The next couple of days after Rion crafted his gear went by peacefully. His daily routine hadn't changed much, except that his morning sessions now included weapons practice alongside his usual drills. The familiar rhythm of his life was still there, but a new tension loomed over it, creeping into the corners of his mind like an unwelcome guest.
He continued to frequent Cobra's workshop to produce guns, but the air there had shifted. Once passable, the atmosphere had grown suffocating, thick with unspoken hostility. Cobra's curt orders cut sharper, the sideways glances from his crew lingered longer, and the way Cobra's hand always hovered near his hip during inspections wasn't lost on him.
A seasoned hustler like him recognized the signs. Cobra wasn't the kind of man to let loose ends dangle for long, and Rion was starting to look like one. Tools had value to Cobra until they didn't—then they were discarded, often violently.
That night, Rion sat on his cot, his gear spread out before him. He ran his hands over the pieces, inspecting every seam and joint. It was solid work—revolutionary, even, by this world's standards.
But he knew better than to trust in craftsmanship alone. Cobra had the upper hand in every conceivable way: connections, resources, and a ruthlessness honed by years of surviving the streets. Even with his equipment, Rion didn't like his odds if things came to a head. He needed more.
His thoughts drifted to his adept ability. Origin energy had always been a part of him, a dormant force that had stirred to life only recently. He'd spent time refining his Resonance, trying to understand the deeper nuances of his abilities, but he'd barely scratched the surface. If he could push further, hone his control, he might find an edge.
But furthering his understanding wasn't something that would happen overnight. It was a long-term pursuit, requiring time he didn't have. He needed something immediate, a boost that could tip the scales in his favor before Cobra made his move.
That's when the idea hit him. He could just purchase some suitable origin techniques. These techniques might be one-dimensional in scope, but they offered him a quicker and more efficient way to leverage his cultivators abilities.
Rion's mind raced as the thought crystallized. Purchasing origin techniques wasn't a simple matter, especially for someone in his position. Guilds and by extension, Academies, tightly controlled their knowledge, doling out techniques only to registered members or those wealthy enough to pay exorbitant prices. But where there was regulation, there was also a black market.
The black market for origin techniques was risky and unregulated, riddled with counterfeit sellers, faulty techniques, and, worst of all, setups designed to catch desperate buyers. However, even in the world of organized crime, there were organizations that prided themselves on their discretion and the quality of their goods.
These organizations, while not exactly reputable, operated with a certain code of honor. They understood that a satisfied customer was a returning customer, and a damaged reputation could quickly dry up their clientele.
Luckily for him, sometime during his jaunts around Western district and the workshop, he had gained a one-time invitation card to one such organization.
The Erebus Exchange were more than just traders of illicit goods; they were one of the few large underground institutions, woven into the shadows of Pinecrest's underbelly. From weapons to rare origin techniques, primer materials, and even forbidden knowledge, they offered a staggering array of resources to those who knew how to navigate their labyrinthine system. Their reputation was built on two pillars: secrecy and quality.
Because such trade was highly illegal and controversial within Pinecrest, every transaction occurred with the highest level of discretion. The Exchange had developed an intricate web of traditions and protocols that made it nearly impossible for buyers or sellers to be tracked.
One such tradition was making access to the Erebus Exchange marketplace a privilege, not a right. Invitations were scarce and often distributed through trusted networks. As for how Rion got an invitation card, let's just say he... stumbled upon it when he was relieving a knocked out goon of his belongings.
From the stories Rion had pieced together, he knew the Erebus Exchange offered multiple avenues to acquire what he needed.
"I can even obtain a lot of exotic primers!" Rion muttered to himself, the thought igniting a spark of excitement. Primer materials were especially valuable to him as a craftsman. These substances could enhance his gear or serve as components for creating entirely new designs. With the right primers, he could innovate in ways that even the aboriginals of this world couldn't fathom.
Yet Rion also understood the cost. "This won't be cheap," he thought, furrowing his brow. The Exchange demanded steep prices, and while some deals could be bartered, most required significant funds. He'd need to prepare his finances carefully, ensuring he had enough to make a purchase and still retain a buffer for emergencies. He couldn't afford to look desperate—it would mark him as an easy target for manipulation or betrayal.
Still, the possibilities were tantalizing. If he could acquire a origin technique attuned to his Resonance or a primer material that significantly boosted the power of his gear, it might be the edge he needed to face Cobra or anyone else who stood in his way.
Rion leaned back against the cold, uneven wall of his room, glancing at the invitation card on the small table beside him. It was unassuming, little more than a matte black card with a single emblem etched in silver—a crescent moon entwined with a serpent. Beneath it, faintly embossed, were the words: "One night, one chance."and the time and location to meet up for one of the Exchange's people to ferry them to the actual destination of the marketplace.
