The early morning sun was just a faint glow beyond the polluted haze that clung to Terra Minor's skyline. Rabaston moved quickly through the narrow streets of the lower district, his mind focused on the task ahead. The slip of paper Tyron had given him was still tucked securely in his pocket, a thin thread of hope that had the potential to pull him out of the stagnant pit that had been his life for too long.
The streets were quieter now, the vendors just beginning to set up their stalls for the day. Rabaston kept his head low as he navigated the twisting alleys, his footsteps echoing off the cracked pavement. The world around him felt smaller than it ever had—confined, suffocating. But soon, if things went according to plan, that would change.
The address Tyron had given him led to a run-down section of the marketplace, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. This was where the more dangerous deals were made, the kind that involved rare artifacts, forbidden techniques, and the type of cultivators who didn't play by the rules of the sects. Rabaston had heard rumors of these merchants—off-worlders who dealt in treasures scavenged from long-forgotten civilizations, their prices high and their methods questionable. But Rabaston wasn't concerned about the risks. He had little left to lose.
The building he approached was nondescript, a faded sign hanging above the door with no indication of what lay inside. The windows were dark, the only light coming from a faint glow deep within the building. Rabaston hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He could feel the faint hum of mana coming from the artifacts inside, though the energy was weak, barely noticeable. He didn't know what to expect, but if Tyron had sent him here, it was the best lead he had.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The interior of the shop was dimly lit, the shelves crowded with dusty trinkets and old scrolls. Small orbs of mana-powered light hovered near the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor. At first glance, it seemed like any other back-alley merchant's stall, but Rabaston could sense the undercurrent of power here—hidden among the junk, there were treasures of real value. The kind that could change a life, or end it.
Behind the counter stood a tall, thin man with sharp features and pale skin. His robes were of a style Rabaston didn't recognize, the intricate patterns stitched into the fabric suggesting they were from a higher-tier world. His eyes flickered with curiosity as Rabaston approached, but he said nothing, waiting for Rabaston to speak first.
"I'm looking for a map," Rabaston said, his voice low but steady. "A map to the Infinite Labyrinth."
The merchant's eyes widened ever so slightly at the mention of the Labyrinth, but he quickly masked his surprise with a neutral expression. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the counter.
"And what makes you think I would have such a thing?" the merchant asked, his voice smooth and measured.
Rabaston didn't flinch. "Tyron sent me. He said you might have what I'm looking for."
The merchant's lips curled into a thin smile. "Ah, Tyron. Always dealing in things he shouldn't. And now he's sent you to me, has he?" He straightened up, his gaze sharp. "You know what you're asking for, don't you? The Labyrinth is no ordinary dungeon. Those who enter it are rarely seen again, and those who return are… changed."
"I know the risks," Rabaston replied, his tone cold. "But I'm going anyway."
The merchant studied him for a long moment, as if weighing Rabaston's resolve. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. I do have something that might interest you. But it won't come cheap."
Rabaston didn't have the luxury of bartering. Whatever the price, he would pay it. "How much?"
The merchant turned and disappeared into the back of the shop, leaving Rabaston alone for a moment. The air inside the shop was thick with the smell of old parchment and mana dust, a reminder of how far Rabaston was from the cultivated elegance of the higher-tier worlds. Here, the power was faint, like embers left to die in the ashes.
When the merchant returned, he was holding a small, intricately carved box. He set it on the counter with deliberate care, his fingers brushing lightly over the surface before he opened it. Inside, nestled in a bed of silk, was an ancient, weathered map.
"This," the merchant said softly, "is a relic from a world long forgotten. It's said to be one of the few remaining maps that lead to the Infinite Labyrinth. Whether or not it's real, I can't say for sure. But if you're looking for a way in, this is as close as you'll get."
Rabaston leaned forward, his eyes tracing the faded lines of the map. It was old, that much was clear—centuries, if not millennia old. The ink had faded in places, but the outline of what appeared to be an intricate maze was still visible, along with several strange symbols that Rabaston didn't recognize.
"How much?" Rabaston asked again, his voice quiet.
The merchant smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "Five hundred spirit stones."
