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Have you ever been somewhere you didn't belong?
Not physically but spiritually. A place where the air felt wrong, the people felt dangerous, and every instinct told you to leave?
Aris is searching for someone.
The poet gave him a picture and a name.
The city gave him a smell to follow.
Finding one woman might cost more than he planned to pay.
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Chapter 119: The Underground
The entrance was hidden beneath a collapsed building, behind a wall that looked like rubble but wasn't. Aris had felt it before he saw it—the subtle shift in the stone, the way the air moved differently around the false debris. His Ore guided him through the gap, down a narrow passage, into a stairwell that descended into darkness.
The stairs were old, worn smooth by decades of footsteps. The walls were damp, the air thick with the smell of earth and rust.
He counted the steps as he descended. Then the passage leveled out, and the darkness changed.
It was not lighter here. But the space was larger.
He could feel the ceiling high above him, the walls spreading out on either side, the distant murmur of voices echoing through unseen corridors.
The black market of Velden was not a single place. It was a network—a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers carved beneath the city, hidden from the eyes of the guards and the reach of the nobles who ruled above.
Aris walked forward.
The market was quieter than he had expected. Not silent there were voices, footsteps, the occasional clink of metal or glass but the sounds were muffled, distant, as if the earth itself was absorbing the noise.
His Ore reached out, mapping the space, finding the shapes of the people who moved through it.
Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Some were buyers, their auras bright with anticipation or greed. Others were sellers, their auras harder, more guarded, the kind of people who had learned long ago that trust was a weakness. And some were neither—the lost, the desperate, the ones who had come here to disappear.
Aris did not stop for any of them.
The poet had given it to him before he left a small portrait.
The woman in the image was young, her hair Orange, her eyes wide. Beautiful, as the poet had said.
But Aris could not see her face. He could not see any face.
What he could feel was the aura of the person who had touched this picture. Not the poet—his was all over it, layered and familiar. Someone else, A woman.
Her essence had soaked into the paper, faint but present, like a scent that lingered long after the one who wore it had left the room.
She had been here. And she was still somewhere in this labyrinth.
He walked.
The market changed as he moved deeper. The tunnels widened into chambers, some small and cramped, others vast enough to hold crowds. He passed stalls selling weapons enchanted blades, bows that never missed, arrows that burst into flame.
He passed stalls selling potions healing drafts, poisons that killed without trace, elixirs that promised power at a price. He passed stalls selling things he could not identify, objects that hummed with mana.
Everything was for sale here, Legal and illegal or Moral and immoral. The black market did not judge, It only traded.
Aris stopped.
The building was not a stall. It was a structure stone walls, a heavy door, guards standing on either side. The auras inside were different from the rest of the market.
A slave house.
He stood outside for a long moment, his Ore reaching through the walls, feeling the shapes within. Frightened And among them, the faint trace of the woman's essence was once here. But she was not inside, but she had been here recently.
He pushed open the door.
The inside was cleaner than he expected. The walls were whitewashed, the floors swept, the air scented with something floral that did not quite mask the smell beneath.
A counter ran along one wall, and behind it stood a man in fine clothes, his hair slicked back, his smile wide and empty.
"Welcome," the man said. "How can I help you?"
Aris walked to the counter. His Ore swept the room—the guards in the corners, the doors that led to the back, the cages he could not see but could feel.
Three guards at Iron stage, all of them. But their auras were thin, their foundations weak. Semi-cultivators, like the man who had tried to enslave him on the road.
"I'm looking for someone," Aris said.
The man's smile did not waver. "We have many someones. Men, women, children—" He gestured vaguely. "All carefully selected, all reasonably priced. If you tell me what you're looking for—"
Aris reached into his pack. He pulled out a scroll—one of the ones Lucas had given him, sealed with mana, designed to release its contents at a touch. He pressed his palm to the seal, and the scroll dissolved into light.
Money poured onto the counter.
They were not ordinary money. They were Auron—the currency of the Hidden City, stamped with the symbol of the Sky King, each one worth more than a month's wages for a common laborer.
They spilled across the whitewashed wood, gleaming in the light of the crystals that hung from the ceiling.
The man's smile faltered.
"I want your finest," Aris said. "All of them."
The man stared at the money and then at Aris. Then back at the money.
"That's—" He swallowed. "That's a lot of money."
Aris said nothing.
The man's smile returned, wider now, hungrier. "Of course. Of course. Please, wait here. I'll have them brought out."
He disappeared through a door behind the counter. The guards in the corners shifted, their eyes on Aris, their hands near their weapons. Aris ignored them.
The slaves came out one by one.
They were led by handlers—rough men with rough hands, their auras hard with the kind of cruelty that came from treating people as property.
The slaves themselves were different. Some walked with their heads high, their defiance intact. Others shuffled, their spirits broken, their eyes empty. All of them were beautiful. That was the point.
The man returned, beaming. "Our finest, as promised. Young, healthy, well-trained—"
Aris shook his head.
The man's smile froze. "I don't understand."
"I thought I would find her here." Aris reached into his coat and pulled out the picture. He set it on the counter, pushing it toward the man. "This woman, she was here recently. Where is she?"
The man looked at the picture. His expression did not change—his smile remained fixed, his eyes remained blank. But his aura flickered.
"I don't know her," he said
Aris was silent.
The guards shifted, their hands moved to their weapons. Their auras sharpened, readying for violence. Three of them, all at the Iron stage.
But their combat skills would be equal to a 3-star or 4-star at best. Semi-cultivators, were weak.
Aris released his aura and he smiled.
"You are going to tell me where she is," he said, "or you are going to die trying not to."
The man behind the counter stared at him. His smile was gone now, replaced by something uglier—fear, yes, but also calculation.
He was weighing his options, measuring Aris against the guards, against the risks, against the consequences of speaking or staying silent.
Then he smiled again. It was not a nice smile.
"Don't kill him," he said to the guards. "He's an elite from the Hidden City."
The guards moved to attack.