Chapter 2: The Bloodied Fang Bazaar and the Dying Shadow
The walk back to the Outer Ring was a stark reminder of the world's unyielding hierarchy. In the Inner City, the streets were paved with polished cobblestone, illuminated by floating, mana-infused luminescent crystals that bathed the pristine academies and noble estates in a perpetual, warm glow. There, the air smelled of blooming night-jasmine and roasted spirit-beast meat.
As Jackson crossed the colossal iron gates into the Outer Ring, the light died. The cobblestone gave way to thick, foul-smelling mud, mixed with discarded refuse and the blood of the slums. The luminescent crystals were replaced by sputtering, grease-soaked torches that cast long, flickering shadows against the rotting wood and rusted metal of the shanties. Here, the air was a suffocating mix of cheap rotgut ale, unwashed bodies, and despair.
Jackson navigated the labyrinthine alleys with the fluid grace of a phantom. He didn't walk in the center of the path; he clung to the shadows, his footsteps silent, his eyes scanning every dark corner, every alleyway. He was a Rank 0 Awakened now, yes, but he had yet to form a contract. Without a beast, he was just a teenager with a slightly stronger soul. A stray knife to the ribs from a desperate addict would kill him just as easily as it would a beggar.
He finally reached his "home"—a cramped, windowless shack wedged between a collapsing brothel and a butcher shop that exclusively dealt in rat meat. He unlatched the heavy iron bar he used as a lock, slipped inside, and secured the door behind him.
The interior was Spartan. A bed of dry straw, a rusted bucket for washing, and a hidden floorboard where he kept his life savings. The single luxury in the room was a small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Jackson stood before it. The boy looking back at him was pale, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and rain. His eyes, however, were an unnatural, piercing gray—the eyes of a survivor.
He sat cross-legged on the straw bed, controlling his breathing. Inhale for four seconds. Hold for four. Exhale for four. Hold for four. Box breathing. A technique he had learned from an old, crippled mercenary he used to run errands for. It calmed his heart rate and centered his mind.
"System," Jackson murmured into the silent, dark room.
Instantly, the translucent blue interface materialized in his vision, casting a faint, ghostly glow that only he could see.
[Gods Taming System Active.]
[Host: Jackson]
[Rank: 0 (Unawakened Initiate)]
[System Level: 1]
[Beast Space 1: Blue-Grade (Empty)]
[Beast Space 2: Chaos-Grade (Hidden) (Empty)]
[Available Contract Slots: 2]
"Show me the detailed mechanics of my Beast Spaces and the System's current functions," Jackson commanded mentally. In this brutal world, information was the ultimate weapon. Ignorance was a death sentence.
[Ding! Compiling information...]
[Beast Space 1 (Blue-Grade): A high-tier mortal space. It provides a 20% accelerated growth rate for any contracted beast residing within it. It can house beasts up to 'King' Potential without destabilizing.]
[Beast Space 2 (Chaos-Grade): A primordial, rule-breaking sanctuary. It provides a 100% accelerated growth rate, passive healing, and a constant purification of a beast's bloodline. It has NO potential limits. Beasts housed here will slowly mutate toward their most ancestral, divine forms.]
Jackson's breath hitched slightly. A 100% growth rate and bloodline purification? This was heaven-defying. In Aethelgard, a beast's power was strictly bound by its innate 'Potential'. The potential tiers were universally recognized: Mortal, Earth, Sky, King, Emperor, Sovereign, and Divine. A beast with 'Mortal' potential would struggle to ever surpass Rank 3. A beast with 'King' potential was destined to reach Rank 6 or 7, making it a highly coveted treasure among the noble clans. To change a beast's potential required legendary alchemical pills, heaven-born treasures, or the sacrifice of thousands of lives in forbidden blood rituals. Yet, his second space did this passively.
[Current System Functions Unlocked at Level 1:]
[1. Eye of the God Tamer: Allows the Host to see the true hidden stats, potential, bloodline, and hidden evolutionary paths of any beast.]
