Chapter 119: Dealings Under the Sand

The dim, sandy hall stretched wide before many silhouettes, its oppressive atmosphere thick with secrecy. Masked figures moved silently through the shifting space, their steps muffled by the sand underfoot.

Stalls lined the perimeter, manned by shadowy vendors hawking everything from magical produce to strange relics, while others whispered covertly to those seeking forbidden knowledge. Everything within the hall—from the walls to the towering pillars—was crafted entirely from compacted sand, as though molded by ancient hands. Even the faint designs etched into the surfaces depicted strange, twisting illustrations that seemed to shimmer under the flickering light of suspended orbs.

Above them, sand fell in soft drizzles from the ceiling, cascading like an eternal hourglass, but no one seemed alarmed. This phenomenon was accepted by those present at the bazaar, a hidden marketplace buried beneath an inconspicuous cave. Abel and Lena had landed softly on the floor, emerging from the stream of falling sand, and now stood surveying the scene.

“This place…” Abel murmured, his gaze steady but sharp. He adjusted the plain, dark-blue robe he wore and glanced at Lena, who, despite her mask, seemed uneasy. “Stick close,” he said.

Lena nodded, gripping her floral mask tighter. Though she had come here prepared with the zealot’s eye, the weight of uncertainty pressed on her. Every shadow seemed to conceal a threat.

As they wove through the maze of stalls, Abel adopted the alias “Blue” while Lena became “Flower,” maintaining their anonymity. At one of the first ground stalls, they paused. A vendor knelt behind a simple spread of creature nails, furs, and strange bones, their raw forms gleaming under the soft glow of the overhead orbs.

Abel examined the items, fingers brushing over a claw with faint traces of mana. “Useful,” he muttered, though more to himself than Lena.

“You plan on hunting beasts?” she asked quietly.

“Eventually. No sense in buying when I can find better,” Abel replied, though his gaze lingered a second longer on a set of bloodied fangs.

Lena’s mind drifted. She clenched her hands, still marveling at her newly acquired artifact, the glove. It pulsed faintly, as though alive, and its promise of power made her feel both exhilarated and apprehensive. Still, she wanted this night to end, the heavy atmosphere gnawing at her nerves.

They moved on, passing several vendors until a peculiar figure caught Abel’s eye: a man wearing a rat-shaped mask, seated behind a small wooden stall. Four items were displayed—a pair of scrolls, a broken blade, and a long, jagged fingernail. Abel’s interest was piqued as he stepped closer.

“Looking for something specific?” the rat-masked vendor asked in a raspy tone.

Abel examined the items, his voice calm but curious. “Tell me about these.”

The vendor’s gloved hand brushed over the items as he spoke. “Two scrolls—maps of the Wild South and a ritual of concealment. The blade? It could be useful if you know how to awaken it. The fingernail…well, let’s just say it belonged to something ancient.”

Abel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Where do you find these?”

The vendor chuckled dryly. “Trade secret. If I told you, I’d be out of business.”

Abel felt no significant power from the man, though the faint mana radiating from the items was undeniable. He knew the vendor wasn’t an apostle, but he might have been someone who has had experiences with magic before maybe a facilitator—someone who dabbled in dangerous goods.

“I’ll take the ritual,” Abel said, his voice steady.

“Something of equal value,” the vendor replied, his eyes glinting behind the mask.

Abel first offered the teeth of a magical beast, but the vendor shook his head. Then Abel revealed the zealot’s eye. The vendor’s breath hitched. “You have my interest,” he said, accepting the trade.

Tucking the scroll away, Abel asked the rat-masked man selling the items,” If I want to trade again, where can I find you?”

The mysterious man was taken aback by the question, but as if prepared for it, he reached into his own robe, pulled out a parchment paper, and handed it to Abel, saying, “Just follow the procedure in that paper, and we will get in contact.

With a nod Abel moved on, Lena following closely. She cast a glance back at the rat-masked vendor, wondering who Abel truly was and why he seemed so at ease in this ominous environment.

Time stretched as they wandered deeper into the bazaar. The crowd had grown larger—more figures than Abel had anticipated. The town of Reinhart’s connection to magic was evolving faster than he had expected, and it wasn’t just apostles; commoners were becoming intertwined with mana.

The commotion ahead drew Abel’s attention like a magnet. Two men stood locked in a heated argument amidst the sea of masked figures.

One wore a plain brown mask, his posture rigid with anger, while the other donned an intricate snake mask, his stance cool but defensive. Their voices cut through the eerie hum of the bazaar as others paused to watch.

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“You sold me a fake!” the brown-masked man bellowed, pointing at the snake-masked vendor. “That spear was supposed to exude a venomous aura capable of weakening any foe—but it does nothing!” His voice shook with both rage and humiliation.

The snake-masked vendor sneered pulling out a fan magical artifact from his side. “No refunds. That’s the rule here.” His calmness only fueled the other man’s fury.

Without warning, the brown-masked man reached into his satchel and pulled out a worn, wooden cup, its surface etched with glowing shapes. He shook it slightly, and a strange liquid began to materialize, filling the cup as though drawn from another dimension.

