He moved through the golden haze of the market with leaden steps, his body still rattling with the aftershocks of the dagger coin. Every breath scraped like sandpaper in his throat, and though his legs carried him forward, his mind lagged behind, fumbling over fragments of foreign reflexes that felt both alien and his own.
The market sprawled endlessly, a city within a city. Lanterns swung above stalls cobbled together from broken wood and scavenged stone, each glowing faintly with runes. The air reeked of incense, sweat, and desperation. Memory coins flickered in every direction, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of stolen lives.
He caught glimpses as he passed:
– A noble woman, veiled in silks, buying a "Mother's First Lullaby" coin, clutching it like it was perfume.
– A gaunt man shaking, trading away his "First Love's Kiss" just to receive a coin etched with a loaf of bread.
– A boy, younger than ten, screaming as brokers dragged him behind curtains, his pouch jingling with fresh coins torn from him.
Ashen's jaw tightened. His stomach turned as he realized what the girl had said earlier—trauma strengthens the spirit. Here, people sold the very things that made them human, and the brokers smirked as they carved them away.
A loud cackle erupted from nearby. A stallkeeper, face painted white and lips crimson, held up a gleaming silver coin. "Step right up! Grief coin, premium cut! The sorrow of a dying mother, guaranteed to hollow you out! Perfect for sharpening cruelty or drowning in art!"
Ashen flinched and turned his head away, quickening his pace.
But everywhere he turned, the same truth hit him harder: he had nothing but what was left in his pouch. And when that ran out—he'd be just another husk sold in parts.
His hand brushed the pouch instinctively, reassuring himself the coins were still there. His fingers lingered on the weight. The pulsing heat of the dagger memory still coiled in his muscles. He could fight now—at least with a blade. But against what? And for how long?
A sudden shout made him freeze.
"Thief!"
The crowd surged. A ragged boy no older than twelve bolted past him, clutching a pouch. His eyes were wild with hunger and terror. Behind him, a broker raised a hooked chain and hurled it forward. The metal caught the boy's ankle, snapping him to the dirt.
The crowd didn't blink. Some stepped over him, others paused to see if he'd bleed.
Ashen's chest tightened. For a moment, his foot shifted as if to move—toward the boy. But he stopped himself. He could feel the dagger's phantom weight in his hand, the stance whispering to him, urging action.
He didn't move.
The broker dragged the boy back to the stall. Screams tore through the air, short and raw. Ashen forced himself to keep walking. His fists clenched so tightly his nails bit his palms.
Survive first. Questions later.
He stumbled into a quieter alley between stalls, lined with cracked lanterns and slanted boards. The noise of the market muffled here, replaced by hushed murmurs. Two men in grey robes leaned against a wall, whispering over a pouch of coins. Their eyes flicked to him—sharp, measuring.
He turned his face away, pulling his robe tighter. The broker's warning echoed in his skull: Memory Hunters prowl these stalls. Blank slates like you… worth more than gold.
His mouth went dry.
He ducked deeper into the alley, weaving between shadows, until he emerged into a smaller square. Here, the stalls were stranger—ornate curtains, crystal cages, even blood-runes scrawled across wood. The crowd was thinner, but heavier with silence. Buyers here didn't shout. They studied. Calculated.
At the center was a tall man in a crimson robe, standing behind a stall with only three coins. Unlike the chaotic piles in the rest of the market, these coins sat on black silk cushions. Each one glowed faintly—one silver, one bronze, one obsidian black.
Ashen's gaze locked on the black coin. Its surface seemed to drink light instead of reflect it. The rune carved into it pulsed like a heartbeat.
The man smiled as their eyes met, his teeth too white in the dim light.
"Ah. A blank one," the man said softly, his voice smooth as oil. "You reek of newness. Still trying to stitch yourself together?"
Ashen said nothing.
The man's hand hovered over the black coin. "This one isn't for anyone. But you… maybe you could handle it."
Ashen's breath caught. His body screamed to turn away, to keep walking. But his feet stayed planted.
"What is it?" he forced out.
The man's smile widened. "A fragment of… identity."
Ashen's heart lurched.
"Not a skill. Not trauma. Not joy. Identity."
The word struck deeper than the dagger coin had. For the first time since he'd opened his eyes in this cursed world, something pierced through the fog in his mind.
His voice came out rough. "…Whose?"
The man's smile didn't falter. "Yours, perhaps. Or someone like you. Only one way to know."
Ashen's stomach twisted. He looked at his pouch, then back at the coin. His hands trembled.
He had no idea if it was a trick. No idea if it would kill him. But the thought of walking this market forever with nothing but scraps of other people's lives—
He swallowed hard.
"…How much?"