The office didn't look like much from the outside—just another cracked building in the back alleys of the old city. But inside, it was all marble tile and silent clocks. The air was scrubbed too clean, like wealth had vacuumed the dust, leaving nothing but tension behind.
Shin sat on a simple couch, posture relaxed, eyes quietly measuring every angle of the room. Across from him, Thommo was nervously inspecting a ceramic fruit bowl as if it might bite.
"Don't touch that," came a voice from the doorway.
A man in his late sixties stepped in—trim, silver-haired, still carrying the air of someone who ran things. He wore no suit, no tie, just a dark collared shirt with cufflinks and sleeves rolled up to the forearms. His movements were precise. Practiced. The kind that didn't need to rush to prove authority.
"Didn't expect to see your grandfather's name pop up again," the man said, eyes flicking toward Thommo. His English was crisp but worn with age. Then he turned to Shin. "And you're the one with the treasures?"
Shin nodded once.
The man extended a hand. "Victor Marais. I handle unorthodox auctions. Welcome."
Without a word, Shin opened his coat and placed a sealed black case on the desk between them. The latches hissed open.
Victor leaned in.
Inside: a tight cluster of thumb-sized, irregular diamonds. A piece of deep blue crystal, etched with faint gold veins. And a curved ingot of metallic alloy that shimmered like mercury fused with steel—alive even in stillness.
Victor paused. Not in greed—in calculation.
"These weren't mined," he murmured, reaching carefully. "No lattice fractures. No strain patterns. And this alloy…"
He lifted the metal with careful fingers. "Not tungsten. Not titanium. Something denser. Stronger."
"It's not from here," Shin said softly.
Victor didn't ask where it was from. His eyes were sharp. Discreet. He was curious, but professional.
"If I called it 'divine metal,' I wouldn't be wrong," Victor muttered. "It's tower-formed. Born of unnatural pressure, not forged."
"Can you move it?" Shin asked.
Victor set the alloy down with delicate reverence. "If you're asking whether I can sell this discreetly, to the kind of people who bid with black cards and military favors—yes. But I'll need time. This isn't street-tier scrap. It needs the right presentation."
"What about next week?" Thommo interjected suddenly.
Victor glanced at him. Then looked at Shin.
Shin raised an eyebrow. "What's next week?"
Victor hesitated—then gave a small, knowing sigh.
"There's a closed-floor auction. Invitation-only. High clearance. No cameras, no questions, no bid limits. Buyers with names that aren't names—just guilds, syndicates, and offshore shells."
He paused.
"Some of them don't care where the items come from. Some… make a point not to care."
Shin nodded. "You'll show one item?"
Victor considered, then gave a single nod. "One. Quietly. The rest stay locked until demand builds. Mystery drives price."
"And your cut?"
Victor smiled faintly. "Thirty-five percent if I handle the packaging and delivery. Forty if you want full discretion—digital laundering, clean returns."
"Thirty-two flat," Shin said.
Victor arched an eyebrow—then chuckled. "You're quick. Fine. Thirty-two."
Shin extended a hand. They shook once.
Victor reached into a desk drawer and retrieved a black metal coin, about the size of a poker chip. It was unmarked, except for a faint spiral of silver filaments etched into the edge.
He handed it over.
"Your token. Entry next week. One person only. Don't lose it. Don't copy it. This isn't a market for tourists."
Shin pocketed it without a word.
"If I bring more?" he asked.
Victor folded the case closed. "Then we talk long-term. Quietly."
They stood.
As they left, Thommo muttered, "Didn't think you'd haggle down Victor. He still remembers my granddad snapping a guy's fingers over three percent."
Shin didn't smile—but something in his eyes sparked.
He'd just entered the first ring of influence. Not by power, not by violence—but by value.
And next time, he wouldn't be a seller.
He'd be a buyer.
Later that evening, they walked down a narrow cobbled street in the city's old quarter. The air smelled of moss and aged iron. Somewhere nearby, an accordion played softly. The sky had gone pale violet—dusk bleeding into early night.
"Was that all from Wind's tower?" Thommo asked.
"Yes," Shin said.
"You plan to sell all of it?"
"I keep what's useful. I sell what I don't need."
Thommo nodded. "Left mine back in Australia. Customs would've had me flagged before I even touched the airport."
They turned down a curved lane into a plaza of broken statues—chipped marble figures circling an empty, dry fountain.
Shin stopped.
No one nearby.
"Your contact," he said, quietly. "Victor. He has others?"
"Handlers? Yeah. A few. But most wouldn't touch stuff like this. They move drugs or fake IDs. Not god-metal."
"Keep the door open anyway."
Thommo studied him. "You planning something big?"
"Eventually. Not yet."
"Big like… what? Market takeover? Power play?"
"Bigger."
He turned slightly, eyes scanning the rooftops—not as a threat, but as a habit.
"I'm not looking to lead," Shin said. "I'm looking to build."
Thommo tilted his head. "A team?"
