The morning sun did little to warm the narrow alley that led to the Hunter's Market.
It was less an entrance and more a gap between two towering, grimy buildings, but the noise that spilled from it was undeniable, a chaotic symphony of clanging metal, shouted barter, and the low thrum of active enchantments.
I paused at the threshold, my empty hands feeling conspicuously useless.
No gear. It's almost laughable. A hunter with a fancy ID card and nothing but the clothes on his back.
If I wanted to survive my first raid, this temple of commerce was a necessary evil.
Stepping inside was like being swallowed by a living, breathing creature.
The market was a sprawling, chaotic maze of stalls crammed so close together their awnings touched, creating a patchwork canopy overhead.
The air was thick with smells: the sharp tang of ozone from active magic, the rich scent of oiled leather, the earthy smell of rare herbs.
Everywhere I looked, there was a gleam of polished steel or the shimmer of woven mana-thread.
Hunters, clad in everything from scarred plate mail to sleek tactical gear, moved through the crowds with a purposeful energy that made me feel like a ghost.
"First time here?"
The voice came from a vendor whose stall was a precarious mountain of swords, axes, and a few overly ornate staves.
He was an older man with a wiry frame and eyes that missed nothing, tracking the flow of credits through the crowd like a hawk.
"Yeah," I admitted, stepping closer.
My lack of experience felt like a sign hanging around my neck.
He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound.
"You've got that fresh-out-of-orientation look. All wide eyes and empty pockets. What are you after? Swords? Daggers? Maybe a good staff if you're the mage type?"
His tone was friendly enough, but there was a predatory gleam there. He smelled a quick sale.
I didn't waste to much time in deciding what I wanted.
I simply just went with what all broke first time hunters go with.
"Daggers," I said, forcing my voice to stay even. "Something light and fast."
"A man of taste!" He rummaged through a pile with practiced ease, pulling out a sleek, silver blade that caught the light beautifully.
Faint, glowing runes were etched along its length.
"Perfect for a beginner. Lightweight, enchanted for durability, won't snap on a goblin's skull. And these runes?" He tapped one with a grimy fingernail. "They help with elemental channeling. A little boost for your spells."
I took it. The balance was impeccable, the grip cool and sure in my palm.
For a second, I could imagine it, the feel of it cutting through the air, lightning arcing along the runes.
Then my eyes flicked to the small tag dangling from the hilt.
My stomach plummeted.
"Five hundred credits?" I asked, the steadiness in my voice cracking.
The vendor's friendly smile tightened at the edges.
"Quality costs, kid. You get what you pay for."
I placed the dagger back on the velvet-lined tray with a quiet, final click.
It might as well have been on a pedestal in a museum.
I muttered a thanks and melted back into the crowd, the vendor's attention already shifting to a more promising customer.
The excitement of the market suddenly felt oppressive, a carnival of things I couldn't have.
I wandered deeper, away from the main thoroughfares with their flashy displays.
The stalls here were smaller, quieter. The gear was less about shine and more about function.
Eventually, I found a kiosk tucked into a shadowy corner, manned by an elderly woman.
Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but her eyes, when they met mine, were sharp and clear, holding a deep, calculating intelligence.
"Looking for something specific?" she asked. Her voice was strong, belying her age.
"Daggers," I said, the word tasting like defeat.
She didn't try to sell me. She just looked me up and down, then reached under her counter.
The blade she placed on the scarred wood was the antithesis of the first one.
It was plain, its metal a dark, unpolished gray.
The hilt was wrapped in simple, worn leather.
There were no runes, no shine. But the edge, when I looked closely, was a line of impossible sharpness.
"This one's solid," she said simply. "Sturdy. Reliable. Won't break the bank. Two hundred credits."
I picked it up. It was heavier than the enchanted blade, the balance utilitarian, not elegant.
It felt real. It felt like it had a history, a tool that had been used and survived.
It wouldn't help my lightning, but it wouldn't get in its way either.
"I'll take it," I said, the decision feeling right in my gut.
I counted out the credits, watching a significant portion of my savings disappear.
She nodded, wrapped the dagger in a strip of plain cloth, and handed it over.
No fanfare. No sales pitch. Just a transaction.
I moved on, the weight of the dagger a solid presence at my hip.
I found a stall selling basic potions and bought a single, low-grade healing vial. Its crimson liquid swirled ominously.
I added a pouch of hard rations and a small kit with a whetstone and some bandages.
Each purchase was a careful calculation, a subtraction from my safety net.
By the time I pushed my way back out of the market alley, the sun was higher, harsher.
My pack had a comforting weight, but my wallet was distressingly light.