The realm stretches out ahead of us as we walk, and it’s unlike anything back home — buildings carved from what looks like compressed stardust, faint glimmers shifting under the surface like the stone itself remembers being sky. Everything hums faint with tech way beyond anything Earth’s ever built, floating platforms drifting slow overhead, screens of light hanging midair with symbols I can’t read.
Before we get close to the crowd gathering near the market entrance, I stop everyone.
"Wait," I say. "We’re tagged, remember? Every realm we walk into already knows we’re Lower Realm the second we show our faces." I glance at Seraphina. "Can we mask that?"
She’s already pulling something up on her interface, fingers moving fast. "Cloaking field. Basic, but it should scatter the tag signature enough to blend in — for a while, anyway."
[Cloak Applied] [Tag Signature: Suppressed] [Duration: Limited]
A faint shimmer passes over each of us, subtle, nothing visible to the eye but I feel it settle over my skin all the same, like static smoothing out.
Frostine flexes her fingers, glancing down at herself. "Feels strange."
"Better strange than hunted," Viperess mutters.
I pull my hood up, glancing at the others to do the same, robes and cloaks Seraphina had stashed away from who knows where suddenly making a lot more sense.
"Stay close," I say, stepping toward the crowd pouring into the marketplace ahead. "Eyes open. We’re just passing through — no trouble, no attention."
We move into the crowd together, blending in as best as six very unusual people possibly can, stardust-lit stalls and towering tech stretching out in every direction around us.
I glance around at everyone, keeping my voice low under the noise of the crowd. "Alright — spread out a bit. Grab whatever you need, stay in comm range, don’t draw attention." I look at each of them. "Meet back here in an hour."
Viperess nods, already drifting off toward a row of stalls selling what look like woven armor pieces. Frostine heads the opposite way, Demitress trailing after her without a word. Solnix lingers a second, offering a small smile before following Seraphina toward a cluster of stalls glowing soft with tech displays.
I turn to the pilot. "You — with me. Where do I find parts for the ship? I can’t exactly afford to buy a whole new one this time."
He nods, adjusting his cloak nervously, still not quite over everything he’s seen today. "There’s a repair district a few blocks in. Salvage yards, part dealers, techs who don’t ask questions if you’re paying enough." He starts walking, glancing back to make sure I’m following. "This way."
We cut through the crowd, stardust-lit stalls blurring past — until something catches my eye off to the side. A boutique, sleek and quiet compared to the noise around it, glowing soft gold light spilling out from the entrance, fine fabric and gleaming tech pieces displayed behind clear paneling like art instead of merchandise.
I slow down without meaning to.
The pilot notices, glancing between me and the shop, clearly reading exactly where this is headed. "...We’re supposed to be fixing a ship."
"We are," I say, already drifting toward the entrance. "In a minute."
I step closer to the display, close enough to see the shimmer of fabric behind the glass, when a shoulder slams into mine — hard, deliberate.
A noble sweeps past, robes trailing rich and heavy, jewelry glinting with the same stardust glow as the buildings around us, nose already turned up before he’s even said a word.
"Watch yourself," he mutters, not even glancing back, already stepping through the shop’s entrance like the shove was nothing.
Two guards flank the doorway, armored, arms crossing the second I take another step forward.
"This establishment isn’t for peasants," one of them says, voice flat, bored, like he’s said it a hundred times today already. "Back to the market with the rest of the rabble."
I glance past them at the noble disappearing inside, then back at the guard blocking my way, and something in his tone — the same tired, arrogant dismissal I heard a thousand times back in Sector 7 — pulls a slow smirk onto my face.
"Peasant," I repeat, almost amused. "Right."
I pull up the system, quiet, letting the balance flash just once where they can see it.
[Void Credits: 299,100]
The guard’s eyes flick to it despite himself.
"Funny," I say. "Most peasants I know don’t walk around with that."
The guard’s composure slips fast, eyes still stuck on the number.
"One moment," he says, suddenly a lot less bored, snapping his fingers toward the doorway. "Manager. Now."
A well-dressed man hurries out seconds later, straightening his collar, plastering on a smile so fast it’s almost comedic. "Sir! My apologies for the confusion — please, come in, come in, right this way. We’d be honored to have someone of your... means shop with us today."
I glance at him, then back at the display case, and just feel the interest drain right out of me.
"Nah," I say, already turning away. "I’m good."
"Sir, wait—" The manager scrambles after me a step, voice pitching higher. "We have exclusive pieces, imported straight from the Upper Realm, truly nothing like what you’ll find in the open market—"
"I said I’m good," I repeat, not even slowing down.
The guard who shoved me a minute ago is suddenly a lot less smug, shifting awkwardly by the door while the manager keeps trailing after me, practically pleading now.
"Perhaps a discount, then? Or a private viewing—"
I just wave a hand over my shoulder, already walking back toward the pilot, who’s watching the whole thing with wide eyes.
"Enjoy your peasant-free shop," I say.
The manager stops chasing, deflating on the spot, while the guard just stares after us, clearly regretting every word he said five minutes ago.
The pilot falls into step beside me, shaking his head slightly. "You really didn’t want anything in there?"
"Lost interest, and the looks on their faces," I say. "Was worth it."