“I gotta say, that foreign liquor last night was really something else.”
“Yeah, totally worth the price.
That flavor…
tsk tsk tsk…”
Just as the two were chatting, a soft, sweet, and adorable voice spoke up beside them.
“Um…”
The two Blondies turned their heads and saw Freya, looking flustered and hesitant, as if she wanted to speak but didn’t dare.
Of course, this was all just their own overactive imagination.
Freya hadn’t been an actress in her previous life and possessed no talent for performing.
She was simply speaking a little more quietly than usual, but her appearance and soft, sweet voice were incredibly deceptive.
One of the Blondies whistled.
“Well, well, if it isn’t little Freya!
What can we do for you?”
Freya replied, “It’s just…
I’m in urgent need of money.
Could you take me to see Brother Scar?
He told me before that if I ever needed money, I should find him…”
Brother Scar was the boss of these two—a local thug.
Hearing her request, the Blondies froze for a moment, then their lips slowly curled into grins.
“No problem!
Follow us!
Didn’t expect to get a job this early in the morning!”
As he spoke, the man stepped toward Freya, seemingly intending to sling an arm around her shoulders.
But Freya subtly took a step back, dodging his advance.
The man didn’t seem to mind, simply assuming she was shy.
Besides, he thought, if I can’t get my hands on her now, there’s always later.
Led by the two Blondies, Freya soon arrived at a three-story building.
There, she met Brother Scar.
True to his name, the man had a scar running diagonally across his face, from his left eyebrow down to the right corner of his mouth.
This scar was his favorite bragging point.
He’d often boast about some epic battle against a formidable foe, claiming the enemy’s blade failed to kill him, and he’d fought back to claim victory.
Whether any of it was true, Freya couldn’t say.
Brother Scar leaned back on the sofa, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he sized up the girl before him.
“Little Freya?
Last time I looked for you, you always gave me a firm ‘no.’ What made you suddenly decide to seek me out?”
Freya sat on the sofa, her legs pressed tightly together, head bowed.
Her hair fell forward, obscuring her expression.
She spoke in the same soft voice, “I…
I had no choice.
I really need money right now…”
As she spoke, her stomach, empty from a skipped breakfast, let out an embarrassing gurgle.
It was completely unexpected; she’d rushed out the door in such a hurry that she’d forgotten all about eating.
But in a strange way, the sound only added credibility to her words.
Brother Scar chuckled.
“Go on, how much do you want to borrow?”
Freya hesitated for a moment before tentatively asking, “One hundred thousand?”
She had originally planned to ask for a million, but she knew he’d never agree to lend such a huge sum.
Besides, why would an underage girl suddenly need that much money?
It would raise too many questions.
So, she settled for the next best thing: one hundred thousand.
Even that amount made Brother Scar raise an eyebrow.
“Damn, that much?”
Freya’s voice grew weaker.
“Is…
is that not okay?
Then I…”
Brother Scar waved a dismissive hand.
“I can cover that.
But you’d better think this through.
Borrowing this much at once means the interest won’t be cheap.
Can you even pay it back?”
“I…
I’ll find a way to pay it all back later!” Freya insisted.
Brother Scar just smiled without saying a word.
He waved his hand, and the two Blondies who had been standing by quickly placed a large bag of money and a contract in front of Freya.
Freya glanced at the contract.
The interest rate was an exorbitant forty percent.
But since she had no intention of ever paying it back, she picked up the pen and signed her name with swift, decisive strokes.
“Is that all?” Freya asked.
Brother Scar simply tilted his head back, silent.
Taking this as her cue, Freya grabbed the heavy, money-filled bag from the table, stood up, and quickly left.
The moment she was gone, Brother Scar turned to the two Blondies.
“You two, tail her.
That girl always refused so bluntly before, but now she suddenly borrows this much money.
Something’s not right.
Watch her closely and don’t let her get away.”
Brother Scar had seen it before: people borrowing a large sum and then trying to skip town.
None of them ever managed to escape, and their fates were always grim.
He muttered to himself, “Little girl, you always seemed so smart.
I hope you’re not about to make the same stupid mistake.”
Back with Freya, she had no idea what Brother Scar was imagining—or rather, even if she did, she wouldn’t have cared.
The money was in her hands now, and that was all that mattered.
She first returned to her apartment and dropped the bag of cash onto the table with a soft thud.
Unzipping the bag, she saw it was stuffed full of banknotes.
She casually grabbed a bundle—what she needed for now—and hid the rest under her bed.
Next, Freya went to the nearest clothing store and bought a black coat long enough to completely envelop her.
As mentioned before, the city wasn’t safe at night.
If she ran around looking as she did now, she’d likely get knocked out and robbed in some dark alley.
By wrapping herself up tightly, she would look “strange” rather than “easy prey.” After buying the coat, she also purchased a pair of goggles and a mask to hide her face.
Then, Freya began scouting, trying to pinpoint the location of the “Black Market.” During her search, she noticed the two Blondies tailing her.
She was puzzled at first, but it didn’t take long for her to figure it out.
“Are they afraid I’ll skip town without paying?”
Of course, Freya had no intention of running.
In a way, having these two guys tailing her was actually a good thing.
After all, Brother Scar needed her to repay the debt.
If anyone else tried to harm her, these two Blondies would effectively become her “bodyguards.”
Time passed, and evening fell.
A small, tightly bundled figure emerged from an alley.
Freya’s classmate’s information had been quite accurate; she had easily located the Black Market during the day.