Rabaston's heart sank. He didn't have anywhere near that amount. Five hundred spirit stones was a small fortune—far more than he had ever managed to save. The merchant must have seen the hesitation on his face because he quickly added, "I'm open to… other forms of payment, if you're willing to negotiate."
Rabaston clenched his fists, his frustration building. He had come this far. He couldn't let a price stop him now.
"What kind of payment?" Rabaston asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
The merchant's smile widened. "There's a task I need done. A rival of mine has been undercutting my business, stealing clients and making my life… difficult. If you were to deal with him for me, I might be willing to part with this map at a discount. Let's say… two hundred spirit stones instead."
Rabaston's jaw tightened. He knew what the merchant was asking for. He wanted someone eliminated. But Rabaston wasn't a hired killer, and he wasn't about to be dragged into a petty feud between off-world merchants. Still, he couldn't afford to pass up the opportunity.
"Two hundred," Rabaston said slowly, weighing his options. "And you'll give me the map."
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The merchant nodded, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Deal with my problem, and the map is yours. I'll even throw in a few artifacts to help you on your way."
Rabaston hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded. "Fine. Where do I find him?"
The merchant slid a small piece of paper across the counter. "He operates out of a shop near the eastern gate. His name is Makar. You'll know him when you see him. He's not subtle."
Rabaston took the paper and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll be back when it's done."
As he turned to leave, the merchant's voice followed him. "Remember, Rabaston. The Labyrinth isn't just a place. It's a test. Be sure you're ready for what comes next."
Rabaston didn't respond. He stepped out into the street, the weight of the task ahead pressing down on him. He wasn't a killer. But if this was what it took to find the Labyrinth, to escape the chains that bound him to this dying planet, then he would do it.
Because in the end, there was no going back.
The streets of Terra Minor's lower district were growing busier as Rabaston moved toward the eastern gate. Morning had fully settled in, and the marketplace was alive with the familiar sights and sounds of desperation. Vendors hawked their wares, their voices rising above the din as they offered everything from spirit stones to low-grade talismans. Cultivators of all levels wandered through the alleys, their eyes darting between the stalls, searching for any small advantage that might push them ahead in the race for power.
Rabaston moved through the crowd with purpose, his mind focused on the task ahead. He wasn't a killer by nature, but he had long since learned that survival in a place like this required compromise. The merchant, Makar, was just another obstacle in his path, and Rabaston wasn't about to let anyone stand in the way of what he needed.
As he approached the eastern gate, the atmosphere shifted. This part of the district was rougher, more dangerous. The streets were narrower, the buildings more run-down. The cultivators here weren't the struggling dreamers that populated the market—these were the dregs, the outcasts, those who had been pushed to the very edges of society. Here, law and order existed only in theory.
Makar's shop wasn't hard to find. It stood near the gate, a crooked building with a sagging roof and a faded sign that barely clung to the wall. The windows were dark, and the faint hum of mana emanating from within suggested that whatever business Makar conducted, it wasn't the legitimate kind.
Rabaston paused outside the door, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He had no idea what to expect inside. The merchant who had sent him here hadn't given him much to go on—only that Makar was a rival, someone who had been causing trouble in the marketplace. But Rabaston had seen enough of Terra Minor to know that these kinds of rivalries were rarely as simple as they seemed.
He took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
The interior of the shop was dimly lit, the shelves lined with various artifacts and trinkets, much like the merchant's stall he had visited earlier. But unlike the other shop, the items here gave off a darker energy. The air was thick with the smell of burnt mana, and the objects on display seemed to hum with a faint, almost malevolent power.
Behind the counter stood Makar, a broad-shouldered man with a crooked smile and a gleam in his eyes that suggested he enjoyed whatever trouble he stirred up. His robes were simple, but the power radiating off him was unmistakable—this was no ordinary shopkeeper.
"Well, well," Makar said, his voice rough but amused. "What do we have here? Another customer looking for a bargain?"
Rabaston didn't reply right away. He sized Makar up, noting the subtle shift in the man's stance, the way his hand hovered near the edge of the counter. Makar was ready for a fight.