He turned it over in his hands, considering his next move. The Erebus Exchange's marketplace was not a place one simply walked into. According to his discreet findings, the card was a must have if one was to be allowed into the marketplace.
The market was set to open in two nights, and Rion and other hopefuls would be converging at a location deep in the heart of the Western District's labyrinthine ruins—a perfect place for secrecy but also rife with danger. As for how the Exchange planned to keep the law enforcement agencies at bay, that was none of his concern.
First, he needed to prepare. His funds were limited, his savings pieced together from his earnings in Cobra's workshop and a few side hustles. It wouldn't be enough for something extraordinary, but it might get him what he needed to level the playing field.
"Step one," Rion muttered, standing and gathering his gear. "I need to liquidate some of the extras."
His mind turned to the stash he'd been building—scraps and materials he'd scavenged or appropriated during his time in Cobra's employ. Some of it was junk, but there were a few pieces that might fetch a decent price in the right circles. He knew a few fences who dealt in mechanical components and other materials. They wouldn't ask questions, as long as the goods were valuable and the payment was worth their while.
Before heading out, he carefully packed his gear. The streets of Western district had recently become dangerous, with the local police having increased their patrols, he couldn't afford to be caught unprepared. His recently crafted magnetic handgun was strapped securely to his thigh, and he slipped the retractable dagger into his boot for good measure.
* * *
The next two days were a whirlwind of activity for Rion. He spent his mornings and early afternoons scouring the Western District, seeking out buyers for the salvaged materials he'd collected. The fences, as expected, were more interested in the quality of the goods than their origin. Rion, with his sharp bargaining skills and a healthy dose of intimidation, managed to secure a decent sum.
The night of the marketplace finally arrived. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows across the ruined cityscape, Rion prepared himself. He donned a weathered cloak and a plain mask—a simple disguise but enough to conceal his face and features. He'd also added a few more layers to his appearance: gloves to hide his hands, a slight limp to throw off his gait, and a fabricated accent to muddy his speech.
Rion tightened his cloak as he navigated the dimly lit streets of the Western District, the air thick with the scent of mildew and rust. The ruined buildings loomed around him, their skeletal frames creating a labyrinth of shadows.
As he arrived at the meeting point, he noted a small group of similarly disguised individuals lingering near a crumbling fountain. All wore varying forms of cloaks, masks, or hoods, their faces hidden as they stood in tense silence. No one exchanged greetings; the atmosphere was heavy with mutual distrust.
At the edge of the plaza stood a man who was clearly not trying to blend in. His messy brown hair hung like a mop over his head, and a stubble-covered jaw suggested days without grooming. He leaned casually against an old, rusted streetlamp, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His attire was plain but clean—worn jeans, a simple leather jacket, and boots that had clearly seen better days. He exuded an air of quiet authority that silenced even the smallest murmurs among the crowd.
"Alright," the man finally said after some time had passed, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it under his heel. His voice was gravelly but carried easily across the plaza. "Let's get this over with. Cards out. If you don't have one, walk away now. No arguments, no second chances."
The group hesitated for only a moment before slowly producing their invitation cards. Rion pulled his from a hidden pocket, careful to hold it steady as he approached. The man stepped forward, his sharp eyes scanning each card with practiced efficiency.
When he reached Rion, he paused, holding the card up to the light of a handheld scanner. The device emitted a faint beep, and the man nodded, handing it back without a word. Rion inclined his head slightly, keeping his movements controlled and neutral.
Once every card had been verified, the man addressed them again. "Listen up. You're about to enter the Exchange's marketplace, and there are rules. Break them, and you'll be carried out in a body bag—if we're feeling generous." His eyes swept across the group, ensuring he had everyone's attention.
"First rule: no weapons drawn inside the marketplace unless you want to die. Second rule: don't touch anything you're not buying. And third rule: don't try to follow anyone after the market closes. We'll know, and we don't give warnings."
A tense silence followed as the man let his words sink in. "Alright," he said, clapping his hands together once. "Follow me. The bus is waiting."
He led them to an old, unassuming vehicle parked in the shadows of a nearby alley. The bus was nondescript, its faded paint and lack of identifying features making it look like a relic from another era. A single driver sat behind the wheel, his face expressionless as he watched them approach.
The group filed inside one by one, each person stepping carefully over the worn metal steps. The interior was stark and utilitarian, with hard plastic seats and straps hanging from the ceiling. There were no windows, only metal walls that seemed to hum faintly with the vibration of the vehicle's engine.
Rion took a seat near the middle, his back straight and his hands resting lightly on his knees. The others did the same, strapping themselves in with the frayed belts provided. The bus was silent save for the faint creak of the seats as they shifted.
The man with the messy hair stepped on last, standing at the front of the bus as he addressed them one final time. "This is your last chance to back out. Once this bus starts moving, there's no turning back. If you don't want to risk it, leave now."
No one moved.
"Good," the man said, smirking faintly. He turned to the driver. "Let's go."