The entrance to the black market did not make itself known.
There was no grand archway, no hidden door that opened with secret mechanisms, and no dramatic descent into an underground maze.
Just an alley.
Narrow. Damp. Half-lit.
It was the kind of place respectable people walked past without noticing.
Aike entered first, hands tucked into his jacket as if it were just a shortcut.
Kerean followed.
The air changed almost instantly.
Not colder.
Denser.
It felt like stepping into a room where too many secrets had been exhaled and never allowed to escape.
The alley twisted once, then widened unexpectedly.
And then the sound hit.
Not loud.
Layered.
Voices haggling in low tones. The metallic clink of coins against coins. Fabric brushing against fabric. A distant laugh that didn't sound friendly.
Lanterns hung from wires overhead, casting uneven light. Some glowed faint blue, others burned orange. The shadows they created were long and warped, stretching across cobblestones slick with rainwater.
The black market was not chaotic.
It was organized disobedience.
Stalls lined both sides of the street, made from mismatched wood, metal scraps, and old doors. Some vendors displayed legal goods at first glance—incubation cloths, temperature stones, and feed supplements. But beneath the table edges, hidden compartments waited.
Nothing here had clear labels.
Nothing here was guaranteed.
Aike leaned closer.
"Don't stare too long," he muttered. "It marks you."
Kerean kept his gaze steady but didn't linger.
He had expected something darker.
Instead, it felt... functional.
People walked around freely—students, adults, even a few well-dressed individuals who looked like they were trying to blend in.
The black market did not hide in shadows.
It operated openly, driven by need.
A woman passed them carrying a velvet-wrapped bundle that pulsed faintly under the fabric.
Mid-grade at least.
She didn't look ashamed.
She looked practical.
Kerean's heartbeat remained calm.
Not because he wasn't nervous.
He had already imagined losing.
When you prepare for loss long enough, fear becomes manageable.
They passed a stall selling cracked eggs.
Literally cracked.
Hairline fractures spidered across shells that still faintly glowed.
"Transport damage," the vendor whispered. "Vitality intact."
A man in a coat examined one carefully.
"How much?"
"Thirty thousand."
"For damaged goods?"
"Thirty thousand."
No haggling.
Just tone.
Across the street, a teenager no older than Kerean argued loudly.
"You said B-grade!"
"It is B-grade," the vendor replied flatly. "If you know how to raise it."
That sentence lingered.
If you know how to raise it.
So even here, responsibility shifted.
Blame flowed downward.
Aike slowed.
"We're not here for those," he said quietly. "Too expensive."
They moved deeper.
The lighting grew dimmer.
The goods grew stranger.
Incubation charms etched with forbidden runes. Blackened shells with unnatural patterns. Small glass vials containing faintly glowing liquid labeled only with handwritten symbols.
Kerean felt something subtle then.
A pressure.
Not external.
Internal.
Like standing near static electricity.
He ignored it.
This place thrived on reaction.
He would give it none.
A group of older Tamers stood near a stall displaying what looked like fossilized eggs. Thick, stone-like shells etched with ancient cracks.
"Pre-cataclysm stock," the vendor murmured reverently.
"Impossible," one of the Tamers scoffed.
"Nothing is impossible," the vendor replied.
Kerean absorbed everything.
Not because he trusted it.
But because he needed to understand the ecosystem.
The legal market sold pedigree.
The black market sold probability.
And probability was cheaper.
They reached a junction where the street split.
To the left were brighter lanterns and heavier security.
To the right was dimmer.
Aike turned right.
"This side runs gacha."
Gacha.
The word seemed almost playful.
The meaning was not.
Kerean's fingers brushed the inside of his bag where the tin box lay.
Forty-three thousand, six hundred.
He had never carried that much money before.
It felt heavy.
Not physically.
Consequentially.
They passed a stall where eggs were stacked carelessly in crates.
No velvet.
No glass.
Just wood and straw.
"Five thousand per draw!" the vendor called lazily. "Ten percent chance! Maybe more if you're blessed!"
A boy stepped forward eagerly.
He handed over cash.
Closed his eyes dramatically.
Reached into the crate.
Pulled out—
A grocery egg.
Plain.
White.
The nearby watchers laughed.
The boy tried to laugh with them.
He failed.
"Next!" the vendor called.
