Kaizen stepped into the maw of the Downtown Market, and immediately regretted having working eardrums.
Merchants were screaming at the absolute top of their lungs about limited time offers that would definitely be available again tomorrow.
Customers were haggling over the price of fish like their lives depended on saving two Crowns.
The air itself was a thick, suffocating soup made of grilled lizard meat, cheap perfume, and what smelled suspiciously like sewage.
Kaizen ignored them all. He engaged his internal ignore advertisements filter and pushed forward through the crowd.
He was not here for the tourist traps. He had zero interest in the Fresh Potions that were clearly just tap water with blue food coloring, or the Dragon Scales that looked suspiciously like painted plastic shards from a craft store.
He pulled his hood up to obscure his face and tightened the straps of his backpack.
He walked past the main bazaar, dodging a goblin aggressively trying to sell socks. He turned left down an alleyway that smelled vaguely of wet dog and sewage water. Then he took a sharp right. Then another left into the deepening shadows.
The noise of the market faded behind him, replaced by an eerie silence. The sunlight seemed to get dimmer here, choked out by the leaning buildings that blocked the sky.
Welcome to the Second-Hand District.
Or as the veteran players called it: The Scrapyard.
The shops here were not floating on magical clouds or built from enchanted marble. They were sagging into the mud.
Rotting wooden shacks leaned against each other like drunk friends trying desperately to stay upright. Dirty blankets were spread directly on the muddy ground, covered in junk that looked like it had been dug out of a grave five minutes ago.
Kaizen walked past a man sitting on a wooden crate, cradling a rusted iron pan like it was a precious baby.
The pan was not just old. It was practically a fossil from an archaeological dig.
The iron was so rusted it looked like a biological hazard waiting to happen. The handle was wrapped in a filthy, grease-stained rag because the metal edges were probably sharp enough to give you tetanus just by looking at them.
"Authentic antique!" the man wheezed, shaking the death-pan at Kaizen with trembling hands. "Used by the Fire Demon himself during the Great War! One million crowns! A steal of a deal!"
Kaizen did not even break stride.
'Fire Demon my ass! That pan was used by a caveman to club a dinosaur to death. If I touch it, I am getting a permanent disease debuff.'
"Hey kid! Wait!" the man shouted, desperation creeping into his voice like water through a cracked dam. "Since you are just a kid, how about a ninety-five percent discount? I will lower it just for you! Special price! Nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-five crowns!"
Kaizen just shook his head and kept walking.
'That is still almost a million crowns, you scam artist.'
As he ventured deeper into the Scrapyard, the atmosphere changed dramatically.
It got heavy. Sticky. Malicious.
People stopped what they were doing to watch him pass. They looked up from their piles of garbage with hungry, predatory eyes.
They saw a sixteen-year-old boy walking alone. They saw a clean, expensive academy backpack. They saw a Walking Loot Box with legs.
Kaizen felt it instantly.
The prickle on the back of his neck intensified. The feeling of multiple eyes tracking his every movement was unmistakable.
Petty thieves, Kaizen noted, his pulse remaining annoyingly steady despite the danger.
'Three of them. One at six o'clock trailing behind me. One at four o'clock flanking. And one hiding in the shadows at nine.'
They were closing in, tightening the net like hyenas circling a limping gazelle.
But Kaizen was not deterred in the slightest.
He did not speed up. He did not run. He walked with the casual, almost arrogant stride of a man who had Quick Save loaded and was not afraid to reload.
'Let them look. Let them drool over my backpack. They cannot touch me.'
He stopped in front of a shop at the very end of the lane.
There was no sign. There was no proper door. Just a heavy, greasy curtain made of wooden beads that clicked softly in the wind.
Kaizen pushed through without hesitation.
Clack-clack.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cheap incense and perfumes that were probably meant to cover up something worse.
Behind the counter sat a man who looked like he had melted into his chair over several years.
