Chapter 132: The Rat’s Bargain

The forest stretched endlessly under the cover of night, its darkness pierced only by the pale glow of a crescent moon. Owls hooted in the distance, and the faint rustle of leaves carried on the biting wind. Abel moved through the forest confidently, his robe fluttering with each gust. Winter’s touch was creeping into Reinhart, and while it wasn’t harsh, the winds cut sharper along the ridges, carrying a chill that could seep into the bones.

Yet Abel was unfazed. His cloak and mask shielded him, but it was more than that—his body, bolstered by mana and discipline, seemed almost indifferent to the cold. He walked with steady purpose, the soft crunch of his boots against the frost-kissed ground the only sound he made.

Ahead, the ridge sloped downward, framed by jagged rocks and the eerie silhouettes of skeletal trees. His eyes scanned the shadows for the yellow bushes mentioned in the instructions given to him by the seller he encountered during the bazaar. Tonight, the illusive man wearing the rat mask would appear. It was the start of a new month, and Abel knew this was his only opportunity to find answers—or perhaps more questions.

As he climbed the ridge, the wind intensified, tugging at his hood with wild force, but he pressed on, his movements silent and precise.

After some time, Abel’s gaze caught a faint glow ahead—a cluster of yellow bushes, faintly luminescent, exuding a subtle aura of mana. But something else caught his attention. Two figures stood in the clearing near the bushes, their stances tense as they observed the magical plants.

Abel slowed his pace, his sharp eyes meticulously taking in every detail of the figures before him. The first stood with an air of quiet authority, his pristine white robe flowing gently in the wind. Silver patterns, minimal yet intricately woven, adorned the fabric, lending it an aura of understated elegance.

His face was hidden behind a silver mask, but this was no ordinary covering. It pulsed faintly with a strange, otherworldly mana, as if the mask itself was alive, an extension of the figure’s very essence. The mask’s surface was almost featureless, save for the two eye holes that revealed a pair of cold, calculating eyes, and white lines crisscrossing in a random, unsettling pattern that gleamed faintly in the dim light. The effect was hypnotic, a subtle reminder of the figure's magical power.

In stark contrast, the second figure was short and hunched, cloaked in a tattered robe so filthy and worn that it seemed a part of him. His face was nearly entirely hidden by layers of dirty gauze, save for one exposed eye—dark, shrewd, and constantly darting, taking in every detail of their surroundings with a predatory sharpness. The gauze wrapped tightly around his entire body, even his hands, giving him the appearance of a creature barely contained within its own bindings. It was as if beneath the tattered wrappings, something inhuman stirred, barely held back by the fragile barrier of cloth.

On his back, he carried an oversized bag, bulging and awkward, its weight almost comically disproportionate to his frail-looking frame. Yet, the way he moved with the bag suggested an unnerving strength, as though it was no burden at all. In his hand, he clutched a wooden cane, every step marked by the rhythmic clicking as it struck the ground—a sound that echoed with an unsettling regularity, adding to the eerie atmosphere surrounding him.

Both figures radiated a palpable, dangerous energy, their very presence a warning to any who dared to underestimate them. They were powerful, their strength honed to a level that placed them above ordinary men. Yet, Abel knew they had not reached the pinnacle—they were still short of true Apostles, lacking the depth of power and spiritual resonance

Despite this, Abel’s instincts told him to remain cautious. These were not foes to be taken lightly; their journey through the layers of power had left them capable of lethal force and unpredictable cunning, therefore, regardless of how calm he would seem, he would always be wary.

As Abel approached, the two figures turned toward him, their postures shifting in unison. Their eyes reflected a mix of caution and curiosity. They stepped back instinctively, as though recognizing Abel’s presence as an unknown and possibly greater threat.

For a moment, tension crackled in the cold air. Abel, however, didn’t react. He simply moved past them, his focus locked on the yellow bushes, ignoring their presence entirely. His calm demeanor seemed to unsettle the pair further, but when they saw him stop and study the bushes, they understood. Abel was here for the same reason they were.