[2. Absolute Concealment: Passively hides the Host's true cultivation rank, the existence of the System, and the Chaos-Grade space from any entity below Rank 10.]
Eye of the God Tamer, Jackson thought, a slow, predatory smile finally breaking across his stoic face. This was exactly what he needed.
He dropped to his knees and pried up the loose floorboard beneath his bed. He pulled out a small, grimy leather pouch. The clinking sound it made was pathetic. He poured the contents onto his palm.
Three silver coins. Forty-two copper coins.
In the Aethelgard economy, one hundred copper equaled one silver. One hundred silver equaled one gold. One hundred gold equaled one platinum.
Three silver was enough to buy a family of four in the slums food for two months. But in the world of Beast Tamers? It was absolute garbage. In the Inner City's prestigious 'Myriad Beast Pavilion', the weakest, most docile pet—a Rank 1 Silk-Haired Rabbit with Mortal-Low potential—cost fifty silver. A combat-oriented beast pup, like a common Iron-Hide Boar, cost at least three gold.
Jackson couldn't afford a guaranteed, healthy beast from the inner city. He had to gamble. And there was only one place in the Outer Ring where gambling with beasts was a way of life: The Bloodied Fang Bazaar.
The sun had not yet risen when Jackson stepped into the sprawling, chaotic mess of the Bloodied Fang Bazaar.
The stench hit him first—a nauseating concoction of dried blood, rotting meat, animal feces, and cheap incense meant to mask the smell of disease. The bazaar was a labyrinth of rusty iron cages, blood-stained wooden platforms, and canvas tents erected in the mud. This was the black market. The beasts sold here were wild catches brought in by desperate mercenary groups, smuggled goods stolen from noble caravans, or "rejects" that the breeding farms deemed too weak or mutated to sell to the rich.
It was a place of extreme danger. The merchants here were cutthroats, often backed by the slum gangs. Murder over a few silver coins was a daily occurrence.
Jackson pulled the hood of his gray tunic over his head, hiding his youthful face in the shadows. He walked with a slight slouch, blending into the crowd of desperate scavengers, low-ranking rogue tamers, and shady merchants.
He activated the [Eye of the God Tamer].
Instantly, his vision shifted. The bleak, gray world of the bazaar was overlaid with translucent, glowing blue text boxes hovering above every beast he looked at.
He walked past a large iron cage holding a massive, roaring feline covered in jagged rock-like armor. A burly vendor with a scarred face was shouting to a crowd.
"Gather 'round! Witness the sheer power of the Boulder-Crush Tiger! Caught in the perilous crags of the Ironspine Mountains! It has Earth-tier potential! Only ten gold coins! A steal for any aspiring Tamer!"
Jackson casually glanced at the beast.
[Species: Boulder-Crush Tiger (Adult)]
[Rank: 1 (Mid-Stage)]
[Potential: Mortal-High (Vendor is lying)]
[Status: Enraged, suffering from hidden parasite 'Blood-Borer Worm' in its heart. Estimated lifespan: 4 days.]
Jackson scoffed internally and kept walking. Ten gold for a beast that would drop dead before the week was out. This was the reality of the Bazaar. Without the System, he would have been walking blind into a minefield of scams.
For two agonizing hours, Jackson scoured the market. He examined hundreds of beasts. Snakes with two heads, massive avian creatures with clipped wings, wolves missing limbs, and mutated boars frothing at the mouth.
Most were utterly useless.
[Potential: Mortal-Low]
[Potential: Mortal-Mid]
[Status: Irreversibly crippled meridians.]
[Status: Soul shattered, impossible to contract.]
He needed a beast to contract so he could officially break through to Rank 1. But Jackson's ambition was far too vast to settle for trash. He was a solo burner; he didn't have a clan to supply him with resources. Every choice he made had to be perfect. His first beast would be his foundation. If the foundation was weak, the tower would inevitably collapse.
He was beginning to lose hope, his meager three silver coins burning a hole in his pocket, when he reached the deepest, darkest corner of the Bazaar—the 'Dead End'.
