After staring at the tall, obsidian headquarters of Ravencroft for a brief moment, Dylan finally took a step toward the entrance.
Almost instantly, the two guards moved, closing the distance between them and blocking his path before he could take a second step.
One of the guards raised a hand, stopping barely inches from Dylan’s face.
The other spoke, his voice flat and unbothered.
“State your business.”
Dylan threw a quick glance at the two large men before clearing his throat.
Thanks to the mask, the voice that came out was noticeably deeper, not quite his own.
“I’m here to do business.” He narrowed his eyes toward the building behind the guards.
“I’m looking for a dungeon broker.”
The two guards exchanged a glance.
Neither moved at first.
“Everyone’s looking for a broker,” the first guard said, unimpressed.
“Doesn’t mean you get to walk in.”
The second guard said nothing.
He simply raised his wrist, the gauntlet-like device on it humming to life.
A beam of red light swept over Dylan, scanning him down to the smallest detail.
A moment later, the light faded, there were no records, no match, nothing.
There was nothing about him.
“We don’t have your name registered,” the guard said.
“Are you by any chance new to the Black Market district?”
Yes, I am, you dumbass, Dylan thought, frustration creeping in at the pointless question.
Anyone with eyes could tell he was new to the Black Market.
But these two idiots were simply wasting his time.
He understood, logically, that the Ravencroft Guild had every reason to be cautious, that the guards were simply doing their jobs.
But logic did little to calm him in the moment.
A quiet panic had started gnawing at the edges of his patience, the fear that he might have genuinely wasted his three days off wandering from stall to stall for nothing.
Renting the hover bike, buying the mask, stocking up on supplies, all of it would mean nothing if he couldn’t get past this door and into a dungeon today.
That would be a disaster, time and money spent with nothing to show for it.
He hadn’t come here to spend.
He’d come here to earn.
Nevertheless, he also knew that even if he tried to shove past them and force his way inside, it would be a grotesque suicide.
These two wore the unmistakable aura of low D-rank Awakeners or higher, brutes who could effortlessly shatter his bones to splinters, rip his limbs from their sockets, or splatter his brains across the pavement before he could even take a second step.
He was still weak compared to these guards.
Extremely weak, considering how recently his breakthrough had happened.
Even after that, the changes in him weren’t nearly enough to stand against two low D-rank Awakeners.
And these two weren’t just ranked higher, the scars littering their arms and faces made it clear they were veterans, men who’d survived more than their fair share of battles.
Dylan exhaled a heavy breath and forced himself to calm down.
“Yeah, I am,” he muttered, pulling out the special visiting card Elijah Winston had given him and holding it up for them to see.
“But I’m not new to the business.”
The first guard took the card, turning it over once before running a thumb along its edge.
A faint shimmer of light traced across its surface, confirming its authenticity.
He passed it to the second guard, who studied it for a moment longer, eyes flicking briefly toward Dylan before returning to the card.
Thank god I didn’t refuse the visiting card, Dylan thought, silently thanking Elijah Winston for handing it to him.
To an outsider, it might have looked like an ordinary charcoal visiting card, but it carried a hidden pin code, one that marked its holder as a recognized customer of the Black Market’s branches.
He remembered, after selling the moonveil herb and collecting his payment, wanting to bolt straight outside.
But Elijah had called him back and pressed the card into his hand.
Thanks to that, everything was about to be much easier now.
Even without the card, I could’ve gotten in, he thought, watching the two guards verify the pin code.
Just more tiresome.
More time-taxing.
His thoughts were interrupted when the second guard spoke.
“New California branch,” the second guard muttered, more to his partner than to Dylan.
“Guess he’s not completely clueless, then.”
The two guards exchanged a glance, a silent, mutual approval passing between them, before the gauntlet hummed to life once more, one final scan, just to be sure he wasn’t a threat.
“You’re good. Go ahead,” the first guard said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the entrance.
Finally, Let’s go!!.
He screamed internally with a breath of relief.