The bushes themselves were remarkable. They shimmered faintly with a yellow hue making it look very mystical. Abel’s sharp gaze drank in every detail—the unnatural glow, the way the bushes seemed almost alive, vibrating faintly with energy.

His mind swirled with possibilities. A magical plant? A remnant of a ritual? A natural materialization of mana? Theories formed and dissolved in his thoughts, but the true nature of the bushes remained elusive.

A rustling sound broke his concentration. Abel turned as a fourth figure stepped into the clearing, his movements cautious and deliberate.

The newcomer wore a mask etched with the number 3, and Abel’s instincts sharpened. The mask was eerily similar to the one worn by Mr. One, confirming Abel’s suspicion—this man was likely one of the Murman family brothers.

Abel studied him carefully. Unlike Mr. One, this individual felt weaker, his mana signatures less potent. Abel deduced that he possessed at least two artifacts, a notable difference from the enigmatic Mr. One.

Still, the man’s arrival raised questions. Was this connected to the Flower Ruins gathering, or was this meeting a personal endeavor?

The Murman brother paused at the edge of the clearing, his gaze flickering between the three figures already present. His movements betrayed a wariness that wasn’t entirely misplaced. Though the white-robed and gauze-covered figures radiated power, it was Abel who unsettled him the most.

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The Murman brother’s eyes lingered on Abel, his thoughts likely racing. Who is he? Why can’t I gauge his strength? The silent, hooded figure before him exuded an aura so calm, so calculated, it bordered on terrifying.

The four figures stood in quiet tension, each one watching the bushes—and each other—waiting for whatever was about to happen.

The yellow bushes began to glow brighter, their luminescent aura spreading across the clearing. Abel noticed the faint movement of their leaves, swaying unnaturally—not from the wind, but as if guided by an unseen force. Slowly, the glowing bushes shifted and reshaped, their forms contorting until they morphed into the face of a rat, its features sharp and unsettlingly lifelike. Each hair follicle is a leaf and an artful combination of bushes.

The rat-like visage scanned the clearing, its glowing eyes taking in the four figures. Abel observed silently, his sharp mind analyzing every detail. The construction of this entity was flawless, a clear sign that its creator was operating from a safe, distant location. This wasn’t just impressive—it was ingenious.

The rat-faced bush spoke, its voice raspy yet commanding, reverberating through the cold night air. “Welcome to my auction,” it said, its tone carrying an air of smug confidence. “Only a select few are invited, and I must say, I’m delighted to commence this, the second of its kind thus far.”

Abel noted the reactions of the others. Each gave a slight nod, a gesture of acknowledgment, but none spoke. The rat-faced bush—who introduced himself simply as Golden—continued.

“Everything I offer here is unique. Coins mean nothing to me. If you want to trade, it must be with magical items of need or equal value. Nothing less will suffice.”

Golden’s glowing eyes flicked between the gathered individuals, assessing them. Without further preamble, the bush began chanting softly in an unknown tongue. Abel’s gaze sharpened as the air shifted around them. Beneath their feet, the grass turned yellow, and faint particles of light began to rise, swirling lazily in a defined circumference around the clearing.

The entire area now radiated a magical aura, a boundary that pulsated faintly, isolating them from the outside world. Abel recognized the phenomenon—it was similar to the effects of the Red Flag. They were now in a space hidden from prying eyes, a temporary refuge for their clandestine meeting.

Golden’s voice broke the silence. “Let us begin,” he said, the rat face twisting into what could almost be considered a grin.

The first item emerged, floating gently from the bush’s mouth, bathed in a soft yellow glow. It was an ordinary spoon, deceptively mundane in appearance.

Golden’s voice was steady as he explained. “This is a magical artifact capable of transforming into a giant spoon-like hammer. Its power is immense, capable of destroying builders, but its cost is steep—excessive hunger. Use it, and you’ll feel as though you haven’t eaten in days.”

Abel studied the spoon but remained uninterested. It wasn’t what he sought.

