The Black Market streets were even more vibrant than Dylan had expected.
If anything, they were more crowded.
People moved through the narrow streets in every direction, most of them keeping their heads lowered and their identities concealed beneath hoods, masks, or enchanted accessories.
Some barely spared a glance at those around them, while others moved with the cautious awareness of people who understood that anonymity was more than a preference in a place like this.
Leaning against the hover bike, Dylan observed the crowd for a few seconds before finally stepping into the streets himself.
As he walked deeper into the district, one thing immediately stood out.
The Black Market was nothing like Central Lumière.
The polished streets of the city center were covered in advertisements, smiling holographic celebrities, government-sponsored announcements, luxury products, Awakener academies, and countless other businesses competing for attention.
Here, there was none of that.
No massive holographic billboards, no government advertisements, no carefully manufactured images of prosperity.
Instead, handwritten signs and flickering magical displays hung above countless shops, their crude appearances somehow making the district feel more authentic.
And the things being sold Dylan’s eyes wandered from one stall to another.
Every stall was filled with enthusiastic customers, the stalls here were selling wife variety of things ranging from monster cores, achemy materials, spell scrolls, low-ranking armaments, strange potions with questionable origins and countless other items whose legality ranged from questionable to outright nonexistent.
The Black Market didn’t seem to care what you wanted.
If you had the money someone here probably had it.
“…This place is better than I expected,” he muttered quietly walking through the streets.
In the original story, the Black Market District had been one of the most important locations in the second part.
By the second part of the story, Ethan while exploring the deeper districts of Lumière City eventually found himself drawn into the questionable world of the Black Market.
There, he spent several days searching for a reliable dungeon broker before finally becoming acquainted with a low-ranking, largely unsuccessful broker named Timothy Granbell.
“Now, I’m going to find Timothy and use him for myself,” Dylan muttered.
He paused for a moment.
“Although… I do feel a little conflicted about taking Timothy away from the protagonist.”
A faint smile appeared on his face.
“But Timothy is too talented to leave behind. He knows almost everything there is to know about dungeons and the business surrounding them.”
Timothy Granbell had been an orphan who survived by taking whatever odd jobs he could find.
Eventually, he managed to become a dungeon broker in the Black Market, working under Ravencroft, one of the major information guilds operating within the district.
But despite his knowledge and natural talent Timothy was far from successful.
He lacked both the connections and resources that others had.
Most importantly, he lacked an opportunity.
“Talent without an opportunity won’t shine, even in the brightest room,” Dylan thought.
It didn’t matter how talented someone was.
If they were never given the chance to prove themselves, their abilities could remain buried for their entire life.
Timothy Granbell was the perfect example.
In the original novel, everything changed after he met Ethan.
Ethan recognized Timothy’s abilities and gave him opportunities that he had never been able to obtain on his own.
With the protagonist’s support, Timothy gradually established himself as a successful dungeon broker, eventually becoming one of Ethan’s most reliable business connections.
He handled the sale and distribution of the treasures Ethan brought back from dungeons, allowing the protagonist to focus almost entirely on growing stronger.
Dylan knew exactly what Timothy was capable of.
And this time he intended to be the one who gave him that opportunity.
But before that, he needs to do other things.
For example, purchase a mask to conceal his identity.
He could feel the judgment radiating from the onlookers.
In the black market, everyone tries whatever they can to conceal their identity, but due to his own uneven planning, he came here without any device to conceal his face.
The good thing is, nobody cares.
In the black market, the onlookers might give judgmental stares, but they will never reveal the identity of any new individual, because all of them, at least once in their lives, had done things far stupider than merely concealing their identities.
“I should get a mask, quickly,” he muttered, slipping away from the crowd.
He turned down a narrower path, one that curved past the main street’s bustle and opened onto a quiet shop wedged between two buildings the kind of place you’d walk right past unless you already knew to look for it.
“…Why does this feel familiar?” Dylan stopped mid-step.
A strange sense of déjà vu washed over him.
Dozens of shops lined the main path outside, yet something had pulled him specifically toward this one, a shop no one would stumble upon by accident.
And that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
He was the creator of this world.
Every street, every stall, every face had come from his own hand.
But this shop he hadn’t written it.
Not once, not anywhere in his original novel.
Inside, a mysterious man stood in the shadows, his identity concealed beneath a cloak.
