finally got to my brain.'
[Hey! Stop staring and pick me up! Do you know how long it's been since someone actually heard my voice? It's been agonizingly boring!]
I slowly, warily, reached down and picked up the weapon. It felt completely ordinary in my grip. The balance was fine, but there was no surge of power, no hidden aura. It was just… steel and wood. The only abnormal thing was the loud, girlish voice projecting directly into my mind.
"Who are you?" I asked, eyeing the rusty pommel. "And what are you?"
The voice coughed—a distinctly theatrical, fake cough—and then adopted a tone of supreme, narcissistic grandeur.
[Ahem!—I am the Spirit Sword 'Nyxaris'—The Blade of the Eternal Night! I was once wielded by the great Sword Sovereign, 'Raseus De Solaria', thousands of years ago to wipe out half of the 'Aetherworld'!]
My breath hitched.
The name 'Raseus De Solaria' hit me like a physical blow. Not just because he was the ancient ancestor of Aurelius, the male lead. But because Raseus De Solaria was the original 'creator' and 'owner' of the sword art I was currently breaking my back to learn: 'Judgement of Heaven'.
And the 'Aetherworld'…
The Aetherworld was the nightmare realm. It was the original home continent of the Seven Churches, the spawning ground of the Archons. If you combined the landmass of the human kingdoms and the demi-human territories, the Aetherworld was still larger.
According to the lore I wrote, Raseus was a monster wrapped in human skin. He had marched into the Aetherworld alone, slaughtered half the Archon population, faced the combined wrath of several Cardinals, and walked back out alive. He had survived the impossible, only to die years later of a mysterious illness. His bloodline was legendary, which was why Aurelius, even as an illegitimate son, possessed such terrifying, world-breaking potential.
I stared at the dusty, pathetic-looking sword in my hand.
[Wait a minute], Nyxaris said, her voice dropping its grand tone and taking on a suspicious edge.
[How can you hear me? It's completely unusual for anyone outside the direct Solaria bloodline to resonate with my spirit. Are you some kind of illegitimate son of the Solarias?]
I scowled at the sword. "I'm illegitimate, but I'm a Leonhart. Not a Solaria."
I weighed the sword in my hand, seriously considering tossing it back into the pile of rags.
"What proof do you have that you're a Sovereign's weapon? You look like you'd snap if I hit a goblin too hard. Why would a Sword Sovereign throw his legendary weapon into a literal trash pile?"
Sensing my irritation and my imminent desire to drop her, Nyxaris's arrogant tone vanished instantly.
[Wait, wait, wait! Don't drop me! I'm sorry, okay? You have great hair! Very heroic eyes!]
she babbled, trying to flatter me. She sighed, a sound of deep spiritual depression.
[After the final battle in the Aetherworld, I was cursed by the dying breath of a Cardinal. My Spiritual Power was completely depleted, and my connection to the Spirit Realm was violently severed. I was reduced to an ordinary weapon… with only my consciousness left trapped inside.]
I felt a sudden, unexpected pang of pity. To be a legendary weapon that carved through gods, only to be reduced to a rusty paperweight screaming into the void for centuries? That was rough.
[Hey! Stop that! I can feel you pitying me!] Nyxaris snapped, her pride flaring up.
[Don't pity me! I am still the greatest weapon alive! Technically!]
I rubbed my temples. A loud, arrogant, depowered spirit sword. Just what my stealthy side-character life needed. "Why should I take you?" I asked practically. "What use are you to me right now?"
[I can be incredibly useful! I promise!] she pleaded, laying it on thick.
[Even severed, I can alter my physical form to match whatever weapon type you prefer! A dagger, a spear, a greatsword—you name it. Furthermore, if you kill Archons, I can absorb the lingering spiritual residue from their corrupted souls. If I gorge on enough spiritual energy, there is a chance I can re-establish my connection to the Spirit Realm and regain my original, god-slaying powers!]
She was exaggerating, trying to make herself sound like the ultimate investment, but I knew the underlying mechanics of my own magic system. She wasn't lying. A spirit weapon with an intact consciousness, even a depowered one, was a mythic-tier find. If I could actually feed her and restore her? She would be an unparalleled asset.
I sighed, slipping the scabbard through my belt. "Alright. I'll take you."
[YES! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, mysterious non-Solaria boy! You won't regret this! We are going to be best friends! We are going to conquer the—]
Tap.
"Excuse me. Have you found something to your liking?"
I violently flinched, jumping backward and instinctively drawing Nyxaris halfway out of her scabbard.
An old man with a frail, hunched body was standing less than two feet away from me. He wore a faded grey tunic and had a kind, wrinkled face. He looked like a gentle grandfather.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a war drum.
'I didn't sense him.'
The realization sent a spike of pure, icy terror through my veins. After breaking through to the 'Sword Expert' rank and awakening my Sword Aura, my instincts had evolved drastically. My spatial awareness was sharp enough that I could sense a maid walking past my dorm room while I was dead asleep.
But this old man had walked right up to me, close enough to tap my shoulder, and my aura hadn't picked up a single ripple in the air. It was physically impossible. Unless… unless his existence was so far above mine that he simply didn't register as a part of my reality.
I forced my hand to relax, pushing the sword back into the scabbard. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to project calm.
"Yes," I managed to say, my voice slightly strained. "I'll take this sword."
The old man smiled kindly, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. He glanced at the dusty scabbard at my waist. "Ah. You chose that one. It is a nice piece. Very sturdy. Because it's so old, it is quite cheap. You just have to pay twenty thousand gold."
Twenty thousand gold for the weapon of a Sword Sovereign.
I didn't argue. I didn't bargain. I wanted to get out of the presence of this terrifyingly silent old man as quickly as possible. I pulled out a smaller pouch of mana-gold, handed it to him, and gave a stiff bow.
"Keep the change," I said, turning on my heel and practically speed-walking toward the exit of the store.
I burst out the wooden door, hitting the main thoroughfare of the Black Market, and took several deep, gasping breaths of the murky air.
'What the hell was that?' I thought, my pulse finally starting to slow. 'This world is way too dangerous.'
I turned my head to look back at the store, just to make sure the old man hadn't followed me out.
I froze.
The wooden door was gone. The grimy windows were gone. The sagging roof was gone.
Where the shop had stood just ten seconds ago, there was only a solid, sheer wall of dark, unyielding bedrock. The canonical dead end I had written in my novel.
I stared at the blank stone wall, the weight of the ancient sword resting heavy against my hip. A chill ran down my spine, accompanied by a sudden, involuntary laugh.
'Well,' I thought, adjusting my mask and turning toward the exit of the Black Market. 'At least it wasn't boring.'