The Black Market wasn't some neon-lit den of thieves found in high-budget movies. It didn't have a grand entrance or a secret password that sounded like poetry.
It was a sewer. Literally.
To get there, Liam had to navigate the "Veins," a network of leaking pipes and rusted catwalks tucked three levels below the Slums. The air here was a thick, visible soup—a mix of industrial steam, the ozone tang of leaking mana, and the heavy, cloying scent of cheap, burnt grease from the street-level fryers. Every joint in the ceiling hissed, spitting hot droplets of condensation that felt like acid on his bare skin.
Liam pulled his hoodie lower. He wasn't just hiding his face; he was hiding the fact that his body was vibrating.
The [Iron Skin] felt wrong. It didn't feel like a skill; it felt like a parasite. It was a layer of invisible lead fused to his muscle fibers, tightening every time he moved. Each step was a battle against gravity. His bones felt heavy, his joints felt dry, and every breath was a desperate tug-of-war through a throat that felt lined with wet wool.
Bradley's strength was in there, coiling and snapping like a trapped animal. It was a jagged, stolen power, and it was currently trying to tear Liam apart from the inside out.
He pushed through the crowd of "Bottom-Feeders"—the failed hunters, the drug-addled scavengers, and the desperate refugees who called this damp hell home. They huddled in the shadows of rusted shipping containers, their eyes tracking his movement like starving dogs watching a scrap of meat.
Liam didn't look at them. He couldn't. His focus was entirely on the hollow, gnawing hunger in his gut that seemed to grow teeth with every passing minute.
"ID? Or you just here to lose a kidney, kid?"
A guard blocked the main artery of the tunnel. He was a mountain of meat sitting on a crate of expired mana-potions, a double-barreled shotgun resting across his knees like a toy. One side of his face was a ruin of scar tissue, dominated by a cheap, second-hand cybernetic eye. The lens whirred and clicked, a frantic mechanical sound as it tried to calibrate the silhouette in front of it.
Liam didn't stop. He didn't even break his stride.
"Hey! I'm talking to you, hoodie—"
Liam turned his head. Just a sliver.
The guard's breath hitched in his throat, a wet, rattling sound. He didn't see another pathetic Porter looking for a fix. He saw a pair of violet eyes that looked like they had been forged in the freezing dark of a high-rank rift. There was no fear in those eyes. No humanity. Just a cold, calculating emptiness that made the guard's cybernetic eye let out a high-pitched, frantic beep.
Threat detected. Threat detected.
Liam's shoulder clipped the guard's as he passed. It was a hard, jarring impact—the kind that should have knocked a kid like Liam down. Instead, the guard felt like he'd been hit by a moving freight train. He didn't say another word. He just gripped his shotgun with white knuckles and watched the boy disappear into the swirling steam.
Liam found the door he needed at the end of a corridor dripping with black, oily condensation. There was no sign, no name. Just a slab of reinforced steel that had been salvaged from a military bunker, complete with a sliding slit at eye level.
Clack.
The slit snapped open. A pair of yellowed, bloodshot eyes peered through the gap. "Closed. Go die in the gutter like the rest of them."
"I need a Mimic's heart," Liam said. His voice didn't sound like his own anymore. It sounded like stones grinding together at the bottom of a well. "And a Ghost ID. One that'll survive the Association's frontline filters."
The eyes narrowed, flickering with a sudden, greedy interest. "A Mimic heart? Those don't exactly sit on the shelves next to the bread, kid. And a Ghost ID... that's high-tier work. Federal-grade encryption. You got the credits? Or are you planning to pay in teeth?"
Liam held up the credit-chip. In the dim orange light of the tunnel, the brown, crusted blood of Bradley Thorne was still clearly visible. It was a silent testament to a murder the world hadn't realized happened yet.
The slit slammed shut. A series of heavy, mechanical locks disengaged—thud, thud, thunk—and the steel door groaned open on rusted hinges.
Jarl's shop was a graveyard of discarded ambitions.
The walls were lined with shelves sagging under the weight of broken swords, cracked magi-staves, and jars of monster organs floating in yellowish, foul-smelling brine. Dust danced in the flickering light of a single, naked bulb. Jarl himself was a hunched, twisted shadow of a man, his skin the color of old parchment. He looked like he'd survived one too many dungeon collapses and had the scars to prove it.
He snatched the chip from Liam's hand and swiped it through a battered reader. The machine let out a long, appreciative whistle.
