Somewhere deep within the capital—far from polished towers and glowing plazas—there existed a place the city pretended did not breathe.
The blackmarket. Not the loud kind filled with shouting thieves and obvious crime. No. This was the heart of it. Where mana stones without records changed hands. Where cursed relics whispered under silk cloths. Where names were erased, memories altered, and people vanished without paperwork or prayer.
Near its deepest vein stood a crooked inn, squeezed between two collapsed buildings like a rotting tooth in a broken jaw.
It was past midnight.
The streets were empty in the way only criminals understood—quiet, but never safe.
A man approached the inn alone.
He wore a dark cloak, hood pulled low, fabric swallowing the shape of his body. His mask was smooth and expressionless, etched with faint runic grooves that pulsed once when he stepped beneath the lantern light, then faded.
He knocked.
Not once. Not twice. Three times.
Pause.
Once more.
