Rhys kept walking. The stalls were fewer now, the buildings older. The streets were cracked and moss grew between the stones. The air smelled of smoke and rust.
At one stall, an old man sold broken weapons—rusted swords, bent hilts, scraps no one wanted. At the very bottom of the pile, Rhys saw a shard of dark metal.
He picked it up. The piece was heavy, heavier than normal iron. Black lines ran through it, glowing faint purple when sunlight touched it. The fragments in his bag began to hum louder, like they were reacting.
The merchant shrugged. "Worthless junk. You can't fix it, can't melt it. If you want it, pay cheap."
Rhys gave the coins and walked away.
When the shard touched his bag, the humming didn't stop. Instead, a system message appeared in his mind.
[You have acquired Fragment: Sword of Night Shroud]
Rhys stopped. The name stayed in his head. It wasn't a skill he had learned. It wasn't from his class. It came from the shard itself.
