Blackwater Street lay hidden in the grimy outskirts of the city. Like all slums, it reeked of every vice imaginable—especially once night fell.
Muddy roads and stagnant, stinking puddles defined the landscape.
Black strode along at a leisurely pace, carefully picking his way around the rotting patches of ground and murky green pools. He could feel hostile eyes boring into him from every shadow. This was no place for a man like him. The streets here belonged to vagrants, criminals, and all manner of men who shunned the light of day. A nobleman dressed in such immaculate finery ought to have been strolling down tree-lined avenues paved with smooth flagstones, arm in arm with some elegant lady, savoring the privileges of high society—not treading these foul, godforsaken lanes.
This place does not welcome you.
The message in those stares was crystal clear.
"Hey there, pretty boy!"
A half-naked brute stumbled toward him, reeking of cheap wine so strongly it made Black's nose wrinkle.
"Out and about this late, huh? Whatcha lookin' for? Maybe I can help ya out—heh heh heh..."
The man leered, a disgusting, lopsided grin splitting his face as he reached out to clap Black on the shoulder. Meanwhile, from the shadows all around, figures tensed, hands tightening around daggers and lengths of rope, waiting for their prey to take the bait.
Black shifted his weight, a single, fluid step.
In the blink of an eye, he had slipped past the brute as effortlessly as a shadow. It was as if the man had miscalculated his lunge, overreaching himself completely. Instead of wheeling around to correct his mistake, the brute stumbled forward, completely off-balance. There was a wet *splat*—and he crashed face-first into a fetid mud puddle, lying motionless, never to rise again.
The figures stirring in the shadows froze. Clearly, this was no easy mark. They exchanged wary glances, silently communicating their verdict. Gold was all well and good—but not if it cost them their lives. Reluctantly, they melted back into the darkness, abandoning their ambush.
Number Twenty-Five.
Black came to a halt.
Before him stood a black, ramshackle building, leaning precariously to one side as if it might collapse at any moment. It was deathly quiet inside, not a sound to be heard. The windows were boarded up tight, not a glimmer of light escaping through the cracks. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than an abandoned ruin, unfit for human habitation. But that did not deter Black. He raised an eyebrow, climbed the rickety steps, and rapped his knuckles gently against the thick, grime-caked wooden door. Dust left a faint smudge on his glove, but he paid it no mind.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
No answer came—not that he had expected one. But as a swordsman, Black could sense the shift in the air inside. Someone was creeping toward the door, peeking out at him from a crack somewhere.
"I'm here to see the Grier brothers," Black said, his voice calm and even.
Silence.
"I have a business proposition for them. It concerns… *underground* dealings."
The door creaked open a fraction, revealing a narrow, pitch-black slit. A cold, suspicious gaze shot through the gap, sweeping up and down Black's figure.
"Who sent you?"
"I got your address from the owner of the Kingfisher Shop," Black replied smoothly.
The figure on the other side of the door tensed visibly.
"You needn't know who I am," Black said, wagging a finger slightly. His face was still hidden beneath the shadow of his cloak, unrecognizable. "This is the safest way for both of us, don't you think? I'm a customer. You're a merchant. That's all you need to know."
The door swung open fully. A short, scrawny man stood in the doorway, gripping the doorframe tightly as he nodded at Black. He cast a wary glance out at the empty street before stepping aside. Black wasted no time, slipping inside the moment the door opened. Behind him, the door slammed shut with a resounding *bang*, the sound echoing through the dark, cramped space for several long seconds before fading away.
"Welcome, *customer*."
The dim room was lit by nothing but a single oil lamp placed on a rickety table in the center, casting flickering, feeble light that barely illuminated the immediate surroundings. Vague, shadowy figures could be seen sitting in chairs on the opposite side of the table.
"Old Pix introduced you? I gotta say, I never took that old codger for someone with the balls to send people our way," a voice rasped from the darkness.
"I only said I got your address from him," Black corrected. He paid no mind to the sudden spike in tension in the room. Stepping forward, he pulled out another chair and sat down, his eyes fixed on the shadowy figure across from him. "But that's neither here nor there. I need your services—and I'm willing to pay handsomely for them. This is a deal that benefits both sides."
"Hope you're right," the voice muttered. The man shifted uneasily in his seat, clearly uneasy at having lost control of the situation. "You know what we do, so cut to the chase. What do you want? We can get you all sorts of jewelry, weapons—whatever you need, if you've got the coin and the info. Fair warning, though: our prices aren't cheap. And if the job's dangerous… well, the cost goes up *real* fast."
"I understand," Black nodded. He narrowed his eyes, studying the man's shadowy form, his right hand brushing the hilt of his sword at his waist absentmindedly. "But don't worry. What I'm asking for is easy enough for you to get your hands on. A bit of trouble, maybe—but nothing too difficult."
"Oh?" The man's tone softened slightly, though he did not lower his guard one bit. "And what exactly is this… *merchandise* you're after?"
"I need corpses," Black said flatly.
His voice was steady, emotionless—as if he were discussing the weather. But the moment the words left his mouth, the air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
"I need ten bodies—young, beautiful girls. As for the specifics… hold on a moment."
Reaching into his cloak, Black pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open, holding it up to the dim lamplight as he began to read.
"Preferably long-haired, slender build, bust size—" He trailed off, suddenly realizing how ridiculous this sounded. Snorting softly in amusement, he shrugged and slipped the notebook back into his cloak. "Never mind. Those details don't really matter."
"To sum up: I need ten female corpses, all dead no more than five days. The prettier, the better. And ideally, they should have died of illness or drowning… Corpses with visible wounds would be too much of a hassle."
"That's a… *unique* request, Mr. Customer," the man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I don't see how it conflicts with your line of work," Black replied, his tone unchanged. He knew exactly what these men were—grave robbers, messengers of night and death. They dug up graves, looting jewelry and burial goods from the dead to sell on the black market. It was a risky business, of course—one wrong move and they would swing from the gallows. But even so, the grave robbers never disappeared. They lingered in the shadows, beneath the dirt, living their own twisted, lawless lives.
"I only want the bodies. You're welcome to keep any valuables on them," Black said, holding up his right hand. Resting in his palm was the ring he had taken from the old shopkeeper that afternoon. "This should make for a very profitable deal for you, don't you think?"
Silence.
"As for payment… one hundred gold coins per corpse. How does that sound?"
"One hundred…"
The shadowy figure across the table jolted, half-rising from his chair in disbelief, staring at Black as if he had gone mad.
"That's right," Black nodded. "If you deliver exactly what I want, that's a thousand gold coins total."
At that, the figure finally began to waver. A thousand gold coins—that was no small fortune. It would not make them rich in the city, but out in the countryside? They could buy an entire estate and live like lords for the rest of their days. No more slumming it in this godforsaken hole, living on borrowed time…
"I know this won't be easy," Black said, tossing a small leather pouch onto the table. The clink of gold coins inside rang out clearly, instantly capturing everyone's attention. "This is one hundred and fifty gold coins—advance payment. I want you to rent a warehouse outside the city and deliver the 'goods' there. You have three days."
"Three days?" The figure's hand froze mid-air, hovering just above the pouch. His voice was suddenly filled with anxiety. "Did you say three days?"
"Three days," Black confirmed. He stood up, straightening his cloak. "No loose ends. No messes. Three days from now, same time—I'll come to collect my merchandise."
"But… three days is barely enough time—"
"You have three days," Black repeated, cutting him off.
He gave a faint, elegant smile.
"I look forward to doing business with you."