Victor Corvinus felt he was walking a nuclear warhead on a leash. A very furry, very anxious warhead.
The "leash" was metaphorical. The warhead was Fenrisulfr, the Devourer of Odin, currently draped in a moth-eaten purple curtain smelling of lavender and dead grandmother.
They stood at the edge of the Night Market. It wasn't underground. It was sideways.
Victor had opened a door in the basement—a door that shouldn't have been there—and stepped into a riot of neon and steam.
"It's too bright," Fenrir whispered from under the curtain. His voice, a tectonic rumble muffled by velvet, shook the loose cobblestones. "They'll see me. The photons will perceive me."
"They won't," Victor lied. He adjusted his collar. His hands shook. Not from fear—well, mostly not from fear. It was the sugar crash. He hadn't eaten since the lawyer died. "You are the Void. You are a hole in the world. Remember the mantra?"
"I am nothing," the curtain mumbled. "I am a shadow. I am the space between atoms."
"Good boy."
Victor stepped forward. The air slapped him. It carried the stench of sulfur, ozone, and frying meat that probably wasn't beef.
The Night Market was a canyon of junk. Stalls piled high with rusted gears, jars of eyeballs, and glowing crystals climbed the walls of a narrow alley stretching up into infinity. Above, the sky wasn't black. It was a bruised purple, choked with smog and flying barges.
Victor's stomach gave a violent lurch.
Adrenaline crash, the System noted, helpfully flashing a low-battery icon in his left eye. Glucose critical. Suggestion: Eat a rat.
"Shut up," Victor hissed. He rubbed his temples. The headache was a physical weight, a steel band tightening around his skull. He needed sugar. He needed caffeine. He needed a vacation in a dimension that didn't smell like burnt hair.
He walked into the crowd.
He expected a mugging. He expected a demon to look at his suit—which was nice, but currently covered in dust—and decide he looked an easy snack.
Instead, the crowd parted.
A three-headed ogre roasting lizards on a stick took one look at them and backed away, knocking over his own grill. Coals hissed on the damp pavement. A group of hooded cultists stopped chanting and pressed themselves against the wall, trembling.
Silence oiled the air, heavy and slick. The roar of the market died down to a terrified whisper.
Victor blinked. He looked at his hands. Was he glowing? Did he have a 'Kick Me' sign on his back that actually said 'I Am Death'?
Then he looked at Fenrir.
The wolf walked on tiptoes. Trying to be sneaky. But he was eight feet tall at the shoulder. The purple curtain didn't exactly hide his silhouette. It just made him a giant, haunted furniture cover. And from the bottom of the curtain, a tail the size of a python dragged on the ground, twitching nervously.
But the crowd didn't see a nervous furniture cover.
They saw Fenrisulfr.
They saw the silhouette of the beast that ate the sun, wearing a ritualistic shroud. And they saw a human—a pale, exhausted human with dark circles under his eyes—walking beside it, looking bored.
"He's controlling it," a goblin whispered. The sound carried in the sudden silence. "Look at him. He's not even holding a chain. It's mind control."
"Necrolord," another voice hissed. "That's a Void Weaver."
Victor kept his face neutral. Inside, he screamed.
They think I'm a badass, he realized. They think I'm walking my pet apocalypse.
He straightened his back. He forced his shaking hands into his pockets. If they wanted a Necrolord, he'd give them a Necrolord.
"Make way," Victor said. His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and tried again. "Make way. The Void is... hungry."
The crowd scattered. Roaches under a kitchen light.
"Victor," Fenrir whispered. "Why are they running? Did the curtain fall off?"
"No," Victor hissed out of the side of his mouth. "They are fleeing from your stealth. You are so invisible it's confusing their brains. It's a cognitive overflow."
"Oh," Fenrir said. The tail wagged once. "Cool."
They found the pawnshop near the intersection of Bile Street and Regret Avenue.
The sign said OLD SCRATCH'S EMPORIUM OF CURIOSITIES & USED SOULS.
Victor pushed the door open. A bell jingled—a sound suspiciously similar to a human scream pitched up three octaves.
The shop was cramped. Shelves overflowed with cursed monkey paws, jars of preserved dreams, and what appeared to be a toaster oven possessed by a minor fire elemental. The air inside was stale, tasting of copper and old paper.
Behind the counter sat a goblin.
He wore a monocle and a vest too tight for his potbelly. He polished a skull with a dirty rag.
"We're closed," the goblin grunted, not looking up. "Unless you're selling Class-A artifacts or fresh kidneys."
Victor walked to the counter. He leaned against it, trying to stop his knees from buckling. The floorboards creaked under his weight, or maybe they were just groaning in sympathy.
"I have something better," Victor said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Stone Tear.
He slammed it on the counter.
The heavy thud made the goblin jump. The monocle fell into his tea.
"Careful!" the goblin shrieked. He fished out the monocle and wiped it on his vest. Then he looked at the stone.
His eyes—yellow and slit-pupiled—went wide.
He sniffed it. He licked it.
