The entrance to the Grey Market was buried beneath the carcass of a pre-cataclysm nuclear bunker, hidden under three layers of reinforced lead and concrete. To the surface world, this was just another toxic wasteland in the North District's industrial zone, a place where the rain turned into sulfuric acid upon touching the rusted iron skeletons of dead factories. But beneath the feet of the Drake family's patrols, a different kind of civilization thrived—one built on the philosophy of the desperate and the lawless.
Alex Kane stood before the final airlock, his right hand holding the violet entry card he had ripped from the Vulture Gang leader. The obsidian limb beneath his duster remained silent, though he could feel the residual heat of the massacre at the clinic still thrumming in its veins. Old Jack stood behind him, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he adjusted the heavy medical pack on his shoulders.
The airlock hissed open, releasing a cloud of pressurized, recycled air that smelled of ozone, cheap grease, and the distinct, metallic tang of raw mana.
Welcome to the gut of the city, Jack muttered, stepping into the dimly lit tunnel beyond.
As they descended, the narrow corridor opened into a massive, multi-tiered cavern. It was a cathedral of neon and scrap. Tens of thousands of people moved through the tiers, their faces obscured by hoods, masks, and low-light goggles. Shops were carved directly into the bunker's concrete walls, selling everything from black-market stimulants and cracked mana cores to information that could topple a syndicate.
Alex activated God's Eye.
The world instantly transformed. The neon signs faded into the background, replaced by a sea of pulsating attribute colors. He saw a merchant selling 'High-Frequency Vibrating Blades' that were actually leaking 'Structural Fatigue' attributes. He saw a group of mercenaries whose armor sets were glowing with 'Low-Tier Resilience'—mere cannon fodder in the eyes of a real hunter.
But then, his vision caught something that didn't belong in this den of thieves.
A courier, dressed in a nondescript grey cloak, hurried past them toward the lower docks. From his tattered leather bag, a faint, crystalline trail was leaking into the air. To a normal observer, it looked like a bit of loose mana dust. But to Alex, it was a string of golden, geometric symbols that refused to dissipate.
Law Fragments.
Alex's heart gave a heavy, metallic thud. Law Fragments were not mere attributes; they were the fundamental building blocks of the System's rules—shards of reality that had been shattered during the descent of high-rank dungeons. They were the only materials capable of repairing or upgrading S-rank equipment.
Follow him, Alex whispered, his pace quickening.
The courier led them through the labyrinthine 'Scrap Tier', where the air grew colder and the smell of expensive perfume began to clash with the stench of the sewers. This was the territory of the 'Broken Saints'—former nobles and high-ranking hunters who had lost everything in the Great Collapse and were now reduced to selling their family heirlooms to survive.
The courier stopped in front of a small, cramped shop tucked into the corner of a collapsed ventilation shaft. The sign above the door was a simple piece of wood with a faded crest of a silver sword.
The courier handed over the bag to a figure behind the counter, received a small pouch of credits, and vanished into the crowd without a word.
Alex stepped into the shop. The interior was filled with the silence of a tomb. Shelves were lined with broken hilts, shattered shields, and rusted breastplates. In the center of the room, leaning against a display case, was a girl.
She looked to be around Alex's age, but her eyes held a weight that suggested she had seen the end of the world. They were the eyes of a fallen noble—deep, sapphire blue, but clouded with a layer of icy indifference. She wore a high-collared military coat that had seen better days, the silver embroidery frayed and dull.
Are you buying, or just wasting my oxygen? she asked, her voice as sharp as a razor.
Alex didn't look at her face. He looked at the counter. Resting there was the object the courier had delivered. It was a hilt—just a hilt—of what had once been a magnificent claymore. The blade had been snapped off at the crossguard, leaving only a jagged, blackened stump.
But within that stump, the Law Fragments were screaming.
[Vision Feedback: Item 'Broken Saint's Remnant' identified.] [Attribute Detected: Law of Severance (Fractured). Current Integrity: 4%.] [Potential: Can bypass any defense below B-Rank if restored.]
Beside the hilt lay a pile of 'Attribute Scraps'—low-tier mana stones and broken equipment that the girl had likely been trying to use for repairs.
You're an appraiser? Alex asked, his right hand resting on the glass case.
I'm the owner of this graveyard, she replied, her eyes narrowing as she took in Alex's disheveled appearance and his hidden left arm. My name is Elena Vos. And if you're looking for a bargain, you're in the wrong shop. Everything here is priceless, even the dust.