This was where vendors dumped the beasts that were literally on death's door. The air here smelled heavily of necrosis.
Sitting on an overturned, rotting wooden crate was an ancient, one-eyed man smoking a long wooden pipe. In front of him were three small, incredibly rusty birdcages.
In the first cage lay a dead lizard. In the second, a rat chewing on its own leg.
But it was the third cage that made Jackson stop dead in his tracks.
Inside the cramped, rust-flaked iron box lay a tiny, emaciated canine. It was the size of a common house cat. Its fur was matted with dried blood, mud, and vomit. It was pitch black, but patches of its fur had fallen out, revealing festering, purple sores underneath. It was barely breathing, its ribs jutting out sharply against its skin. Its eyes were closed shut with infected crust. It looked like a common, plague-ridden alley mutt that had been run over by a carriage.
Two drunken mercenaries walked past. One of them kicked the cage. "Oy, old man! Why don't you just throw that garbage in the incinerator? It's stinking up the whole alley!"
The old man spat a wad of dark phlegm onto the mud. "Mind your business, trash. A copper is a copper."
Jackson didn't look at the mercenaries. His gaze was locked onto the dying, pathetic creature. His heart, usually so calm and controlled, began to hammer wildly against his ribs. The System interface hovering above the dying mutt was practically screaming in blinding, crimson text.
[Ding! Extreme Anomaly Detected!]
[Species: Shadowfiend Scrimm (Severe Mutation/Degradation)]
[True Ancestral Bloodline: Abyssal Night Terror (Extremely Rare - Dormant/Sealed)]
[Current Rank: 0 (Unawakened)]
[Current Potential: Mortal-Low (Due to severe seal and near-death state)]
[True Potential: Emperor-High (Upgradeable)]
[Status: Severe malnutrition, multiple bone fractures, lethal 'Demon-Bane' poison coursing through meridians. Soul fire is flickering. Estimated lifespan: 2 hours.]
[Hidden Evolutionary Path Detected: Yes (Requires Chaos-Grade Beast Space to initiate purification).]
Emperor-High Potential.
Jackson's mind went blank for a fraction of a second. In the entirety of the Azure Dragon Academy, the highest recorded beast potential currently owned by the Headmaster was King-High. An Emperor-tier beast was the stuff of legends, creatures that ruled entire mountain ranges and wiped out cities if angered.
And here one was, dying in a rusty cage in a slum alleyway, disguised as a diseased mutt.
Jackson forced his heart rate to slow down. He couldn't show a single ounce of excitement. If the old man suspected this beast had even a sliver of value, the price would skyrocket beyond Jackson's pitiful three silver.
He arranged his face into a mask of mild disgust and boredom. He walked up to the old man, acting as if he was just trying to escape the rain that had just begun to drizzle from the smog-filled sky.
Jackson pointed a dirty, wrapped finger at the third cage. "How much for the dead dog, old man?"
The one-eyed vendor squinted at Jackson, sizing him up. He saw the cheap, faded tunic, the worn-out straw sandals, and the lack of any guild insignias. Just a slum rat.
"Five silver," the old man rasped, taking a drag from his pipe. "Its meat is tainted, but the bones can still be ground down into low-grade fertilizer for spirit grass."
Five silver. He didn't have it.
Jackson let out a harsh, mocking laugh. It sounded incredibly natural, born from years of surviving on these streets. "Five silver? For a bag of diseased bones that will rot before I even get it to the grinding mill? You must be smoking dream-weed, old man. I'll give you fifty copper. I need something cheap to feed my newly contracted Iron-Hide Boar, and I don't care if it gets a little sick from the meat."
The old man frowned. "Fifty copper is an insult. Three silver. Final offer."
Jackson shook his head, turning his back as if to walk away. "One silver, twenty copper. That's my final offer. If you don't take it, you'll be paying the incinerator fee yourself in an hour when the thing finally stops breathing."
He took one step. Two steps. Three steps. He prayed to whatever dark gods watched over Aethelgard that the old man would bite.