The man with the number 3 mask stepped forward, offering a vial of glowing liquid, the nature of which Abel couldn’t discern. Golden accepted the trade, and the spoon vanished into the masked man’s possession.

Item after item followed, each one intriguing yet ultimately unappealing to Abel. Most were attacking artifacts—weapons designed for brute force, lacking the refinement or versatility Abel preferred, a longsword, an axe. He watched as the others exchanged various magical trinkets for these artifacts, taking mental notes but choosing to wait.

Then came something different.

Golden held up a clean white ulna bone, its surface eerily pristine, contrasting sharply with the gray veins that coiled around it like living tendrils. The veins pulsed faintly, a rhythmic, almost hypnotic motion that made it appear as though the bone itself was breathing. The unsettling energy radiating from the bone sent a subtle chill through the air, teetering between the potent and the unnatural, as though it carried a fragment of something that should never have been unearthed.

Golden’s voice cut through the tense silence, calm yet laced with intrigue. “This,” he began, holding the bone aloft so all could see, “is the ulna of a Grave Trapper.”

The eyes of those gathered narrowed, some leaning in slightly, captivated by the bizarre item before them.

“Grave Trappers,” Golden continued, his tone taking on a slightly dramatic edge, “are creatures that burrow deep underground. They lie in wait, patient hunters. When someone unwittingly steps above their lair, they strike—spikes of white bone shooting upward with lethal precision, piercing their prey.” His gaze swept over the small crowd, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.

Abel’s eyes didn’t leave the bone, noting every twitch of the veins, every faint shimmer of mana that danced along its surface.

Golden smirked slightly, noticing the heightened attention. “Their bones are highly coveted, especially for... those looking to enhance themselves,” he said, the implication clear. “Assimilation with these bones has a higher success rate than most, making them incredibly valuable.” He paused, letting the potential sink in. “But,” his voice dropped slightly, “there are dangers. Dangers even I am not fully aware of.”

Golden’s eyes flicked to the speaker, a cold smile on his lips. “Everything valuable comes with risk. It’s not about the danger—it’s about whether the reward outweighs it.”

Abel’s mind raced, weighing the possibilities. The Grave Trapper’s ulna wasn’t just a bone; it was a key to potential power elevating someone to the level of a Pseudo Apostle—but at what cost? “What kind of dangers?” Abel’s voice was calm, but the question carried weight.

Golden tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much to reveal. “I’ve heard whispers,” he said slowly, “of mutations—the veins can grow wild, consuming more than they give. There’s also the matter of... losing oneself. The line between man and beast can blur.”

“Make your decisions wisely,” Golden added, his voice almost a whisper. “The Grave Trapper’s ulna doesn’t offer second chances.”

This time, Abel’s interest piqued. There was something deeply compelling about the bone, but his instincts urged him to hold back. It would be good material for research but he had no need for its good assimilating properties.

The other three, however, leaped at the opportunity, their eagerness palpable. A fierce bidding war erupted, each offering more than the last. The number 3 masked man eventually won, trading several artifacts to secure the bone. Abel silently observed, wondering what value the man saw in it—and whether his own instincts had erred in hesitating.

Golden’s voice returned, calm and measured. “And now, for the final item of the night.”

A book emerged from the bush’s mouth, its cover aged and weathered. The title, written in ornate golden letters, read: “Star Chart and Nomad’s Trek.”

Abel’s heart quickened. He leaned forward slightly, his mask concealing the intensity in his eyes. This was exactly the kind of treasure he’d hoped to find.

Golden’s gaze swept across the group. “This is a tome unlike any other. Its pages hold knowledge of the stars and their paths, and the ways of wandering nomads who sought to understand them. This,” Golden paused, letting the gravity of his words settle, “is a treasure of enlightenment and possible growth, but be wary it's old and although it can be valuable to some, it might not mean anything to someone else.”

Abel’s mind raced. He would not leave this clearing without that book. If the others wanted it, he would outbid them all, or worse.