From the outside, the office looked like the kind of place where paperwork disappeared and people came out with new names. Cracked plaster, sun-faded signage, and the faint aura of dental malpractice. Inside was the exact opposite; the air smelled like filtered wealth and quiet threats—so sterile it made your lungs feel underdressed.
Shin sat on a simple couch in a relaxed posture, his eyes quietly measuring every angle of the room. Across from him, Thommo was nervously inspecting a ceramic fruit bowl as if it might bite.
"Don't touch that," came a voice from the doorway.
The man who entered was silver-haired and lean, moving like someone who'd been important long enough to forget what it felt like not to be. He wore a tailored suit with the sleeves rolled like he'd just walked out of a meeting or a murder scene. He had no watch, but then again, he was the kind who didn't need a watch to be on time.
"Didn't expect to see your grandfather's name pop up again," the man said, eyes flicking toward Thommo. His English was crisp but worn with age. Then he turned to Shin. "And you're the one with the treasures?"
Shin nodded once.
The man extended a hand. "Victor Marais. I handle unorthodox auctions. Welcome."
"Shin," he shook his hand. Then, without waiting, Shin opened his coat and placed a sealed black case on the desk between them. The latches hissed open.
Victor leaned in.
IInside: a tight cluster of thumb-sized diamonds, irregular and too clean—like glass grown on purpose. Two slabs of deep blue crystal veined in gold, like lightning trapped in glacier. But the most interesting thing was right at the center—a curved ingot of something that wasn't quite metal, and shimmered like mercury fused with steel—alive even in stillness.
Shin said nothing. Let the silence do the bragging.
Victor paused in calculation. "These weren't mined," he murmured, reaching carefully. "No lattice fractures. No strain patterns. And this alloy…"
He lifted the metal with careful fingers. "Not tungsten. Not titanium. Something denser. Stronger."
"It's not from here," Shin said softly.
Victor didn't ask where it was from. His eyes were sharp. Discreet. He was curious, but professional.
"If I called it 'divine metal,' I wouldn't be wrong," Victor muttered. "It's tower-formed. Born of unnatural pressure, not forged."
"Can you move it?" Shin asked.
Victor set the alloy down with delicate reverence. "If you're asking whether I can sell this discreetly, to the kind of people who bid with black cards and military favors—yes. But I'll need time. This isn't street-tier scrap. It needs the right presentation."
"What about next week?" Thommo interjected suddenly.
Victor glanced at him. Then looked at Shin.
Shin raised an eyebrow. "What's next week?"
Victor hesitated—then gave a small, knowing sigh.
"There's a closed-floor auction. Invitation-only. High clearance. No cameras, no questions, no bid limits. Buyers with names that aren't names—just guilds, syndicates, and offshore shells."
He paused.
"Some of them don't care where the items come from. Some… make a point not to care."
Shin nodded. "You'll show one item?"
Victor considered, then gave a single nod. "One. Quietly. The rest stay locked until demand builds. Mystery drives price."
"And your cut?"
Victor smiled faintly. "Thirty-five percent if I handle the packaging and delivery. Forty if you want full discretion—digital laundering, clean returns."
"Thirty-two flat," Shin said, like he was ordering coffee. He could get more, but anything beyond meant paying for the packaging instead of the product.
Victor arched a brow. "You're quick."
"You're expensive."
Victor chuckled. "Fair enough. Thirty-two it is."
Victor pulled open a drawer with two fingers and retrieved a black metal coin the size of a poker chip. It had a matte finish, and no markings except a thin spiral of silver threading the edge like a secret. "Your token," he said as he handed it. "Entry next week. One person only. Don't lose it. Don't copy it. This isn't a market for tourists."
Shin pocketed it without a word.
"If I bring more?" he asked.
Victor folded the case closed. "Then we talk long-term. Quietly."
They stood.
As they left, Thommo muttered, "Didn't think you'd haggle down Victor. He still remembers my granddad snapping a guy's fingers over three percent."
Shin didn't smile—but something in his eyes sparked.
He'd just entered the first ring of influence. Not by power, not by violence—but by value.
And next time, he wouldn't be a seller.
He'd be a buyer.
That evening, they wandered through a cobbled artery of the old city—where the buildings leaned in like they had secrets, and everything smelled like rusted iron, dry citrus, and history no one bothered to write down.
