The streets of the ruined town narrowed into a winding path littered with broken stones and half-toppled walls. A faint murmur reached them, not from the wind, but from voices very low, hushed, and everywhere at once.
They stepped into an open square. The air here was heavier, warmer, carrying the smell of dust and something faintly metallic. All around, beneath sagging roofs and between leaning buildings, hooded figures lingered at makeshift stalls built from scavenged wood and rusted metal.
This was no ordinary market.
The "merchants" moved little, their faces hidden in shadows, hands gloved as they exchanged goods with silent efficiency. On the cracked counters lay strange assortments: shards that pulsed faintly with inner light, herbs bundled in fraying twine, jagged runes etched into metal plates, rusted weapons with faintly glowing edges, and relics that looked too old to belong to any living world.
The stalls themselves were crooked, wedged between fractured walls or set on collapsed steps. A few had been built right into the hollow shells of buildings, the merchants standing half-hidden in the darkness inside.
Somewhere deeper in the Bazaar, a faint chime rang out, followed by the muffled sound of a deal being struck.
Tom slowed his steps, scanning the hooded figures. He didn't like how many eyes seemed to follow them.
He drifted close to Grace, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't trust everyone you meet here." His gaze flicked briefly toward a nearby stall where a merchant's gloved hand lingered over a dagger's hilt a second too long. "Some will smile while they measure where to stab you."
She gave a small, almost invisible nod.
The group moved cautiously between the stalls, but the sense of being observed never left.
One merchant leaned forward, their hood slipping just enough to reveal a pale, inhuman grin before they melted back into shadow. Another ran long fingers across a row of red-glowing stones, watching Tom with unblinking patience.
Coins clinked somewhere behind them, and a sudden laugh came. A sharp, humorless sound that made more than one of them tense.
Tom's hand rested lightly on his dagger. He had a feeling the Black Bazaar was a place where a single wrong glance could be more dangerous than any creature in the dark.
Group walked past a stall where the smell of fresh bread was faint in the air.
A hooded person stood behind it, hands folded, watching quietly.
On the stall's old wood lay a few round loaves. They were small, hard-looking, but warm.
Tom stopped. "How much?" he asked.
The hooded person's voice was low. "Ten coins for one loaf."
Tom looked at his pouch, then back at the bread. He took out thirty coins and placed them on the counter. "Three."
The coins clinked. The hooded person slid three loaves toward him. "They heal fatigue," the voice said. "Slowly. Don't expect more."
Tom gave a short nod.
He held one loaf up in front of him. His system menu blinked open with a faint sound only he could hear. A small window popped up.
[ Item: Rough Bread ]
[ Restores Fatigue slowly over time. ]
Tom tapped the menu. The bread shimmered in his hands, then vanished, appearing in his item slot. He checked the menu again.
[ Rough Bread x3 ]
He glanced at the others, who were watching from a few steps away. "It's safe," he said simply.
The hooded person said nothing more. The group moved on, deeper into the Bazaar.
The timer still ticked, 31:01.
As they turned down a narrow side street, Tom noticed a torn poster clinging to the cracked wall of a collapsed shop. The paper was weathered and brittle, covered in strange symbols he couldn't read.
Before he could call anyone over, the air in front of him shimmered. The familiar glowing screen appeared, its letters forming clearly this time. Translating the unknown words automatically.
[ Currency System ]
[ Coins are the most common currency. Used for simple trades and basic items. ]
[ 1,000 Coins = 1 Gold ]
[ 100 Gold = 1 Diamond ]
[ Gold is rare. Used for valuable trades and rare goods. ]
[ Diamonds are the highest currency. Almost never seen. ]
Tom glanced at his pouch. After the bread purchase, he had only 70 coins left. The amount looked even smaller now.
The screen flickered once before fading away, leaving the poster's strange symbols behind.
Grace stepped closer, eyeing the wall. "Looks important," she murmured.
"Yeah," Tom replied, tucking the coins away. "But right now, it's just a reminder we're broke."
Herbs wrapped in cloth changed owners. Shards that glowed faintly were weighed like precious stones.
Nobody shouted like in a normal market where every trade was whispering, every movement cautious, as though the place itself demanded silence.
Tom moved slowly, eyes tracing the lines of broken stalls and the figures behind them. Most wore deep hoods that hid their faces, their movements sluggish but deliberate. He stopped at one of the smaller stalls, where an old man leaned against the counter. The man's hood was frayed, and every few breaths came with a harsh, dry cough.
Tom studied him for a moment before asking, "What are you selling?"
The old man chuckled weakly. "Not much. My hands shake too much these days to keep a good stock." His voice was low, but there was a strange weight in it.
Tom hesitated. Something about the man felt different. "Can I ask… who are you?"
The old man shifted, his cough rattling again. Then, with slow movements, he pulled back his hood. His face was thin, skin drawn tight across his bones, but his eyes were alive, sharp despite his frail body.
"Young one," he said, "you think everyone here in the town is just part of the game, don't you? Just… background pieces. NPCs."