After resting at home for a while, she waited until the time was right, then walked here with all the money.
Honestly, her initial image of a black market was a street lined with tightly wrapped figures, each with a stall displaying all sorts of forbidden goods.
But Freya quickly realized that what she’d imagined wasn’t a black market, but rather the trading streets found at the entrance of dungeons in those “infinite flow” novels.
The real Black Market was just a dilapidated, desolate street.
Some of the buildings lining the road were empty, while others were occupied.
Inside the occupied buildings, you could find all sorts of things for sale, including but not limited to drugs, fake identification documents, and firearms.
After browsing for a bit, Freya understood how this place worked.
This so-called Black Market wasn’t run by any single person; there was no boss or leader.
Instead, its logic resembled the “food streets” from Freya’s past life.
It probably started with just one or two people selling goods in this remote location.
Over time, as more merchants learned about it, others began to gather here, forming this so-called black “market.”
Freya walked straight into a weapon shop in front of her.
A middle-aged man with a stubbly beard sat behind the counter, head down, meticulously maintaining a double-barreled shotgun.
He glanced up briefly at the sound of the door opening before returning to his work.
“Tell me what you want to buy.
Everything’s on display.”
The wall behind the man was covered with a vast array of firearms: pistols, rifles, shotguns.
Freya even spotted some round objects that looked suspiciously like grenades.
She slowly approached the counter and quickly locked onto her target.
Without a word, she pointed directly at a revolver hanging behind the man.
Rifles and shotguns were too bulky and difficult to carry.
Pistols, which could be easily hidden in a pocket, were far more convenient.
The man glanced back and said, “The latest generation revolver from the Lorenzo Company.
Fifty thousand Ducats.”
Freya slammed her money-filled satchel onto the counter with a loud thud and nodded.
The man gave her a puzzled look but said nothing.
He turned, took the revolver from the wall, placed it on the counter, and slid it toward her before starting to count the money.
Freya, her gloved hands reaching out, picked up the revolver and began to examine it closely.
To be honest, this was the first time in her two lifetimes she had ever held a gun.
Like a child with a new toy, she felt a small thrill of excitement.
The revolver’s mechanism was simple, and its operation was straightforward.
She quickly figured out how to use it.
However, when she opened the cylinder, she found it empty.
She looked up at the man, who had just finished counting the money and confirmed it was all there.
He reached under the counter, pulled out two small boxes, and pushed them toward her.
“The money’s correct.
Here are two boxes of bullets on the house.
If you want more, they’re two thousand Ducats a box.”
Freya thought for a moment, then held up two fingers with her right hand and placed another four thousand Ducats on the counter.
The man handed her two more boxes of bullets.
Seeing that Freya seemed ready to leave, he suddenly spoke up.
“This revolver has a strong recoil.
Be careful when you use it.
Try to hold it steady with both hands before pulling the trigger.
Also…
it’s better for a little girl like you to stay away from places like this.
It’s too dangerous.”
Freya froze.
She hadn’t said a single word, precisely to avoid revealing anything about herself.
Her voice was naturally soft, and even if she tried to lower or raise her pitch, she couldn’t hide it.
Of course, it was also possible she just wasn’t good at faking her voice.
In any case, after careful consideration, her solution had been to pretend to be mute.
But he’d seen through it?
How?
The man chuckled softly.
“Even if you wrap yourself up completely, your build and figure are still somewhat visible.
You’re too petite.
And then there’s the smell.
Most people who come here carry the sour stench of unwashed bodies, but you have no scent at all.
And these clothes…
they’re too new.
Just bought them, didn’t you?”
Freya was speechless.
The man waved his hand dismissively and continued, “Alright, alright.
I don’t care what you’re buying a gun for.
It’s none of my business.
I was just rambling earlier.
Pay it no mind.”
Freya still didn’t say anything and quickly left.
Though she had thought her preparations were thorough, it was clear now they weren’t.
Luckily, this middle-aged man, the owner, was a decent person.
What if she had run into a bad guy who saw she was an easy target and decided to rob her?
A lesson learned from a setback, she thought, silently committing the experience to memory.
She would have to be even more cautious in similar situations in the future.
Freya took the most direct route home, but even so, the walk took over an hour.
The round trip had left her exhausted.
Just as she was about to reach her house, she suddenly noticed something: behind her building, a figure dressed in black stood as still as a tree, staring intently at her window.
Freya narrowed her eyes, her expression turning wary.
No matter how you looked at it, this guy was definitely not normal.
The death crisis mentioned on the System page, set to occur in three days, had always made Freya curious.
What kind of crisis would it be?
A natural disaster or a man-made calamity?
If it was the former, she might die by being hit by a carriage, falling, or drowning.
If it was the latter, she could be kidnapped and murdered.
Looking at the figure before her, he seemed highly suspicious.
Who knew if this was his first time spying on her, or if he’d been doing it secretly for a long time?
Even though the current Freya wasn’t the original owner of this body, the thought of a stalker potentially watching her every day sent a shiver of disgust down her spine.
She glanced down at the revolver in her hand, ensuring it was ready to fire at a moment’s notice, then walked straight toward the strange man.
Tap, tap~
On the empty night street, Freya’s footsteps echoed with unnerving clarity.
Her shadow, stretched long by the light of the roadside kerosene lamps, danced ahead of her.
Naturally, the sound caught the “stalker’s” attention.
He slowly turned his head, his red, strange, beast-like vertical pupils locking onto Freya.