Priceless means it has no buyers, Alex said. You've been trying to fuse those Law Fragments with those low-tier mana stones for weeks, haven't you? You're trying to restore the Law of Severance, but your conversion rate is too low. You're just burning through your capital.
Elena froze. The indifference in her eyes was replaced by a flash of predatory suspicion. How do you know about the Law Fragments? No one in this market has the vision to see them.
I see things differently, Alex said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, glowing crystal—an Ember Crystal he had solidified from the demon's corruption in his own shoulder. It pulsed with a dark, violent light that made the broken swords on the shelves hum in sympathetic resonance.
I'll trade you this for the hilt, Alex said.
Elena looked at the crystal, then back at Alex. A single Ember Crystal? Are you joking? That hilt is all I have left of my family's legacy. It's a fragment of a Holy Class weapon.
It's a piece of junk, Alex countered, his voice cold. In its current state, it's a paperweight. In three days, the Law Fragments will leak out entirely, and you'll be left with nothing but a rusted handle. My crystal, however, is pure Destruction. It's the catalyst you need to stabilize the core of that blade.
The shop grew silent. Old Jack watched from the doorway, his eyes darting between the two. He could feel the tension—the collision of two desperate souls bargaining over the remains of their lives.
Elena reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she touched the Ember Crystal. She could feel the raw, unbridled power within it. She knew Alex was right. She had been failing. Her mana wasn't enough to bridge the gap between the shattered fragments.
Who are you? she asked, her gaze locking onto Alex's grey eyes.
A scavenger, Alex said. Just like you.
Elena looked at the hilt, then at the crystal. A flicker of a smile, cold and weary, appeared on her lips. A scavenger with the eyes of a god. Fine. The trade is made. But don't think you've won. That hilt is cursed. It's 'killed' every smith who's tried to touch it.
I'm not a smith, Alex said, picking up the broken hilt with his right hand.
As his fingers closed around the handle, the Law Fragments surged. He felt a sudden, violent pull on his mana—a demand for sacrifice. The hilt was trying to drink him dry.
Void Hand: Extraction. Attribute Alchemy: Stabilization.
Alex didn't fight the pull. He redirected it. He channeled a sliver of the energy from his obsidian limb—the demonic Destruction attribute—directly into the hilt.
The reaction was instantaneous. The blackened stump of the blade didn't grow back, but it began to glow with a dark, terrifying purple light. The Law Fragments stopped leaking; they began to knit themselves into the metal, forced into submission by the higher-tier demonic energy.
Elena's eyes widened. She had spent months trying to achieve even a fraction of that stability. You... you just stitched the Law. Without a forge? Without a ritual?
I told you, Alex said, sliding the hilt into his belt. I see things differently.
He turned to leave, but Elena stepped around the counter, her hand reaching for the sleeve of his duster.
Wait. You can't just walk out with that. If you can do that to a broken hilt, you can do it to the rest of the Saint's set. I have more. In the vaults below.
I'm not interested in charity, Alex said, stopping at the door.
It's not charity, Elena hissed, her blue eyes burning with a sudden, desperate hope. It's a contract. You want to kill the Drakes? I know that look. I saw it in the mirror every day for a year. I have the intel, the magic circles, and the noble access you lack. You have the hands that can fix the world.
Alex looked at her. He saw the 'Fallen Noble' status, but he also saw the 'Vengeance' attribute burning in her soul like a white-hot coal. She was a resource. A high-tier, specialized resource that he didn't have to hunt for.
If you want to kill them, Alex said, you'll have to do more than just provide intel. You'll have to be willing to crawl through the same filth I do.
I've been living in a bunker for twelve months, Alex Kane, she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. I was born in the filth. I just wore silk over it for a while.
Alex turned back toward the shop. He looked at Old Jack, who gave a slow, cautious nod.
Fine, Alex said. Show me what else you've scavenged from your family's grave. If the value is high enough, we have a deal.
Elena led them toward a hidden trapdoor behind a shelf of rusted shields. As Alex descended into the deeper vaults of the Grey Market, he felt the obsidian arm pulse with a new, dark anticipation.
The scavenger had found his first ally. The hero on the billboard had the world's applause, but here, in the cold, dark silence of the bunker, Alex Kane was beginning to assemble a god-killing machine from the pieces of a broken world.
The Law of Severance was in his hand. The Ember Crystals were in his veins. And now, he had a guide who knew exactly where the Drakes had buried their secrets.
I hope you're ready, Victor, Alex thought as the trapdoor clicked shut. Because the trash is starting to bite back.