It covered him from the top of his head to his toes, and it smelled of cheap wine mixed with something fouler underneath like blood left too long to dry.
“He looks like an old man,” Dylan whispered.
But the words felt hollow the moment he said them.
Something about the stillness of the figure, the way he didn’t shift his weight or breathe like a normal man would, made the back of his neck prickle.
The man spoke.
His voice rasped like an old tape recorder, one that had given decades of faithful service and now refused to work, brittle, dragging over every word like it cost him something to speak.
“…What do you want, young one?”
The voice was enough.
Old, worn, cracked with age, it matched the stooped shape beneath the cloak.
Dylan’s guess had been right.
And yet the unease didn’t leave him.
Dylan remained silent for a single heartbeat, then stepped forward.
“I’m looking for something to conceal my identity.”
The old man tilted his head slightly.
“Something to conceal yourself?”
“Yes.”
Dylan took another step into the shop.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a faint chill crawled across his skin.
He ignored it.
The old man slowly scratched his chin.
“Huh…” His gaze traveled over Dylan from head to toe.
“So you want a mask?”
Dylan stared at him.
“…Yes.”
Dylan’s expression became slightly confused.
“…Can’t you see that I’m not wearing one?”
The old man blinked.
He stared at Dylan’s face, then stared again.
“Ohhh.” His tone suddenly carried genuine realization.
“Really? I thought you were wearing a mask.”
Dylan’s eyebrow twitched.
“…You thought this was a mask?”
The old man didn’t answer.
Instead, he slowly leaned forward, a little closer, and then a little closer, until his face was only a few inches away from Dylan’s.
His cloudy eyes carefully examined Dylan’s features.
Dylan instinctively leaned back.
The old man stared at him for another few seconds.
“…I guess you do need a mask.”
Dylan’s expression went blank.
“…What exactly did you think my face was?”
The old man simply chuckled.
“Never mind that.” He turned around and shuffled toward a wooden display cabinet.
With a creak, he opened it.
“Take your pick.”
Dylan followed him with his eyes.
Inside were dozens of masks, some simple cloth coverings, others made from polished metal, monster hide, enchanted wood, or materials Dylan couldn’t immediately identify.
There were masks that covered the entire face, masks that concealed only the eyes, masks shaped like animals, and even a few elaborate enchanted accessories that appeared capable of completely altering the wearer’s appearance.
The old man began pointing at them one by one.
“This one conceals your face.” He picked up a dark-gray mask.
“This one conceals your voice.” He picked up another.
“This one can distort your appearance.” Another.
“This one can prevent basic identification spells.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“How much?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you want to be recognized.”
Dylan stared at him.
The old man stared back.
“…You’re strange.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Dylan continued examining the masks.
Most were either too elaborate, too conspicuous, or simply unnecessary.
Then his gaze stopped.
There among the more extravagant masks sat a surprisingly simple one.
It was black, with thin golden lining tracing its edges.
Two small demonic horns curved upward from its upper frame, giving it the appearance of something one might wear to an extravagant masquerade party.
The mask covered only the upper half of the face, concealing the eyes and nose while leaving the mouth exposed.
Dylan picked it up.
The old man chuckled.
“As expected.”
Dylan paused, brow furrowing.
“…Expected?”
The old man didn’t answer right away.
His cloudy eyes lingered on the mask a moment longer than necessary like he wasn’t really looking at Dylan at all, but at someone else standing in his place.
Someone who had stood in this exact spot before, reaching for this exact mask.
A faint, cold feeling stirred in the back of Dylan’s mind.
The same feeling he’d had outside, before he’d even stepped through the door.
Why does this feel familiar?
“Never mind,” the old man said finally.
“Old habit.”
Dylan frowned, unsatisfied, but let it go.
One more strange thing about a night that was already full of them.
He turned the mask over in his hands.
“…This one.”
The old man glanced at it.
“That?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
Dylan nodded.
“It’s simple.”
The old man shrugged.
“Simple is good.”
Dylan examined the mask one last time.
There was something oddly appealing about it.
The design wasn’t excessive.
It didn’t scream for attention unless someone deliberately stared at the small horns, it looked like little more than a generic mask, the kind you’d see on a dozen other people without a second thought.
And most importantly, it looked like something that wouldn’t make him stand out too much in a place where everyone was already trying to hide their identities.
“How much?”
The old man hummed, tilting his head as if genuinely weighing the question.
“…Ten thousand.”
Dylan blinked.