The sky was already pale violet, dusk bleeding into early night. They passed an old man playing on an accordion. Clearly, that man was not going to win any prize soon, but at least he didn't lack passion. Shin didn't mind, though. Even dissonance had its charm.
"Was that all from Wind's tower?" Thommo asked.
"Yes," Shin said.
"You plan to sell all of it?"
"I keep what's useful. I sell what I don't need."
Thommo nodded. "Left mine back in Australia. Customs would've had me flagged before I even touched the airport."
They turned down a curved lane into a plaza of broken statues—chipped marble figures circling an empty, dry fountain. Cracks lined the stone like veins. A dead square, but quiet.
Shin slowed, making sure no one's nearby. "Your contact. Victor. He have others?"
"Handlers you mean? Yeah, a few. But most won't touch stuff like this." Thommo scratched the back of his neck. "They move knockoff watches or fake IDs. Not god-metal. Victor's the only one I know who can make divine look... negotiable."
"Keep the door open anyway."
Thommo gave him a sideways look. "You planning something?"
"Eventually. Not yet."
"Like what? Market crash? World dominion?"
Shin didn't blink. "Bigger."
He scanned the rooftops. Not searching—just making sure the world hadn't changed without permission.
"I'm not looking to lead," Shin said. "I'm looking to build."
Thommo tilted his head. "Like a team?"
"A force," Shin said. "Something that moves under the radar. Climbs towers without flags. Stands where I can't be. A force that spreads across the world." Thommo nearly laughed—it sounded insane after all, something you'd hear from a man chasing legends. But there was something in the way he said it.
But there was something in the way Shin said it.His voice was so soft, so calm, that Thommo didn't hear ambition at all.
Just inevitability.
Thommo whistled low. "That sounds like a lot of logistics."
"It will be."
"You got a name for it?"
"No."
"But you've got plans."
Shin didn't answer, but something in his eyes flickered—like a lighter sparking under low wind. They reached the edge of the plaza, where broken stone met rusted fencing and the sea beyond. Thommo glanced sideways at him, lips twitching.
"You know, I thought you were more of a lone wolf type. Brooding. Too cool for sidekicks."
"I am," Shin said. "But even wolves don't hunt alone forever."
Thommo snorted. "Well, if you're building some kind of underground dream team, you're gonna need someone to carry the heavy things."
Shin looked at him. "You offering?"
"I'm... observing. From a safe emotional distance."
Shin nodded, as if that settled everything. It probably didn't, but to be fair, Thommo would be part of his force whether he wanted it or not, it was just better to make him think it was his decision all along.
They parted, and Shin was free to handle a more pressing appointment—with the rooftop.
He stood atop a rusted warehouse not far from the port with his arms folded, the wind tugging lightly at his coat. From this height, the city didn't feel like a city—it felt like a whisper caught mid-sentence.
The alley below was half-lit by a flickering streetlamp, its light spilling over broken crates and discarded pallets. The port had shut hours ago. No cars. No workers. Just salt air and the faint hum of industrial decay.
But Shin wasn't here for scenery. He was listening.
Noise. Sound. Conversations.
A creaky radio two streets down muttered news in Spanish. A bar was airing a football game with too much static and too much shouting. Somewhere, two cats were auditioning for a very explicit opera under a bench.
Shin tuned all of it out. He adjusted his hearing carefully, like fiddling with an ancient radio dial—and locked onto something new.
Seventy meters away. A garage with boarded windows, shut doors, and a group of people who were just quiet enough to be suspicious.
Perfect.
Extreme Auditory Perception. That's what he called it now. An extremely practical ability that would make any secret spy cry. Though if he had to confess, it was actually a party trick born of sheer boredom and questionable curiosity.
Two months ago, during a botched surveillance op, he'd been parked way too far from a private tower negotiation. He'd heard just enough to get annoyed. So, in true Shin fashion, he'd tried something crazy.
He let Wind flow through his inner ear—not with force, but with precision. Guided it down the canals, and aligned it with the vibrations in the air. He remembered Wind whispering once, in that smug, annoying tone of his: "Breath is vibration. Vibration is everything."
Well, apparently that also meant eavesdropping.
By tuning the divine pressure inside his ears to match the external ambient vibrations, he could amplify specific frequencies—filtering noise like a living antenna. He didn't just hear—he listened with intention.
