The journey back was a reversal of the one we’d taken just hours before, but the world felt different. Or maybe I was. The sun was lower, casting long, alien shadows. My hunger, a dull ache before, was now a sharp, demanding presence.

  The city wall loomed. I braced for another confrontation with the guards, but this time, the spitter just glanced at me. His eyes did a quick inventory: clean rags, clean cloak, hair tied back. I wasn't a threat, but I wasn't vermin anymore. I was just... poor. He looked right through me. The other guard didn’t even look up. We walked past without a word.

  The moment I was through the gate, the city hit me harder. If the view from the cliff was a fantasy artist’s portfolio, the view from the street was the gritty, unedited reality. The air was a thick soup of roasting meat (definitely not chicken), sharp ozone, and the stink of too many people living too close together.

  We moved through a river of bodies. Humans, obsidian-skinned elves, and broad-shouldered dwarves haggling with lanky, reptilian men over glowing crystals.

  ‘Whoa, check out the stonework on that building, Murph!’ Ronan proclaimed, sounding like a history nerd. ‘That filigree is classic Third Age Artisan stuff! A testament to endurance!’

  “Yeah, looks real sturdy,” I muttered. The building he was admiring was leaning at an angle that suggested its primary structural support was wishful thinking.

  We pressed deeper, leaving the merely poor districts for the truly desperate ones. The Lower Market. The frayed hem of the city, where things were bought and sold without the inconvenience of tax records.

  The gold dust was tucked away in the Inventory. In past lives, I'd have a plan: a decoy purse, money in a false heel. But this body came with nothing. No boots, no pack. Everything was in the Inventory, which offered no middle ground. You couldn't hand a thug a few coins from a magic dimension to make him go away. It was all or nothing.

  My shoulders hunched. My eyes scanned the alleyways, mapping escape routes. My paranoia went on high alert.

  Ahead, a vendor "accidentally" tripped, sending a crate of bruised apples tumbling. The smell of vinegar and rot hit us instantly. The spill blocked the lane, creating a bottleneck.

  ‘We should help him!’ Ronan thought instinctively.

  ‘No,’ I thought back, keeping my elbows tight. ‘Look at the crowd, not the fruit.’

  The vendor wailed about his lost livelihood. As the crowd surged to get around the mess, I saw three different hands dip into pockets. A nimble hand brushed my side, found nothing, and moved to the fat merchant beside me.

  ‘The spill is the net,’ I explained as we squeezed past. ‘He sacrifices a crate of garbage to create a choke point. His friends work the crowd. They don't care who they rob; they just want volume.’

  We moved deeper. Ahead of us walked a young adventurer in pristine leather armour, clearly new to the city. He walked with a confident stride, scanning the rooftops rather than the shadows.

  As he approached a dark alley, a beggar started coughing—a sharp, rhythmic hacking.

  Instantly, the silence was shattered by the thud of punches and a cry for help.

  ‘Murphy, look!’ Ronan roared. ‘They're beating that guy! We can't just walk by!’

  We peered in. Two thugs were kicking a smaller man on the ground. The adventurer drew his sword and charged in.

  ‘Watch,’ I told Ronan, grabbing an awning pole to stop us. ‘The 'victim' is barely bruising. He's rolling with the hits.’

  As soon as the adventurer engaged the thugs, the "victim" uncoiled, grabbing the hero’s legs and knocking him flat.

  ‘The 'Righteous Fool',’ I explained as the three thugs stripped the stunned adventurer. ‘Designed to prey on people exactly like you. They have a lookout. If we looked like guards, that alley would have stayed quiet. They only start the show when they see someone clean enough to have money and naive enough to be a hero.’

  Ronan fell into a stunned silence.

  The market opened up into a sprawling plaza under stained canvas. It was a brutal ecosystem. Rusty blades flashed. Slaves were huddled in cages like spoiled goods. Rickety stalls showed off mismatched potions.

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  I watched the slaves, and my stomach churned. I’d been there too many times. If I ever got the chance to turn this world inside out, the first thing I’d do is smash slavery to pieces.

  ‘This place is a cesspit,’ Ronan grumbled. ‘But look! That dwarf!’

  He pointed to a stall run by a dwarf with an iron-grey beard selling finely balanced daggers.

  ‘A true craftsman! He will give us a fair price!’

  ‘Ronan, are you trying to get us killed?’

  ‘Killed? By that Smith? You can tell he's honest just by his posture.’

  ‘His posture radiates ‘I pay taxes,’’ I shot back. ‘But look closer. His clan rings are gone. His knuckles are bruised from a brawl. And his eyes aren't on his craft; they're scanning the crowd.’

  I let it sink in. ‘That's not integrity. That's a man who owes the wrong people money. He's selling his last good pieces in the one market where the guild can't find him. He reeks of desperation.’

  ‘That makes him unpredictable. We don't need honour,’ I concluded. ‘We need a rat. A sewer rat who knows the value of gold and the virtue of forgetting a face.’