Aike kept walking.
"Not that one," he said.
"Why?"
"Too loud. Too public."
They moved further down.
The crowd thinned slightly.
The lantern light dimmed to a moody violet hue.
Here, the stalls were quieter.
Less shouting.
More watching.
Kerean noticed something important.
The vendors were not desperate.
They didn't need to be.
Desperation stood on the buyer's side.
That imbalance affected every interaction.
They stopped in front of a stall that did not advertise at all.
Just crates.
Stacked.
Dusty.
Eggs of varying sizes are piled inside.
Most were dull.
Some are oddly patterned.
One cracked slightly at the top but sealed with resin.
The vendor sat behind them.
One eye clouded white.
The other sharp.
He did not smile.
Aike leaned in.
"This is the one," he murmured.
The vendor's good eye shifted to Kerean.
New buyer.
He could tell.
They always could.
The vendor tapped the crate lazily.
"Low-grade eggs fifty thousand," he said without greeting. "Gacha five thousand."
No embellishment.
No theatrics.
Just pricing.
Kerean stepped closer.
Up close, the eggs looked even more unimpressive.
Gray.
Beige.
Off-white.
Some darker.
Some are nearly black.
None glowed.
None impressed.
"How many tries?" Jack whispered.
Kerean did not answer.
The vendor leaned back.
"Depends on how much you have in your pocket. Ten percent chance," he said flatly. "If not, grocery egg. Can fry it."
A faint ripple of amusement crossed the nearby observers.
Not cruel.
Just usual.
Kerean's pulse quickened once.
Then steadied.
He crouched slightly.
Studied the pile.
There was no visible difference.
No aura.
No shimmer.
No hint.
Just shells.
Just a chance.
But something about this stall felt different.
Quieter.
Like it wasn't selling hope.
Just outcomes.
He reached out.
Paused.
His hand hovered above the pile.
This was not a purchase.
It was a pivot.
Behind him, someone laughed at another failed draw from a neighboring stall.
The sound echoed oddly.
Five thousand per try.
His father's overtime shift was worth roughly four thousand.
His mother's full day of tailoring is maybe two thousand.
One draw equaled more than a day of their exhaustion.
He inhaled slowly.
The vendor watched without blinking.
Aike shifted slightly.
"Just try once," Jack murmured.
Once.
Kerean's fingers descended.
He did not reach for the brightest.
There wasn't one.
He did not reach randomly either.
He moved slowly across the surface of shells.
Texture.
Temperature.
Weight.
He paused over one that was darker than the rest.
Not black.
Just… muted.
As if it absorbed light rather than reflected it.
He touched it.
And for the briefest second—
The world seemed to thin.
Not visibly.
Subtly.
Like sound dimmed half a note.
His fingers rested on the shell.
Cool.
Dry.
Unremarkable.
But something deep in his chest tightened.
Not pain.
Recognition.
He withdrew his hand slightly.
No one else reacted.
No glow.
No flare.
Just a dull egg among many.
The vendor's good eye sharpened almost imperceptibly.
Kerean straightened.
"How many?" Aike whispered again.
Kerean did not look away from the egg.
He thought of the ceiling drip.
Of the split lip.
Of the sewing needle.
Of the academy stairwell.
Of the silver-veined egg behind glass.
Forty-three thousand, six hundred.
Five thousand was manageable.
Ten thousand was painful.
Fifteen thousand would hurt.
He did the math quickly.
Even if he failed three times, he would still have over twenty-eight thousand.
Still recoverable.
But what if—
No.
He cut the thought.
This was not about safety.
It was about movement.
He reached into his bag.
Pulled out folded bills.
Counted five thousand.
Placed it on the crate.
"I'll try," he said calmly.
The vendor nodded once.
"Choose."
Kerean's hand returned to the darker egg.
He did not hesitate this time.
He lifted it.
It felt heavier than expected.
Not by much.
Just enough.
The crowd nearby barely noticed.
Another boy is drawing another shell.
The vendor extended a small metal stamp.
"Mark your claim," he said.
Standard practice.
Once drawn, it couldn't be returned.
Kerean held the egg steady.
Somewhere deep beneath his steady exterior, something shifted again.
The black market did not promise miracles.
It promised a chance.
And sometimes, chance was enough to fracture a world.