"Bradley Thorne's personal account," Jarl chuckled, a wet, rotted sound that ended in a coughing fit. "The 'Silver Hero.' The golden boy of the North Side. I heard his squad got chewed up in the Green Abyss about four hours ago. Word on the wire is, a D-Rank mutation turned them into mulch. And here you are. The Porter who survived."
"I'm the one with the credits," Liam snapped, his fingers digging into the wood of the counter. "Talk less, old man. I don't pay for your gossip."
Jarl shrugged, unfazed. "Money talks, kid. But I'm telling you the truth—I don't have a heart in stock. Greater Mimics are rare. They're smart. They don't get caught in standard rifts."
Liam's fingers twitched. The shadows in the corner of the room seemed to stretch and pulse, responding to the spike in his mana.
"But," Jarl continued, leaning over the counter until Liam could smell the rot on his breath, "I know where one is nesting. There's a scrap-run happening tonight. Old Industrial Zone, Warehouse 14. A rogue rift opened up in the basement, and a Greater Mimic has been using it as a buffet. It's been eating the scavengers for three days. You want the heart? Go rip it out of its chest yourself."
"And the ID?"
Jarl pulled a blank, silver-threaded card from a lead-lined box. "I can encode it. I can give you a new name, a new history. But I need a mana sample. A clean one. Not the noisy, screaming mess that's burning through your veins right now. You smell like a D-Rank Boss and a dead warrior had a kid in a dumpster. It's... messy. My filters won't take it."
Liam looked at his hands. They were trembling, the skin flickering between pale white and a dull, metallic grey.
--Warning. Heat spike...-- --Digestion at 94%. Neural pathway congestion.-- --Body is screaming. Refinement needed. NOW.--
The system's voice was a jagged rasp in his skull, like a serrated blade scraping against bone. It wasn't a clean notification anymore; it was a desperate demand.
"I'll get the heart," Liam said, his jaw locked tight. "How much for the ID?"
"The chip you brought covers the ID. It's a steep price, but Bradley was a saver," Jarl said with a yellow grin. "Bring me the leftovers—the Mimic's hide—and I'll throw in a set of suppressive bandages. High-density weave. They'll help hide those runes on your chest. They look like they're about to burn a hole through that cheap hoodie of yours."
Liam didn't say another word. He turned and walked out, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a finality that felt like a tomb closing.
He had four hours. Four hours before the scrap-run started and the Association peacekeepers began their sweep of the Slums.
His muscles felt like they were being threaded with red-hot wire. Every nerve ending was firing at once, a chaotic symphony of pain that made the world tilt. He found a dark alcove at the end of a dead-end tunnel, hidden behind a stack of rusted, leaking chemical containers. He collapsed onto the cold concrete, his back hitting the wall with a dull thud.
He pulled out his broken skinning knife. It was a piece of junk—not even worth a single credit—but the weight of it in his hand was grounding. He pressed the blunt edge of the blade into the palm of his hand, pushing until the skin went white, then red.
The pain helped him focus. It carved a path through the static in his brain.
Breathe. Like Bradley did. Don't fight the strength. Guide it.
He forced himself into the rhythm of the [Iron Skin]. It wasn't a natural movement. It was a brutal, forced synchronization. He could feel the silver energy—the stolen essence—trying to reject him. It wanted to burst out of his pores, to return to the ether.
"You're dead, Brad," Liam whispered into the dark, his teeth bared in a snarl. "You're nothing but fuel now. Sit down and shut up."
He slammed his fist into the concrete floor.
Thud.
The ground didn't crack. The shock didn't break his knuckles. Instead, a dull, metallic vibration rippled up his arm and settled deep into his bone marrow. The violet runes on his chest flared bright, then settled into a low, steady throb.
"Iron Skin... 12%. Tight. Load 88%. Muscle screaming. But alive."
Liam stood up. His legs were still shaky, but the crushing weight had lifted just enough for him to move with purpose. The hunger was still there, though. Deeper now. It wasn't just a desire for more power; it was a biological imperative. He was a predator who had tasted blood for the first time, and the world was starting to look like a menu.
He started the long walk toward the Industrial Zone.
Above him, the city was a glittering canopy of light, air-conditioning, and unearned privilege. The "Awakened" were up there, drinking expensive wine and complaining about the cost of mana-crystals. Down here? Down here, the rules were simple. There were the hunters, and there was the meat.
And as Liam Scott stepped out of the sewer and into the cold, oily rain of the Industrial Zone, he knew exactly which one he was. He wasn't a Porter anymore. He wasn't a victim.
Tonight, he was the hunger that the shadows were afraid of.