  We drifted for an hour. I wasn't looking for goods; I was looking for transactions.

  We watched an orc-blooded merchant buy Pale Cores from a girl for one gold each.

  ‘One gold per Pale Core,’ I noted.

  ‘Fair,’ Ronan commented, slipping into lecture mode. ‘Pale Cores are common. Disposable batteries.’

  I swiped an empty vial from a vendor into my inventory and sorted the gold dust into it.

  A hunter stepped up to the same stall and sold a Blue Core. It pulsed with light. The merchant paid ten gold.

  ‘Ten for a Blue,’ I filed away. ‘Low, but consistent.’

  I looked for the quietest dealer. In a dark corner, I found him. A creature with scaly skin and unblinking black eyes.

  ‘That one,’ I decided.

  ‘His spirit feels like a stagnant pond,’ Ronan warned. ‘He reeks of deception.’

  “Good,” I replied. “Deception is predictable.”

  I approached the stall. The reptilian fence looked at me with profound boredom. He saw a broke kid in rags.

  “Looking to trade rock for coin,” I rasped, placing the vial with a quarter of the gold dust on the table.

  He hissed, annoyed. "Another panner with river-scum. Let's see it."

  He dumped the dust, tested it with a touchstone and acid. The gold streak remained bright.

  He leaned back. "High grade. Very high. Twenty-two karat."

  His posture shifted. The boredom vanished, replaced by a predatory gleam. Gold this pure didn't belong to a kid in rags.

  He leaned forward, voice dropping to a hiss. "This isn't even half an ounce. But this clean... tell me. Which merchant's lockbox did you crack?"

  He expected me to flinch.

  I didn't.

  I just looked at him. I let him see the abyss behind my eyes. The exhaustion of a soul that had stared down a thousand violent ends.

  The fence recoiled. His calculation had been wrong. This was not prey.

  "I didn't steal it," I said flatly.

  He hissed again, forcing a greasy smile. "Indeed. Kid, I don't care about the dust. I'm interested in the source."

  He leaned in conspiratorially. "I'll give you ten gold sovereigns and a Blue Core. For the location."

  ‘He thinks we found a motherlode,’ Ronan confirmed.

  "The location isn't for sale," I said.

  "A hundred gold!" he snapped.

  I stood and took the vial back. "The deal was dust for coin. Two gold and a Blue Core. Yes or no?"

  He stared, conflicted. Pushing me now was a losing game. But letting me walk meant losing the lead.

  He made the smart play. Retreat now, ambush later.

  "Fine," he growled, producing a Blue Core and two gold sovereigns. He tossed in a Pale Core. "A gift. To encourage future business."

  The deal was done. I felt his gaze on my back. I hadn’t just made a sale; I had made an enemy.

  My palm itched to shove the pouch into the Inventory, but I couldn't. Not while he was watching. Flashing spatial magic here was a death sentence.

  I had to walk. Just until we broke line of sight.

  ‘Just ten more yards, Ronan,’ I thought. ‘Then we vanish it.’

  We were halfway across the plaza when a carriage barrelled around the corner.

  I threw myself back to avoid being trampled. The pouch spilt onto the pavement.

  The carriage door opened. A hulking brute in a blue suit clambered out, laughing. “Watch your step, gutter trash!”

  Next came a leaner guy, Silas. And finally, Lysander Thorne. Cool as a blade.

  Lysander gave a nod. Silas feigned a stumble, slamming into me and sending me staggering.

  My eyes darted to the pouch.

  Garrick, the brute, planted his boot on it. "Look what the street rat dropped."

  "Well?" Silas sneered. "Aren't you going to pick it up?"

  I looked at Garrick. All muscle, minimal thought. Begging would feed his ego. Fighting would give him an excuse.

  I chose the option he wouldn't process. I ignored him.

  I knelt, treating him like an inconvenient piece of furniture. My hand closed over the pouch.

  Garrick crouched, his face level with mine. "That's it," he whispered, spitting as he spoke. "Grub around in the dirt."

  ‘Skab it all, Murphy, how can you just kneel there?!’ Ronan screamed. ‘He's spitting on us!’

  ‘It doesn't matter,’ I sent back clinically. ‘It's just spit. It dries.’

  My lack of reaction infuriated Garrick. "LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

  "That's enough, Garrick," Lysander's voice cut in, bored. "Don't be tedious."

  Garrick straightened instantly. "My Lord."

  Lysander didn't glance at me. "Come. I'm tired of this shithole."

  They walked away. I didn't exist.

  I shoved the coins into the pouch and scrambled up.

  ‘You let them go,’ Ronan seethed. ‘That was our honour!’

  ‘Honour is a luxury for people who don't have to worry about the City Guard,’ I replied. ‘We start a fight there, we lose.’

  Ronan fell silent.

  ‘And Ronan,’ I added, burning their faces into my memory. ‘Just because I don't rise to it, doesn't mean I'll forget it.’