"Wait," the raspy voice called out. "Two silver. Hand it over, boy, and take the filthy thing away. The cage costs extra."
Jackson paused, sighing heavily as if he were being ripped off. He turned around, digging into his pouch, and produced two silver coins. He tossed them onto the wooden crate. "Keep the cage. I don't want tetanus."
He reached into the rusted confines of the cage. The moment his fingers brushed against the matted, freezing fur of the tiny beast, the creature flinched. Despite being on the verge of death, it let out a weak, raspy growl, baring broken, yellowed teeth. It was a pathetic display of defiance, but it struck a chord deep within Jackson.
Even at death's door, it refused to submit entirely.
"Easy," Jackson whispered, his voice dropping its harsh slum accent, turning incredibly soft. He carefully slid his hands under the creature's frail body and lifted it. It weighed practically nothing.
Just as Jackson turned to leave, a massive, calloused hand clamped down on his shoulder. The grip was like an iron vise, digging painfully into his collarbone.
"Well, well, well. Look what we have here," a deep, cruel voice rumbled from behind him.
Jackson didn't panic. He slowly turned his head. Standing over him was 'Gore', a notoriously brutal enforcer for the Blood-Iron Gang that ran this section of the bazaar. Gore was a mountain of a man, unawakened, but possessing physical strength at the absolute peak of the mortal limit. He was covered in crude tattoos and held a rusted cleaver in his free hand.
"A little slum rat making purchases," Gore sneered, blowing foul, garlic-scented breath into Jackson's face. "You know the rules of the Dead End, kid. Ten percent tax on all transactions to the Blood-Iron Gang. But since you look like a generous boy... I think a silver coin will cover your protection fee for the week."
Jackson looked at the massive hand on his shoulder, then up into Gore's bloodshot eyes. He cradled the dying pup to his chest with his left arm, ensuring it was safe.
He was a Rank 0 Awakened. He had a soul space, but no beast to grant him power. In terms of raw, explosive strength, Gore had the advantage. But Jackson had spent five years fighting for scraps against feral dogs and grown men. He knew anatomy. He knew pain.
"Take your hand off me," Jackson said, his voice completely flat, devoid of any fear or anger. It was a statement of fact.
Gore laughed, a booming, ugly sound. "Or what, little rat? You gonna bite me—"
Jackson moved. He didn't wind up. He didn't shout a battle cry. It was an explosion of pure, calculated, kinetic violence.
With blinding speed, Jackson's right hand shot up, his fingers forming a rigid spear. He bypassed Gore's thick chest muscles and struck directly into the soft cluster of nerves nestled deep in the man's armpit.
Gore's eyes bulged as his entire right arm instantly went numb, the iron grip on Jackson's shoulder failing.
Before Gore could even register the pain or swing his cleaver, Jackson pivoted his hips, dropping his center of gravity. He drove the reinforced toe of his worn sandal precisely into the side of Gore's left kneecap with terrifying force.
CRACK.
The sickening sound of cartilage tearing and bone fracturing echoed in the muddy alley.
Gore let out a strangled, high-pitched scream, his massive body collapsing into the mud as his leg gave out beneath him. The rusted cleaver clattered uselessly away.
Jackson stood over the groaning giant. He didn't gloat. He didn't draw a crowd's attention by finishing the man off. He merely crouched down, bringing his face inches from Gore's sweating, pale visage.
"I have nothing to my name but my life," Jackson whispered, his voice colder than the northern winds. "If you try to take from me again, I won't break your leg. I'll feed your eyes to the ravens. Do we understand each other?"
Gore, trembling from the shock and the terrifying, lifeless gaze of the boy above him, managed a frantic nod, clutching his ruined knee.
Jackson stood up, adjusting his tunic to protect the dying pup from the rain. He walked out of the Bloodied Fang Bazaar without looking back, disappearing into the labyrinth of the Outer Ring.
He had to get back to his shack. He had exactly two hours to initiate the contract and pull this Emperor-tier beast back from the abyss, or his two silver coins would truly have been wasted on a corpse.
The real work was about to begin.