The teleportation circle in the village square hummed with arcane energy. Sebastian stepped onto it, ignoring the awe-struck gazes of the players who had seen the system announcement.
"Destination: Ironhold," he commanded.
The world dissolved into a tunnel of blue light.
When vision returned, the smell hit him first. It wasn't the fresh pine of the woods or the ozone of magic. It was the smell of coal smoke, hot oil, and unwashed masses.
Ironhold. The City of Steel.
Sebastian stepped off the platform and looked up. The sky was choked with smog, blocking out the sun. Massive gears turned in the walls of the skyscrapers, and steam vented from brass pipes that ran like veins through the streets. It was a city built inside a massive volcanic caldera, the architecture a mix of Victorian gothic and heavy industrial machinery.
This was one of the five Main Cities of the Human faction.
[System: Welcome to Ironhold.]
The streets were crowded, but not with players. Most players were still stuck in Novice Villages. The crowd here consisted of NPCs—dwarves, humans, and gnomes, all rushing about their business.
Sebastian checked his map. He needed money. The 250 Gold from the potions was a fortune in a village, but in a Main City, it was pocket change. The auction for the [Key to the Sanctuary] shard would likely reach into the thousands.
He pulled his hood up and navigated toward the lower districts.
Ironhold was stratified. The rich lived in the Upper Spire, near the fresh air. The poor lived in the Sump, near the geothermal vents.
And beneath the Sump lay the Underground.
Sebastian descended a rusted spiral staircase that seemed to go down forever. The air grew hotter, thicker. The sound of cheering and clashing steel echoed from below.
He emerged into a massive subterranean cavern lit by bioluminescent fungi and harsh floodlights. In the center sat the Ironhold Arena, a coliseum made of black iron and dried blood.
This was the Black Market's heart. Here, laws were loose, and gold flowed like water.
Sebastian walked to the registration desk. A scarred Orc with a mechanical eye sat behind a cage.
"Fresh meat?" the Orc grunted, his mechanical eye whirring as it focused on Sebastian. "We don't take insurance policies here, kid. You die, we sell your gear."
"I want to register," Sebastian said.
"Name?"
"Zero."
"Class?"
"Drifter."
The Orc paused. He looked at his ledger, then back at Sebastian, then let out a booming laugh that shook the desk.
"A Drifter? In the Arena? Look, kid, the latrine cleaning duty is down the hall. We need fighters here, not janitors."
Sebastian slammed 50 Gold onto the counter. "Put me in the roster. Lowest bracket. All bets on myself."
The Orc stopped laughing. Gold spoke louder than class. He swiped the coins with a greedy grin.
"Your funeral. You're in the next match. Odds are 50 to 1 against you."
"Good odds," Sebastian murmured.
He walked into the waiting room. It was filled with NPCs and a few early-bird hardcore players who had rushed to the city. A Level 12 Guardian named "Tanker_Bob" was flexing in the corner, his shield as big as a door.
Bob saw Sebastian's rags and sneered. "Hey, look! A Drifter made it to the city. Did you glitch your way here, bug?"
Sebastian ignored him, finding a bench to sit on. He opened his skill tree. He had reached Level 10, which unlocked Tier 1 skills.
[Skill Tree: Wind Magic]
[Basic Wind Blade] -> [Evolution Available]
He poured points into it.
[Ding! Wind Blade evolved to... Vacuum Slash.]
[Ding! Vacuum Slash evolved to... Dimensional Sever.]
[Dimensional Sever (Forbidden Tier)]
[Cost: 200 Mana]
[Effect: Creates a blade of compressed space-time. Ignores distance. Ignores armor. Cuts the target at the molecular level.]
Sebastian closed the window.
"Next match!" the announcer's voice boomed over the magical loudspeakers. "In the red corner, the crushing wall, Tanker_Bob! And in the blue corner... the suicidal Drifter, Zero!"
The gate creaked open. The roar of the crowd washed over him.
Sebastian stood up. Tanker_Bob was laughing, banging his mace against his shield.
"I'm gonna squash you flat, little bug!" Bob shouted.
Sebastian walked into the arena sand. He looked up at the VIP box, where he knew the owner of this establishment was watching.
"Make sure you have my money ready," Sebastian whispered to the air.
He raised a single finger, pointing it at the massive shield Guardian across the arena.
[Combat Start.]
Tanker_Bob charged.
Sebastian flicked his finger.
Snap.
There was no projectile. There was no travel time. A line of distortion appeared in the air, dissecting the space between them.
Tanker_Bob's shield—a Rare grade item—split perfectly in half. His heavy plate armor split. The leather beneath split.
Bob stopped, his eyes wide. The two halves of his shield clattered to the ground. He looked down at his chest, expecting to see blood.
But there was no wound.
Sebastian had controlled the [Dimensional Sever] with surgical precision, cutting every millimeter of defense the man had, stopping exactly at the skin.
The crowd went dead silent.
"My... my gear..." Bob stammered, looking at his ruined, expensive equipment.
"Surrender," Sebastian said, his voice amplified by the silence. "Or the next one takes your head."
Bob dropped his mace and fell to his knees, trembling.
"I yield! I yield!"
[Winner: Zero.]
Sebastian turned and walked back toward the gate. He checked his notifications. The winnings from the bet were coming in.
It was time to buy a city.