With that, he made his way into the building, the doors sliding open to let him through.
The moment he stepped inside, he froze.
Nothing.
The entrance hall stood completely empty, dark, silent, no receptionist, no guards, no one waiting to greet him.
Just cold stone and shadow stretching out ahead of him.
Then he remembered.
“Oh, shit…” He whispered.
Before he could finish the thought, a rune flared to life beneath his feet, tracing sharp lines of light across the tile he was standing on.
A heartbeat later, a blinding flash swallowed him whole.
“FUCKKKKKKKK”
His scream cut off as the light consumed everything.
He opened his eyes in a narrow corridor and immediately doubled over, retching onto the floor.
“…I forgot about the teleportation entry,” he muttered, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
The Ravencroft building’s entrance was lined with a teleportation rune, along with several other defensive runes woven into the floor and walls.
If an unauthorized visitor tried to force their way in, the defense runes would activate automatically, the kind of “defense” that likely ended in bloodstains rather than warnings.
But if entry was permitted, the teleportation rune activated instead, triggered the moment the guild’s manager confirmed the visitor’s approval, sending them directly into one of the guild’s rooms, or somewhere near it.
As for how the guild distinguish visitor from customers, that came down to the guards at the entrance, and the gauntlets they used to scan for identity and authorization before anyone was allowed through.
Dylan pushed himself upright, one hand still braced against his knee, and glanced around the corridor.
“I should’ve brought an emergency bag,” he muttered, scanning the unfamiliar walls.
“Completely forgot.”
“Woahhhhh…” Dylan said, as the corridor ceiling lit up with red lights, and the floor followed with a trail of glowing blue arrows, pointing him in a direction.
Then a voice crackled from the speakers overhead.
“Ummm”
Cough.
“Testing.”
“Can you hear us?” a feminine voice asked.
“I think this shortie can’t hear us.”
“Is it working?”
“I don’t know,” a male voice answered.
“You don’t know anything.” The female complained.
“Don’t blame everything on me,” the male voice shot back.
“What am I supposed to do? Manager gave us one simple job and we can’t even do it right.” The female voice sighed.
“And of course, it’s my first day, and I get stuck welcoming a weird half-demon mask-wearing shortie.”
“Hey, he might hear us,” the male voice hissed.
“I don’t think so.”
Did she just call me a shortie?
A weird half-demon mask-wearing shortie?
Dylan’s eye twitched, irritation flaring somewhere behind his ribs.
He narrowed his eyes at the speaker.
“I can hear you guys.”
“You…” The female voice cut off instantly.
A beat of stunned silence.
“…Ohh.”
“…Ohh.”
“…Ohh.”
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Give me the mic,” the male voice muttered, taking over.
“Apologies for the inconvenience. Please follow the lights, they’ll guide you to the meeting room.”
Dylan nodded, saying nothing, though the twitch in his eye hadn’t quite faded yet.
He started following the trail of arrows on the floor.
Although he knew how the Ravencroft Guild worked, it still made him amused, experiencing it firsthand.
The lights, the darkness, the secrecy, everything was…
“…Stupid.” he muttered.
Whatever he’d written as a teenager, thinking it was cool to make an information guild behave like this, now looked utterly ridiculous and unprofessional.
“Nevertheless, it was still a good defensive setup instead of letting outsiders in easily. This way was much more efficient for confusing intruders,” he muttered, following the trail of arrows.
He was making excuses for his teenage self, which sounded ridiculous even to him.
After exactly three minutes, he found himself standing in front of a red door.
He gave a quick glance back.
The lights were now switched off, dark once again.
He slowly opened the door and stepped into the room.
It was spacious enough for a proper meeting room.
The moment he stepped inside, the first thing he noticed were the runic markings enchanted across the walls and floor.
A large mahogany table separated him from the other side of the room.
On the other side sat two individuals, a man and a woman.
The man’s posture was composed, almost rigid, the kind that came from discipline rather than comfort.
He wore black clothing that seemed to blend into the room’s atmosphere, paired with a black panther mask.
