The crowd was thick, voices blending together with offers, trades, and threats. Asher moved at a steady pace, hood low, his crimson eyes hidden. He watched and listened but didn't speak. Every step was controlled.
The Dimensional Credits in his cloak weren't money to him—they were tools. Tools to buy silence, power, and knowledge.
He glanced at stalls: black-edged blades humming with killing intent, bottles of lightning rattling inside glass. Interesting, but not what he needed.
What he wanted was information. The memories he had taken from the worshipper were broken—faces with no names, tunnels with no maps, whispers with no clear source. To make use of them, he needed someone who dealt in secrets.
He walked into the deeper alleys. The atmosphere shifted. The air was darker, voices quieter. Stalls here sold things far more dangerous—contracts in blood, poisons that could kill body and soul, carved bones carrying curses.
