Lanterns swung above, shadows writhing like demonic puppets against the cavern ceiling as he staggered through the market. Every stall whispered temptation: forbidden lust, bloody assassinations, cultivation arts that belonged in storybooks.
Cultivation arts… those actually exist?
He ignored them, clutching his pouch. The dagger coin's aftershocks still crackled in his veins like molten iron. His temples throbbed.
"Fuck…" He slumped against a cold wall between two closed stalls, sweat soaking through his ragged robe. His stomach growled so loudly it almost made him laugh.
"Great. Stabbed by memories, starving to death. What a life."
He tilted his head back, staring at the cavern ceiling hidden in darkness. Lantern light flickered, but couldn't push back the emptiness inside him. Somewhere beneath it all, a single word whispered in his chest—survive.
The pouch clinked softly at his side. Coins were all he had. But the memory of the little girl gnawing on stale bread flashed in his mind, and suddenly, food seemed like the only sane priority left.
He dragged himself back to her stall. She was still there, chewing the same ragged bread, eyes flat and lifeless. She raised an eyebrow as he approached.
"Still alive?" she asked.
He snorted weakly. "Barely."
"Want another?" She jabbed her chin at the tray.
"Not now." He swallowed, forcing the words out. "I need food. Where do I buy some?"
She tilted her head, as if puzzled anyone needed to ask. Then she pointed down the row. "Follow the lanterns until you smell piss and onions. Food stalls."
He blinked. "…Thanks. That's… oddly specific."
He turned to go, but her voice stopped him. "Wait."
He froze, hand on the pouch.
"You… don't remember anything, do you?"
His chest tightened. Shit. Am I that obvious? Is she a hunter?
Heart hammering, he forced his voice flat. "…No. Nothing."
For a moment, her dull eyes softened. She tore off a piece of her bread and held it out.
"Here."
He stared. Slowly, he took it. Their fingers brushed, and for an instant, her gaze flickered with something almost human before it went dead again.
"Don't die before you buy more from me," she muttered, looking away.
He chuckled hoarsely, shoving the dirt-tasting bread into his mouth. It was dry ash on his tongue—but it filled the hollow ache in his gut. He nodded faintly to her, then walked off.
Voices followed him like whispers:"Another amnesiac stray…""Poor bastard won't last long.""Think he'll sell his trauma coin?"
He clenched his jaw. Fuck them all.
The stench of piss and onions hit long before he reached the food stalls. Rusted pans clattered, clay pots boiled brown sludge. A fat cook snapped, "Oi, you buying or staring?"
He slapped down a tarnished coin. The man squinted. "Low-grade emotion fragment. Fine. Sit."
A chipped bowl slammed down—thin onion broth with soggy bread chunks. He ate in silence. Bland. Barely food. But the warmth eased the tremors in his hands.
Around him, buyers traded coins for scraps. A boy gave up a silver coin for roasted rat. An old woman traded a trauma coin for black mushrooms and tattered blankets.
Memories for food. Trauma for shelter. Skills for weapons.
A world built on devouring the past.
He set the bowl aside and stood, determination hardening in his chest.
I will not die here. Whoever I was, why I sold everything—I'll find out. Even if I have to buy back every piece with blood.
"Oi. You there."
He turned sharply. A man leaned against a pillar—tall, cloaked in deep blue, hood shadowing his face. His mouth curled into a smirk.
"You look lost," the man said smoothly. "Care to earn some quick credits?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Doing what?"
The man chuckled, stepping closer. "Nothing too illegal. Just dangerous."
The air thickened. His gut screamed warnings, but curiosity burned hotter.
"…Dangerous how?"
The man slipped back his hood just enough to reveal sharp grey eyes glinting like blades.
"Memory hunting."