"Salt," the goblin muttered. "Concentrated sorrow. High purity. Petrified... recently."
He looked up at Victor. Then he looked at the massive, purple shape squeezing through the door behind him.
The goblin turned pale. Green-pale.
"Is that..." The goblin pointed a trembling claw.
"That," Victor said, "is my associate. He prefers anonymity."
Fenrir, hearing his cue, tried to hide behind a coat rack. The coat rack splintered.
"Oops," the curtain said.
The goblin swallowed. "Right. Anonymity. Of course." He looked back at Victor. "You want to sell a Tear of Fenrisulfr?"
"I want cash," Victor said. "Gold. Hell-dollars. Whatever you call it. And I want it now."
The goblin narrowed his eyes. The fear remained, but greed elbowed it out of the way. He was a merchant, after all.
"It's rare," the goblin admitted. "But the market is volatile. Sorrow is down. People want Rage these days. Anger sells better. The economy runs on fury. I can give you... five thousand."
"Fifty thousand," Victor said. He had no idea what it was worth, but the debt was fifty million. He had to start somewhere.
"Fifty?" The goblin laughed. It sounded of grinding gears. "You're crazy. Look at it. It's grey. Top-tier sorrow should be blue. This is... whiny sorrow. Emo sorrow. It barely registers on the angst scale."
"It's from the Source," Victor said, leaning in. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back. "It's fresh. It's raw. It hasn't been diluted by middlemen."
"Ten thousand. Final offer. I'm taking a risk here. If the Church finds out I'm moving God-Tier contraband, they'll turn my skin into a rug."
Victor felt the cold sweat on his back. Ten thousand wouldn't even cover the interest for an hour. The numbers in his head were ticking up, a countdown to his own eviction from reality.
"No."
"Then get out. Take your carpet-monster with you."
Victor froze. The goblin was calling his bluff.
He needed leverage. He needed fear.
He looked at Fenrir. The wolf was currently sniffing a jar of pickled pixies. The jar fogged up from his breath.
"Fenrir," Victor said. His voice was low. Dangerous. Or at least, he hoped it sounded dangerous. It was mostly just tired.
"Yes?" Fenrir's head snapped up. The curtain rustled.
"The merchant thinks you are... low quality."
Fenrir gasped. A vacuum cleaner inhaling a cat.
"Low quality?" the wolf whispered. "Me?"
"He thinks you are cringe," Victor added. The nuclear option.
The effect was instantaneous.
A low growl started in Fenrir's chest. It wasn't a bark. It was a vibration rattling the jars on the shelves. The possessed toaster oven dinged in terror. Dust rained from the ceiling.
"I am not cringe," Fenrir growled. The purple curtain flared with shadow energy. "I am the End! I am the swallowing of light!"
He stepped forward. The floorboards cracked.
The goblin shrieked. He scrambled back, knocking over a shelf of voodoo dolls. Pins scattered across the floor.
"Okay! Okay!" the goblin yelled. "I was joking! Just a negotiation tactic! Standard practice!"
"Fifty thousand," Victor said, his voice steady. "And throw in a sandwich."
"Yes! Fine! Take it!"
The goblin slammed a heavy bag onto the counter. It clinked with the beautiful sound of heavy metal. He also threw a wrapped package that smelled vaguely of ham.
Victor grabbed the bag. He didn't count it. He just wanted to leave before he passed out.
"Pleasure doing business," Victor said.
He turned to Fenrir. "Come, Shadow. We leave."
"Did he apologize?" Fenrir asked, still vibrating.
"He apologized profusely. He said you are very based."
"Oh. Good."
They walked out.
The cool air of the market felt a blessing. Victor clutched the bag to his chest. They had money. They could pay the first installment. They could buy food. He could eat a sandwich.
He was almost smiling.
"Victor," Fenrir whispered.
"What?"
"The Eye."
Victor stopped. "What eye?"
"Up there." Fenrir pointed a claw toward a puddle of oil near the alley entrance. He wasn't pointing at the sky. He was pointing at the reflection.
Victor looked.
In the black, oily water, a reflection of the purple sky shimmered. But in the middle of the reflection, something else watched.
A red eye.
It wasn't the moon. It was a giant, unblinking eye, watching them. It had depth. It had malice.
Victor looked up at the sky. Nothing. Just smog.
He looked back at the puddle. The eye winked.
A chill went down Victor's spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
"It's nothing," Victor said. His voice was tight. "Just a reflection. Come on."
He dragged Fenrir away.
But as they turned the corner, a figure stepped out from the shadows of a noodle stall.
The figure wore a long coat and a mask resembling a smiling porcelain doll. In its hand, it held a sketch.
It wasn't a sketch of a wolf.
It was a sketch of a man with messy black hair and tired eyes.
The figure watched them go. Then, it pulled out a communication crystal.
"Target located," the figure whispered. "He has the Wolf. But he looks... weak."
Victor didn't hear it. He was too busy thinking about sandwiches.
And the interest rate.
Which had just ticked up again.