The ceiling above was studded with lightstones. Their glare was harsh, white, endless. But there was no warmth. People lived in this counterfeit daylight, their eyes dry, their tempers always sour. In the black market district, the stones had rotted years ago, sputtering between dim and bright like the heartbeat of a dying drunk.
When Lingya pushed open the Copper Scale Casino's door, the clang of dwarven hammers still echoed outside. He chewed a stalk of grass, mouth bent in a crooked half-smile. The casino hit him like a fist: sweat, cheap liquor, old tobacco smoke. Dice rattled, chips clattered, gamblers shouted and cursed—a symphony of losers.
This was one of the places he knew best. Not for the dice, but for the coin. Old Pilu, the owner, was a fat little dwarf, nose red as spoiled fruit, a jangling ring of keys at his waist. He chewed tobacco and nodded at Lingya.
"Keep your eyes open today. Mad Dog boys are sniffing around."
Lingya said nothing. He leaned in a corner, chewing his stalk, eyes half-lidded. Watching others ruin themselves was as good as work got in this city.
A drunk staggered over, human, eyes glazed, smirking at the dagger on Lingya's belt.
"Mongrel, you watch like a priest. Why not play? Maybe you'll win enough to crawl out of the gutter."
Someone hissed, "Don't push him…"
Lingya spat the stalk onto the floor. His stare was flat, empty. The drunk looked ready to mouth off again—until his orc companion dragged him back, muttering curses.
By noon, Pilu had another job. A cart, covered crates, two hired hands. Scrap iron hammered into lousy tools—too cheap for the upper markets, but the black market ate everything.
The cobblestone street groaned under the cart. Wheels shrieked with every stone. Lingya walked beside it, eyes sweeping the alleys. Eyes glinted back, then vanished. He snorted to himself. Try it. The blade was sharp.
At the drop, a goblin merchant waddled up, abacus clicking. His narrow face pinched like spoiled fruit.
"Short! Two crates missing!"
The workers swore. "We brought thirty!"
"Short is short. Pay up, or you don't leave."
Lingya stepped forward, looking down at the wrinkled green face.
"You count them?"
"Of course." The goblin rolled his eyes.
Lingya kicked a crate open. Iron gleamed inside. He lifted a block and slammed it to the cobblestones. Sparks spat.
"Count again. If one nail's missing, take my head."
A crowd drifted closer. Whispers. "Hot-tempered kid…"
The goblin's smirk curdled. He fiddled with his abacus, forced a laugh. "Heh, joke, just a joke."
Lingya ignored him. Job done, he turned away.
The market street was still buzzing. Rotten fruit hawked, whores calling from alleys, drunks sprawled on stone steps. Lingya walked through, eyes like a blade cutting the noise. Not the strongest here—but the one who didn't give a damn about dying.
Halfway down a narrow alley, he stopped. Two orcs had cornered a shabby vendor clutching a basket of wilted greens.
"Road fee."
The man's hands shook as he fished out coins. A slap scattered them across the stones.
Lingya chewed a fresh stalk. He stooped, picked up the coins, shoved them back into the man's hand.
"Go."
The orcs blinked, then sneered.
"Half-blood again? Want your legs broken?"
Lingya's smile was thin and cold. His wrist flicked. The dagger thunked into a post, pinning a copper coin halfway deep.
Silence.
The orcs swore under their breath and slunk away.
The vendor trembled. "Big brother, thank you…"
Lingya waved him off. "Next time, take another street."
The badge at his chest warmed, faint as a pulse. Recording. He scowled. What the hell are you?
The black market's stink pressed down: damp mold, greasy food, rotgut spilled in the cracks of the cobblestones. Stalls lined the street, wood dark with oil and dirt. Hawkers' cries rose like drowning men gasping before they sank.
Lingya moved with the crowd, cloth bag slung over his shoulder. Flatbread and tobacco—his earnings for the day. His steps were unhurried, the stalk bitter on his tongue. His eyes cut across stalls, faces, voices. A gaudy painting, stinking of rot.
Ahead, shouting. A crash of wood. Lingya frowned, stopped.
"Pay up! Mad Dog territory! No fee, no stall!"
"I beg you, not this month… I barely earned anything—"
Lingya followed the noise. A hunched vendor, three orcs crowding him. His stall was nothing but baskets of yellowed greens scavenged from the upper tiers.
The orcs were thick-armed, dog tattoos scrawled across their hides. Their leader, a slab of flesh with an iron rod, kicked over the basket. Vegetables splashed into mud.
"No fee, no life."