"I'm not here to buy," Rabaston said evenly. "I'm here on behalf of the merchant near the west market."
Makar's smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of understanding. "Ah, I see. He sent you, did he? Let me guess—he wants me out of the way."
Rabaston didn't bother with pleasantries. "He wants you gone. I need that map. You're in the way."
Makar chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "Of course he does. The man's always been petty like that. Well, you can tell him I'm not going anywhere. And as for you…" His eyes darkened, and Rabaston could feel the shift in the air as mana began to swirl around them. "You made a mistake coming here."
Before Rabaston could react, Makar lunged, his hand moving in a blur as he summoned a surge of energy. Rabaston barely had time to draw his sword, deflecting the first strike with a sharp clang. The force of the blow sent a shockwave through his body, his feet sliding backward on the wooden floor.
Makar's cultivation was stronger than Rabaston had anticipated, his strikes precise and filled with the weight of experience. But Rabaston had faced stronger opponents before, and he wasn't about to be taken down by some petty merchant.
He shifted his stance, channeling what little mana he could draw from the environment into his sword. The blade hummed faintly, the energy crackling along the edges as he parried Makar's next strike. Rabaston could feel the strain in his muscles, the toll that Terra Minor's weak mana was taking on his body, but he pushed through it, focusing on the fight.
Makar's attacks came fast and hard, each one aimed to overwhelm Rabaston's defenses. But Rabaston had always been quick on his feet, and he used that to his advantage, dodging and deflecting where he could, striking back when an opening presented itself.
The fight was brutal and short. In a final surge of desperation, Rabaston feinted left, then swung his sword in a wide arc, catching Makar off guard. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp hiss, connecting with Makar's side. The merchant let out a grunt of pain, stumbling backward as blood began to seep through his robes.
Rabaston didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, pressing the advantage, his sword slicing through the air again and again until Makar collapsed to the floor, his body still.
The shop was silent, the only sound the faint crackle of energy still lingering in the air. Rabaston stood over Makar's body, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. The rush of the fight faded, leaving only the cold reality of what he had just done.
He wasn't a killer by nature. But he had just killed a man to secure his own future.
Rabaston wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it, his mind already moving past the moment. This was what it took. This was the price of survival on Terra Minor.
He searched the shop quickly, his hands moving through the shelves with practiced efficiency. Makar had dealt in artifacts, and there was bound to be something here that could help him in the journey ahead. He found a few spirit stones, nothing of real value, but enough to get him by for a few more days. Then, in the back of the shop, hidden behind a stack of old scrolls, he found something more.
It was a small, intricately carved box, much like the one the first merchant had shown him. Rabaston opened it carefully, his heart racing as he saw what was inside.
A map. Another map, much like the one he had been promised.
But this one was different. The markings were older, more complex, the symbols etched into the parchment unfamiliar but powerful. Rabaston's fingers traced the lines, his mind racing as he realized what he was holding.
This was no ordinary map. This was something more.
He tucked it into his satchel and left the shop without looking back.
The journey back to the western market was uneventful. The sun was higher now, the streets crowded with cultivators going about their day, oblivious to the life-and-death struggle that had just played out in Makar's shop. Rabaston kept his head down, his thoughts focused on the next step.
When he arrived at the merchant's stall, Tyron was waiting.
"Well?" Tyron asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Did you take care of my little problem?"
Rabaston nodded, his voice cold. "It's done."
Tyron smiled, a satisfied glint in his eyes. "Good. Very good. Then, as promised…"
He reached under the counter and pulled out the box containing the original map. Rabaston watched as Tyron placed it on the counter, the weight of the moment sinking in.
This was it. His way out. His way forward.
Rabaston took the map, his fingers brushing against the worn edges of the parchment. He had paid a heavy price to get this far, but now, finally, he had what he needed.
"The Labyrinth," Tyron said quietly, "is not for the faint of heart. You may think you're ready, but the truth is, no one ever is. Be careful, Rabaston. The Labyrinth tests more than just strength."
Rabaston didn't respond. He turned and walked away, the map clutched tightly in his hand.