Abel’s eyes narrowed. He had never seen anything like it. The liquid shimmered ominously, thick and iridescent, as it reached the brim. The brown-masked man lifted his mask slightly, revealing sharp cheekbones and a tense jawline, then downed the liquid in one swift motion.

As he lowered the cup, his transformation began. His skin turned a shade of deep blue, his ears elongated into sharp points, and his eyes gleamed with an unnatural light. His nose and chin grew angular, and his nails sharpened into claw-like tips. Despite his shrinking stature—now a head shorter—his frame bulked with thick muscles. His entire aura shifted, becoming feral and menacing.

Lena gasped. “What in the world…” she whispered, her voice trembling. Abel had read about such transformations in rare texts, but seeing it firsthand was different. The man had become a creature from ancient tales, a Blue Goblin—a creature believed to have gone extinct hundreds of years ago.

“I’ll make you pay,” the transformed man snarled, his voice guttural. He lunged toward the snake-masked vendor, claws extended.

Before he could strike, a powerful presence filled the air. A tall figure stepped forward, cloaked in a flowing gray robe and wearing a mask marked with a single number: 1. His voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Enough,” he said, his tone calm but laced with authority.

The Blue Goblin halted mid-charge, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Who are you to interfere?”

The crowd watched in silence as Mr. One moved closer, his movements deliberate and calculated.

Abel felt an unusual energy radiating from him, faint traces of mana that seemed to be within the man himself. It wasn’t the refined mana of an apostle, who held a mana pool within themselves, but something raw—similar to the recruits in the tower who bypassed traditional methods of harnessing power, relying on grafted body parts, rituals, or parasitic enhancements.

“I am Mr. One,” he stated, his voice cold. “And the bazaar is no place for petty scuffles. Explain your grievance, or both of you will face judgment.”

The goblin-like man growled, but he lowered his claws. “I was scammed,” he said, his voice seething. “This vendor sold me a useless artifact. I demand justice.”

Mr. One turned his gaze toward the snake-masked vendor, who stepped back defensively. “No refunds,” the vendor repeated, though his voice wavered.

“Rules must be followed,” Mr. One said, pulling a small green flag from his robe. With a flick of his wrist, it expanded into a larger flag, its edges shimmering with power.

He slammed it into the ground, and a pulse of green energy rippled outward. The atmosphere vibrated with a green energy that seemed to emit from the flag.

The ground beneath them shifted. A heavy gravitational force pressed down as the ground now glowed faintly with a green hue pulled them with an invisible force, making it difficult for most to stand.

The snake-masked vendor collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as he tried to resist. Most people around them did as well, except for Abel and the transformed Blue Goblin who stood there watching the scene. This skill was similar to his gravitational skill, however, it used completely different rules, as the flag seemed to be altering the ground beneath them to pull like a vacuum.

Abel and Lena felt something within themselves when the flag was pulled out. They recognized the flag—its eerie resemblance to the one from the night when they faced Julius. The design was similar, and the only difference was the color and the effect it had upon use.

Lena clenched her fists, memories of the horrifying event flooding back. Abel, however, remained composed, though his mind raced. Another flag? How many of these exist? His mind began to work, as he tried to put these clues together.

Mr. One stepped forward, his calm demeanor unwavering. He grasped the vendor’s arm and, with a swift motion, snapped one of his fingers backward. The sickening crack echoed through the hall.

The vendor screamed in agony, his mask tilting as his head snapped back in pain. Mr. One didn’t stop. He methodically broke each finger, his actions devoid of emotion. The crowd watched in tense silence, some horrified, others fascinated by the brutal display.

“This is your warning,” Mr. One said, his voice steady. “Sell genuine artifacts, or face worse.”

The vendor whimpered, clutching his shattered hand. Without another word, Mr. One turned to the Blue Goblin. He nudged the fallen fan artifact toward him. “Consider this compensation.”

The goblin-man hesitated, then picked up the fan, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and wariness.

Mr. One’s gaze then locked onto Abel, remembering how he held his ground and remained standing even with the pressure from his green flag. “You, and you,” he said, his voice cool but firm as he pointed towards the goblin man who was now reverting to his normal look. “You both seem capable. I have a proposition.”

Abel nodded, his expression unreadable. He could feel Lena’s tension beside him. “I’m listening,” he replied.

“Follow me,” Mr. One said, retrieving his flag. He didn’t wait for a response, disappearing deeper into the bazaar.

Abel turned to Lena. “Stay close,” he said.

Lena hesitated but nodded, clutching her glove tightly. She didn’t know what Abel was getting them into, but she wasn’t about to be left behind.

Together, they followed Mr. One into the shadows, the weight of the bazaar’s dark secrets pressing down on them.

His voice boomed with authority as they walked to a more remote corner. “An opportunity arises for those willing to risk it. A ruin lies in the western cliffs—ancient, dangerous, but rich in power. We seek hands to assist in the exploration. Join us, and share in the spoils.”

Abel and Lena exchanged glances. Though intrigued, Abel’s mind raced. The nomadic ruins? But the man continued, clarifying it was something else—another ruin hidden from the public eye, related to the Flower Princess.

Still, Abel’s instincts sharpened. He stepped forward, listening intently. This bazaar was more than a market.