"A force. Something that can move under the radar. Climb towers without flags. Stand where I can't be."
Thommo let out a slow whistle. "That sounds... like a lot of logistics."
"It will be."
"You got a name for it?"
"No."
"But you've got plans."
Shin didn't answer, but the glint in his eyes said enough. They parted ways, and Shin went to enjoy his recent favourite hobby.
He stood on the rusted roof of a forgotten warehouse, eyes closed, heart steady.
He wasn't hiding—he was listening.
The alley below was half-lit by a flickering streetlamp, its light spilling over broken crates and discarded pallets. The nearby port had long since closed for the night. There were no cars, no workers, just wind, oil-salt air, and the sharp tang of metal.
But Shin could hear more.
Noise. Sound. Conversations.
He heard the news on an old TV in an old couple's house. He listened to the football match in a pub at the end of the street. He even heard the sounds of two cats mating under a bench in the nearest park.
He tuned his ears, filtering and searching for interesting conversations.
He focused on a conversation that was happening seventy meters away. Inside a shuttered repair garage with half its windows boarded. The door was shut, the walls thick. But Shin didn't need to see their faces.
He could hear every word.
Extreme Auditory Perception—that's what he called it now. A trick of layered resonance learned not from books or dajin whispers, but from necessity.
Two months ago, during one of his early solo stakeouts, he had sat too far from a private tower negotiation. He had nothing but the wind around him—and a growing frustration. He could hear muffled voices, but not the content.
So he tried something new.
He let Wind flow through his inner ear—not with force, but with precision. Guided it down the canals. Aligned it with the resonance of the air. He'd remembered Wind once murmuring something cryptic: "Breath is vibration. Vibration is everything."
It had clicked.
By tuning the divine pressure inside his ears to match the external ambient vibrations, he could amplify specific frequencies—filtering noise like a living antenna. He didn't just hear—he listened with intention.
What began as rough bursts of clarity became, over time, a refined skill.
Now, even faint whispers across rooftops were no longer private. "I'm telling you, boss—we can clear it with that dajin of yours."
A gruff voice. Young. Nervous beneath its bravado.
Inside the warehouse, five men sat around a makeshift table. Scraps of blueprints and hand-drawn maps were spread across it. Bottles clinked. One of them smoked.
Shin sat perfectly still, isolating each voice by cadence, filtering background distortion.
"It's a rank D, perhaps C," another said. "But no one's touched it since that guy died. Means the loot's untouched too."
Shin's ears perk up.
The guy who died.
A different voice grunted—deeper. Slower.
Their leader.
Shin focused.
"Yeah. He got to the last floor," the boss said. "But the test failed him. Tower spat him out—he crawled halfway home before bleeding out."
"So the artifact's still there?" the smoker asked.
A pause. Then, "Yeah."
The boss's voice had weight. Shin could tell he wasn't someone they crossed even without seeing him, not out of fear—out of faith.
That bothered him more.
"And we're sure it's not locked behind another trial?" a fourth voice asked.
"Don't matter," said the boss. "My guy'll guide us through."
"You mean... the dajin?" someone asked, a little lower now. Less sure.
"He's been quiet lately," said the boss. "But when he does speak, it's dead on. Told me where to find an artifact once. He can sniff out the real stuff."
"Didn't think Echoes were helpful like that."
"Who knows. Some are annoying, some are useful. This one's different. Not a trickster, just a whisper with a damn good nose."
Shin tilted his head slightly.
A tracking Echo?
Now that sounds rare.
Echoes—at least lesser—usually gave unique physical abilities or power boosts. Strength, speed, super sight. Some provide even more diverse skills. But this one? This one had a knack.
He listened further.
"I'm telling you," one said, "we clear this tower and walk out rich. If that pendant thingy can really teleport you when you're about to die, then this thing can probably go for millions. And there's probably more loot buried there. We just need to go fast enough, before the government wall it up…"
"We're not going in blind," the leader cut in. "My Echo sensed the place's flow already. Just needs me near it to work."
A short silence.
Then: "You're sure it won't kill us?"
A low laugh.
"If it does, you won't be around to complain."
They laughed—uneasily. But it was clear: they were in.
Shin exhaled quietly.
So that was it. A small-time gang with a vessel leader—favored by someone higher up, most likely—chasing a forgotten tower's hidden artifact. Greedy. Reckless.
But lucky.
Too lucky.
Shin focused again on the voice of their leader.
There was no arrogance. His men followed him not because of fear, but because he'd delivered before. And they trusted he'd deliver again.
Shin's lips tightened slightly.
This group wasn't powerful. But they were coordinated. Confident.
Are towers that easy to clear nowadays?
As the group packed up—laughter dying down, boots scuffing against old concrete—Shin memorized their faces from the slivers he could glimpse when the door opened.
Then he turned away and disappeared into the night.
He wasn't sure yet what the pendant artifact was.
But it sounded too valuable to leave to others.
So he knew one thing for sure:
By the time the gang reached the tower,
They'd be walking into his trial.