He was large and pot-bellied, with skin the color of weathered leather. He looked like every single shady merchant in every RPG ever made, the specific archetype who sells you a Mystery Box that turns out to contain a single rock and nothing else.
He was chewing on a stalk of wheat, staring at the ceiling like he was contemplating the meaning of life.
He looked down as Kaizen entered. He scanned the boy from his clean sneakers all the way up to his academy hoodie.
Ptoo.
He spat the wheat onto the dirt floor with practiced disrespect.
"Get lost, kid," the merchant grunted. "We do not sell toys here. Go back to the candy shop before you get hurt."
Kaizen did not move an inch.
Outside the bead curtain, shadows shifted. The thieves had gathered. They were blocking the exit, cutting off his escape route. They were waiting for the rejection. Waiting for the kid to walk back out dejected so they could strip him clean in the alley.
The merchant saw them too. A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He did not warn the kid. Why would he? This was the Scrapyard. Survival of the fittest. Natural selection in action.
"I said beat it," the merchant growled, his hand drifting toward a heavy wooden club under the counter. "I am not asking twice."
Kaizen smiled. It was not a nice smile.
"I am not here for toys, I am here to do business."
"Business?" The merchant laughed. It was a wet, wheezing sound that turned into a cough. "With what? Your lunch money? Do not make me laugh, kid."
Kaizen did not answer with words.
He reached into his pocket slowly and deliberately.
The thieves outside tensed, muscles coiled, ready to pounce the moment he stepped back outside.
Kaizen pulled out a card.
It was a sleek, black rectangle made of obsidian-glass. Gold engravings shimmered on the surface. A holographic crest spun faintly in the dim light of the shack.
He placed it gently on the greasy counter.
Click.
The sound echoed in the silence.
Zenith Academy Student ID
Name: Kaizen Renji Asahina
The silence that followed was absolutely deafening.
The merchant's eyes bugged out of his head like a cartoon character. He choked on his own spit.
He stared at the card. He looked at the gold crest. He looked at the magical seal that screamed Do Not Touch Or You Will Die.
It was the ultimate status symbol in this kingdom.
That card was worth more than eighty percent of people's entire lives. It meant power. It meant backing. It meant that if this kid went missing, an S-Ranker would descend from the sky and turn this entire district into a glass parking lot.
The merchant's sweat glands activated instantly. Beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead.
"A-ah..." The merchant stammered, frantically wiping his greasy hands on his dirty vest. "I... I see... My sincere apologies, young master..."
He looked past Kaizen. He saw the shadows of the thieves lingering at the door, completely oblivious to the danger they were in.
The merchant raised his hand.
He scratched the hair above his ear casually, pretending to have an itch.
Then, he made a sharp, aggressive fanning motion with his fingers toward the door.
Shoo.
It was a subtle signal. But in the underworld, it was law.
Abort. He is a VIP. Touch him and we all die horrible deaths.
Outside, the shadows vanished instantly. The thieves scattered like roaches exposed to a sudden flashlight, suddenly and terrifyingly aware that they had almost mugged a walking tactical nuke.
Kaizen felt the oppressive pressure lift immediately. The malicious gazes were gone.
Too easy.
The merchant's entire demeanor transformed in seconds. The cruel smirk was replaced by a nervous, obsequious smile. He sat up straighter and smoothed down his vest.
"Please, please forgive my rudeness, young master," the merchant said quickly, his words tumbling over each other. "I did not recognize you. The lighting in here is terrible. I need to fix that. Would you like some tea? I have tea somewhere. Let me find the tea."
"That will not be necessary."
"Of course, of course. Whatever you say, young master."
Kaizen leaned forward over the counter, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement.
He tapped his finger rhythmically on the black card.
"Now," Kaizen whispered. "Let's talk about candies."
.
.
.
[A/N: what do you prefer?]
[Fast paced?]
[Slow paced?]
...
[Was this novel slow paced?]