Another grabbed a rotten head and smashed it into the man's face. Juice dripped down his cheek.
The crowd thickened. Sighs. Whispers. "Mad Dog again… poor bastard." Others sneered. "Serves him right."
Lingya chewed his stalk, footsteps sharp on stone. The orcs turned, smirking.
"Well, the mongrel again. Looking to play hero?"
"Piss off, mutt. Not your business."
Lingya crouched, picked up the vegetables, one by one. Slow. Mud on his fingers. No disgust.
The vendor's eyes filled with tears. "Don't… they'll hurt you too…"
Lingya shook his head. "Things fall, you pick them up."
The leader roared and swung.
Lingya moved first. His shoulder slammed into the orc's chest. The brute hit the wall, rod slipping from his grip.
"You're dead!" Two more lunged.
Lingya smirked. The dagger turned in his palm. Steel kissed cheek—blood beaded. Fear froze one. The other raised a fist. Lingya's knee drove into his gut. He folded, then sprawled in the muck.
The street froze.
Gasps. "He hit the Mad Dog boys!"
Whispers. "It's him… the mongrel from the casino…"
The leader clutched his chest, hate burning, but he didn't advance.
"Mongrel, you're dead. Mad Dog won't let this go."
Lingya chewed his stalk, voice flat. "Fight me anytime. But not them. Not in front of me."
He drove the dagger into a post. The blade hummed.
The orcs cursed, but retreated.
The vendor sagged, tears mixing with mud. "Thank you… thank you…"
Lingya hauled him up, reset the basket. "Be careful. Don't give them an excuse."
The badge burned against his chest. Words flared in his vision:
[Event Log: Maintained Order; Security +3]
Lingya's jaw tightened. He spat the stalk out.
"Virtue?" His laugh was bitter. "Worth shit in this hole."
Still, his stride grew heavier.
He walked on, chewing bitter stalk, eyes on the alleys. The Mad Dog's glare back there had promised blood. Trouble wasn't done.
A side street, damp walls split with moss. Trash reeked. A shape huddled in the heap. Lingya froze. The beggar.
"You again." His hand slid toward his dagger.
The old man looked up. Eyes too bright, face drowned in wrinkles. He grinned, showing broken teeth. "Good work today, kid. Your father was the same. Would rather bleed than walk away."
Lingya's chest clenched. Fire, blood, his father's back falling in the flames.
"You… knew him?"
The beggar didn't answer. Just held out a hand. An old badge lay in his palm. Cat's eye stone dull, copper worn like it had been buried.
"This is yours." The voice rasped, wind through rusted gates.
Lingya wanted to refuse. But those eyes pinned him. He reached out.
Cold metal. Then heat—searing. A heart in his hand.
Light seared the air:
[Dungeon Log]
District: Black Market South
Security: 28 (Dangerous)
Lingya's eyes snapped up. The alley was empty. Only trash in the wind.
The words lingered:
[Quest Available:
Maintain Security ≥30
Reward: +1 Skill Point]
His grip whitened. He leaned against the wall, lit a cheap cigarette. Ember flared, shadow cutting his face.
"Quests. Rewards. Bullshit."
But in his ears, his father's voice: Virtue is the code you hold, not the story you tell.
Lingya exhaled smoke, bitter. "Old man… would you rot with me, or fight back?"
The numbers flickered.
[28 → 29]
His gut twisted. Real. This thing was real.
He cursed, shoved the badge into his coat, and walked on. Wind whined, paper scraps spinning.
From tonight, nothing was the same.
The market was quieter, stalls packed, gas lamps yellow and weak. Drunks stumbled. Silent stares followed him from the dark. He ignored them.
The badge burned again:
[Security: 29]
[Hold ≥30 for Reward]
Lingya chewed hard. Crack. His heart raced. The city was watching.
He reached his room. Damp mold, a creaking bed. He dropped his bag, slumped down. The badge glowed faint, like a second heart.
He stared at his callused palm. His father's words echoed: Fists kill. Virtue keeps you alive.
Lingya smirked, fist clenching. "And who the hell has it saved?"
The night deepened.
Dreams. His father's back. Blade in hand. Falling. Flames. Lingya woke sweating.
A noise. Footsteps outside his door. Then silence. Someone watching.
Mad Dog's shadow was close.
The badge pulsed once. Words etched themselves:
[Quest: Six Days Remaining]
Lingya lay back, a cold grin on his lips.
"Fine. I'll play. But the blood—don't blame me."
The night pressed close. The black market breathed.
And Lingya took his first step into the abyss.