“Ten thousand what?”
“Dollars.”
“It’s literally just black and gold paint.”
“It’s enchanted.”
“It looked exactly like the other masks.”
“Very enchanted.”
Dylan stared at him flatly.
“I’ll give you two hundred.”
The old man gasped, one hand pressing to his chest like he’d been physically wounded.
“Two hundred? You wound an old man’s heart.”
“You don’t have a heart, you have a cloak that smells like a bar fight.”
“Eight thousand.”
“Three hundred.”
“You insult my craftsmanship.”
“You insult my wallet.”
The old man leaned on the counter, cloudy eyes narrowing.
“Five thousand. Final.”
“Four hundred. Also final.”
“…You are a difficult customer.”
“You’re a difficult shopkeeper.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither budging.
Somewhere outside, the muffled noise of the Black Market carried faintly through the walls.
Finally, the old man exhaled somewhere between a sigh and a wheeze.
“…Fifteen hundred. And that’s me being generous.”
“Eight hundred.”
“Fourteen hundred.”
“One thousand.”
“…Twelve hundred.” The old man’s voice carried a note of finality this time.
“I will not go lower. My knees hurt just standing here.”
Dylan considered it for a moment, weighing the mask in his palm.
“…Deal.”
“Yesss.” Dylan pumped his fist quietly, like he’d just won a war instead of a haggling match over a mask.
The old man simply shook his head, muttering something under his breath that Dylan didn’t quite catch.
Dylan pulled out his phone and paid the agreed amount.
A soft chime echoed through the quiet shop.
«Payment Successful.»
“Try it,” the old man said, gesturing toward the mask still in Dylan’s hands.
Dylan raised an eyebrow but complied, settling the mask over the upper half of his face.
He waited for something, a pulse of mana, a shift in the air, anything.
Nothing happened.
“…I feel nothing.” Dylan lowered his hands, frowning.
“You said this thing was enchanted. I want a refund.”
The old man chuckled, clearly unbothered by the accusation.
“It is enchanted. Just not in a way you’d feel.” He gestured vaguely toward Dylan’s face.
“It masks your identity. Blocks identification spells. Alters your voice when you speak to strangers. Changes your eyes, too.”
Dylan blinked.
“My eyes?”
The old man simply nodded toward a small, tarnished mirror propped against the wall.
Dylan walked over and looked.
His breath caught slightly.
The emerald green that had always looked back at him was gone, replaced by a deep, unfamiliar crimson sharp, striking, nothing like his own.
For a moment, he almost didn’t recognize the face in the mirror at all.
“…Huh,” he muttered, equal parts unsettled and impressed.
“That’s actually useful.”
He returned to the counter and, after a moment’s thought, picked up a few more items before leaving, a thick winter fur coat, several spell scrolls, and a small satchel of emergency rations.
Practical purchases, the kind a man about to disappear into unfamiliar streets would need.
He paid for those as well, then turned toward the door.
“Be careful in the Black Market,” the old man said behind him.
Dylan narrowed his eyes.
“…I will.”
He turned away.
The door creaked open, and the familiar noise of the Black Market immediately flooded into the shop.
Dylan stepped outside.
The door closed behind him.
For a moment, he stood silently in the middle of the crowded street.
Then he adjusted the mask.
“…Weird old man.” He shook his head.
“Whatever.”
There were more important things to worry about.
He still needed to find Timothy Granbell.
Dylan made his way back through the narrow path and rejoined the crowded main street, the noise and motion of the Black Market swallowing him almost instantly.
A few heads turned as he passed quick, cursory glances, the kind reserved for anyone new or unfamiliar before turning away just as fast.
No one lingered.
No one asked questions.
That was the unspoken rule here, and Dylan found himself grateful for it.
He moved through the crowd with purpose now, weaving past stalls and hooded figures until the Ravencroft Guild came into view.
It was impossible to miss.
Unlike the crude signage and flickering magic displays of the surrounding shops, Ravencroft’s headquarters stood as a stark, obsidian tower rising above the district smooth black stone that seemed to devour the dim light around it rather than reflect it.
Faint runes pulsed along its surface in slow, rhythmic intervals, more warning than decoration.
Two massive guards stood at the entrance, arms crossed, their expressions carved from the same unreadable stillness as the building itself.
Dylan came to a stop a short distance away, studying the entrance in silence.
This was the place where he would find Timothy Granbell.