Tom didn't answer, but his silence was enough.
The man leaned closer. "No. I came here the same way you did, lad. Woke up in a white chamber, with no memories or clue. That was two years ago. I've been here ever since."
Tom blinked, the weight of those words settling heavy in his chest. Two years!?!
The old man coughed again, then continued. "There are two kinds of Players. The System decides which path we walk. Hunters… and Homans."
Tom frowned. "Homans?"
The man nodded. "Homans don't fight. We don't hunt. We take other roles like herbalists, farmers, mechanics, builders and anything except Hunt. We live in the cracks of this world, playing the game sideways. Our quests are different. They test survival, craft, trade. Indirect. Harder in their own way."
"And Hunters?" Tom asked quietly.
"Hunters face the deities and monsters, directly playing the game. They bleed for life. They die for power. The System feeds them quests soaked in danger." The man's thin hand shook slightly as he lifted it. "Hunters burn out fast. Few last long. But Homans… we vanish too. Our tasks break us in other ways. No path is kind here."
Tom looked around at the hooded merchants, their silence, their weariness. For the first time, he wondered how many of them were once like him. Lost, confused, waiting for something to make sense.
The old man lowered his hood again. "If I'm still alive, it's luck. Nothing more. All the companions I had in past are gone a long ago." His gaze locked onto Tom's. "Remember this. Every FACE you see or achieve could be another soul trapped like you. Don't mistake them for shadows."
Tom nodded slowly. The Bazaar no longer felt like a marketplace. It felt like a graveyard of choices.
Murmurs drifted like smoke between hooded figures. Somewhere nearby, a merchant wheezed laughter as he bartered away a cracked rune stone.
Tom watched the group carefully. Some of them were finally loosening, trading for food, scraps of armor, even charms that might have been worthless.
The timid boy clutched a bundle of herbs to his chest as though it were gold. For a brief moment, it almost felt like they were travelers in some strange town rather than prey in a broken world.
Then the air shifted.
A deep groan echoed overhead, the brittle snap of stone under strain. Tom's eyes shot upward. One of the ruined buildings beside the stalls was leaning, its cracked walls trembling, the last of its supports breaking apart.
"Move!" Tom shouted.
But the warning came too late.
Several people stood directly in the building's shadow, frozen in shock as the mass of stone and timber began to collapse. Dust filled the air, and the earth itself shook beneath their feet.
Grace's breath caught in her throat. She didn't think. She only felt her Face surge beside her. The fox-headed figure blurred, its shape stretching into a streak of light.
The world changed.
Sound dulled. The roar of falling stone slowed into a drawn-out rumble. Every fragment of dust hung in the air like drifting snow. Even the desperate faces of the people about to be crushed seemed suspended in stillness.
Grace's heart pounded. She didn't understand what was happening, but her instincts screamed at her to keep moving. She focused on them—on saving them—and her Face answered.
In less than a heartbeat, the figure dashed forward, weaving through the falling rubble like lightning. One by one, the endangered people flickered out of sight. To everyone else watching, they simply vanished.
Tom blinked. He had been standing only steps away, the weight of the building's fall rushing down over him. In the next instant, he was standing far behind the collapse, untouched, confused.
Around him were the others who had been in the building's shadow, equally stunned.
The ruined wall slammed into the ground with a thunderous crash, throwing up a storm of dust and shards.
When the air cleared, the crowd turned their heads. All those who had been in harm's way were safe, standing together at a distance they hadn't reached on their own.
Every eye turned to Grace.
No one spoke. They didn't need to. They knew that She is the only one currently to do something like that if it wasn't a miracle or something.
Her hands trembled slightly, her breath quick and uneven. She didn't know how she had done it, or why time itself had slowed for her.
Grace stood apart from the others. Her chest rose and fell too fast. The fox-headed Face lingered at her side, its faint glow fading, but she could still feel it—its presence pressing into her mind, heavy and overwhelming.
What was that? Why did time slow? Why did it feel like she wasn't herself anymore?
Her thoughts spiraled, one fear chasing the next. What if she lost control? What if the Face turned on her? What if she was just a puppet now? Or she's turning into a monster?
She didn't notice Tom until he stopped quietly beside her. He didn't speak right away. He let the silence settle, the way someone does before touching something fragile. Then his voice came, calm and steady.
"You saved all of us."
Grace's eyes flicked toward him, but she looked away just as quickly, her lips pressing tight. "I… I didn't know what I was doing. It wasn't me. It was… it was that thing."
Tom shook his head. "It was you. The Face didn't choose someone else. It chose Grace Lewis and Grace saved us."
Her hands trembled, but the words reached her. She let out a shaky breath, as if trying to believe him.
Slowly, her shoulders eased. She looked at him at last, really looked, and for the first time since the Bazaar, a faint, hesitant smile touched her lips.
Tom smiled back, small but certain. Around them, the others continued murmuring about the collapse, but in that quiet corner, the weight pressing on Grace's chest lifted just a little.
For the first time since waking in this broken world, she didn't feel completely alone.
25:00—24:59—24:58.