The woman sat to his left.
Her posture was the opposite, shoulders slumped, frame slightly hunched, like she was one bad breath away from sliding out of her chair entirely.
She wore the same black outfit, though hers was finished with a small red collar cape.
Her mask was shaped like a swan.
“Come and take your seat, dear customer,” the man said, his tone welcoming.
From the sound of his voice, the way he spoke, and the faint tension threading through the room, Dylan guessed they were both somewhere in their early twenties.
It wasn’t just their voices that gave it away.
He’d already caught a preview of their competence back in the corridor, the fumbling mic, the argument, the “shortie” comment.
No veteran of the Ravencroft Guild would ever be that amateurish.
And the welcome itself only confirmed it.
Ravencroft prided itself on customer treatment above almost everything else; even first-time visitors were usually greeted with a level of reverence bordering on excessive.
These two clearly hadn’t gotten that memo yet.
“These two fledgings,” Dylan muttered under his breath, barely audible.
He strode forward, pulled out the chair across from them, and sat down.
“How can I help you, sir?” the man asked, his tone polished, professional.
Before Dylan could answer, the woman cut in, leaning forward slightly.
“Tell us quickly. Don’t waste our time.” Her voice was clipped, indifferent, like the words cost her more effort than she wanted to give.
The man turned toward her sharply.
“That’s not how you speak to a customer.”
“I don’t care.” She waved a hand dismissively in Dylan’s direction.
“Look at him. Oversized clothes, and that mask… god, it’s so ugly. I don’t think he can even afford our service.”
The man’s posture stiffened further, if that were even possible.
He hissed under his breath, low enough that he probably thought Dylan couldn’t hear.
“It doesn’t matter how he looks. We never judge our customers. Do you not remember what the manager said?”
“But…”
“No buts.”
Dylan cleared his throat, loud enough to cut through whatever came next.
Both of them froze, turning their heads toward him.
He looked at them in silence, the mask’s crimson eyes lending him an edge of quiet intimidation, his fingers tapping the table as he suppressed his frustration.
Both of them apologized in a rush.
Dylan exhaled.
“…God, they’re so annoying,” he muttered under his breath.
Lisa and Vlad.
Two idiots he’d created himself, minor background characters meant to work the front desk of the Ravencroft Guild, interacting with the protagonist, Ethan Walker, whenever he stopped by. Read the latest chapters at novelping dot com.
Back then, Dylan had thought they were funny.
Now, sitting across from them, he finally understood why his readers used to call them annoying in the reviews.
They really are annoying, he thought looking at the duo with undisguised annoyance in his eyes.
“How can we help you?” the man asked again, his composure returning.
“I’m looking for a dungeon broker.” Dylan muttered, his voice carrying an edge.
Lisa immediately pulled out a long, neatly organized list, sliding it across the table with a hint of pride.
Dozens of names filled the page, ranked, rated, sorted by success percentage and client reviews.
Dylan barely glanced at it.
His eyes went straight past the top-tier names and stopped on one near the bottom.
“Timothy Granbell.”
Lisa’s eyes narrowed instantly.
“Wait, seriously? Him?” She leaned forward, jabbing a finger at the paper.
“See, he’s choosing the cheapest, lowest-rated broker on the entire…”
Vlad’s hand shot out, clamping firmly over her mouth before she could finish.
“We’ll arrange your meeting now,” Vlad said smoothly, dragging her a step back.
“Don’t worry.”
Lisa’s muffled protest came out as little more than an irritated grunt.
Vlad pulled her further aside, voice dropping into a sharp hiss.
“Are you trying to get us in trouble?”
“Bud…”
“No buts.” He cut her off flat, still keeping half an eye on Dylan.
The two of them shuffled toward the door, still bickering under their breath, before finally slipping out of the room.
Dylan let out a long, exhausted sigh the moment the door shut behind them.
After some time, the doors opened once again.
This time, it wasn’t the two from before.