What began as rough bursts of clarity became, over time, a refined skill. And now, even the muffled voices across concrete and steel were no longer safe. To be fair, he didn't want to be a stalker.
It just sort of happened naturally when your best friend is the wind and your hobby is 'invading forbidden places.'
Now, with time and focus, there was nothing he could not hear in one kilometer radius. His ears tuned to the warehouse.
"I'm telling you, boss—we can clear it with that dajin of yours." The voice was young and brash. Clearly trying to sound tougher than his confidence budget allowed. Shin scoffed. Inside the warehouse, five men sat around a cheap folding table covered in maps and the dreams of people who watched too many heist movies. Bottles clinked. Paper rustled. Someone was smoking the kind of cigarette that smelled more illegal than it should.
Seemsinteresting. Nothing could stop Shin when he entered stalker mode. He sat perfectly still, isolating each voice by cadence. It wasn't easy considering he also had to filter all background distortion, but when you are bored and someone is generous enough to entertain you, what is a little bit of effort.
"It's a rank D. Maybe C," said another. "Nobody's touched it since that guy died. Means the loot's still sitting there."
Shin's brow twitched.
The guy who died.
Then came another voice, probably their leader. He had that deeper, slower voice that made people stop talking when it entered the room.
Shin focused.
"Yeah. Got to the final floor," the boss said. "Failed the trial. Tower spat him out like gum. He crawled halfway home before I found him and finished the job."
Charming.
"So the artifact's still there?" asked Smoky McLoudmouth.
"Should be. Unless he lied to me."
"You should have left it to me boss. I had the perfect way to make sure he wouldn't lie," the smoker bragged.
"You mean that toy you hide under your bed? That would take hours. My method was quicker."
Shin could already tell the smoker was the kind of man who thought firepower made up for planning. Still, he had to take notice of the leader. Shin didn't need to see his face to know the others followed him not out of fear—but because he'd gotten results before. And they believed he'd do it again.
That bothered him more.
"And we're sure it's not locked behind another trial?" a fourth voice asked.
"Don't matter," said the boss. "My guy'll guide us through."
"You mean... the dajin?"
"He's been quiet," the boss admitted. "But when he talks, it's dead on. If the artifact's real, he'll find it."
"Didn't think Echoes were helpful like that. I thought they were all tricksters."
"Who knows. Some are annoying, some are useful. But this one's different. And he sure has a damn good nose."
Shin tilted his head slightly.
A tracking Echo? Shin didn't know much about echos, but even he could tell there was no way it was common. Echoes—at least as far as he knew—usually gave unique physical abilities like power boosts. Strength, speed, super sight. Some provide slightly more diverse skills, like that man with laser beams from Seoul. But this one sounded much more useful.
Most lesser Echoes gave raw boosts—speed, strength, occasional laser eyes if you got lucky. There was that man from Seoul who was fortunate enough to get a flight ability. But a dajin that could sense hidden artifacts?
That was a problem.
It sounded like something that could lead even amateurs into real power.
"I'm telling you," one of them continued, "we clear this tower and we're golden. If that pendant thing really teleports you when you're about to die, then that alone would sell for millions. And who knows what else is inside. We just have to move before the government locks it up."
"No blind runs," the boss said. "My Echo's already felt the flow of the place. All it needs is to be close."
"You're sure it won't kill us?"
A low laugh. "If it does, you won't be around to complain."
They laughed—uneasily. But it was clear: they were in.
Shin listened to all this from afar. So that was it. A half-trained gang, but organized enough to be dangerous, chasing power they didn't fully understand.
Shin didn't like it. These weren't just scavengers. They were efficient and knowledgeable.
Which meant they weren't the only ones.
Towers really are getting easier to clear, Shin thought. Or maybe people are just getting hungrier.
From the edge of the roof, he caught glimpses of their faces when the door creaked open. Just enough to remember, and perhaps connect a trace for the future.
Then he stepped back into the shadow.
He wasn't sure what the pendant artifact was, but teleportation? Death failsafes? That wasn't loot anymore. That was leverage.
And if they thought they'd be the first ones there?
Well, they clearly hadn't learned the first rule of dealing with wind:
Because by the time you feel it—
it's already passed you.