Instead, a man stepped through, early twenties, unkempt hair, dark circles carved beneath his eyes, his whole frame carrying a faint, sickly weariness.
Timothy Granbell.
“Timothy Granbell,” Dylan said, looking at the man standing in front of him.
Timothy sighed heavily as he looked at Dylan, then sat down across from him.
“Please, don’t waste my time. Tell me why you’re here,” Timothy said, his tone tired and hopeless.
“I’m here to hire you for a job,” Dylan said, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table.
“If you’re willing, we can have a long-term partnership.”
“What kind of job is it?” Timothy inquired, raising his eyebrows in suspicion.
“A simple one,” Dylan replied.
“You’d work as my dungeon and finance broker. Whatever I earn in dungeons, you sell, and you take a percentage.”
“You’ll also get a percentage from the other things we’ll be doing together.”
Timothy looked at Dylan and chuckled.
“Okay, that’s a good offer. But tell me, what’s your current Awakener status?” His eyes narrowed.
“That’s none of your business,” Dylan said, leaning away again.
“Sorry. I’m not going to do business with someone who’s clearly low-ranked and new to this,” Timothy muttered, standing up.
“I can sense you’re not strong enough to handle any real dungeons, and I’m not willing to take that risk.”
“Afraid of taking risks, aren’t you?” Dylan said.
“Taking risks isn’t my style. Uncertainty might look beautiful, but as they say, Rome wasn’t built in a day but it fell in one, though.” Timothy turned his back.
This is exactly why I like him, Dylan thought, watching Timothy’s retreating back.
He never makes a move unless the odds favour him, calculating, cautious, always thinking three steps ahead before committing to anything.
But admiring his genius wasn’t going to get him on the board.
Right now, the only thing that mattered was earning his attention, and keeping it long enough to make him listen.
“I know that very well, Mr. Granbell. I don’t like uncertainty either. I love when things go my way. But life isn’t a game of chess where every move is calculated in advance. Sometimes the only way to win is to gamble on the board in front of you.”
Still, Timothy didn’t turn around.
“If you agree to work for me, I’ll pay three hundred and twenty thousand dollars on the spot. Twenty percent of all future profits. And most importantly…” Dylan paused.
“I’ll help you escape this hellhole.”
“What do you mean?” Timothy said, turning his head.
“I meant exactly what I said, Mr. Granbell.” Dylan’s voice was steady.
“I know you don’t want to stay in this hellhole. I know you’re only working here to clear your debts to the Black Market. I know how much you’ve been enduring in this guild. I know everything, including your future.”
That made Timothy look at Dylan for the first time.
Timothy sat back down slowly, arms crossing over his chest.
“Continue.”
“You’ve been under Ravencroft for three years,” Dylan said, voice level.
“Not because you lack talent, you have more raw skill than half the brokers ranked above you combined, but because Ravencroft owns your debt, and debt like that doesn’t just get paid off through commissions. It gets paid off through obedience.”
Timothy’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“They keep you here specifically because you’re competent,” Dylan continued.
“A useless broker would’ve been let go years ago. But you’re valuable enough to keep chained, and just unremarkable enough on paper that no one questions why you’re still stuck handling scraps.” He leaned forward.
“That’s not incompetence, Mr. Granbell. That’s a leash.”
Timothy’s eyes narrowed, something unreadable flickering behind them “…How do you know all this?”
“I make it my business to know things worth knowing.” Dylan didn’t blink.
“Just like I know your contract with Ravencroft has a buyout clause. One almost nobody uses, because almost nobody has the money to trigger it.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Three hundred and twenty thousand isn’t just payment,” Dylan said quietly.
“It’s enough to trigger that clause. Tonight, if you want.”
Timothy’s breath caught, just slightly, the first real crack in his composure since he’d walked in.
“You’d really do that,” he said.
Not quite a question.
“I don’t make offers I don’t intend to keep.” Dylan extended a hand across the table.
“So. Do we have a deal, Mr. Granbell?”
For a long moment, Timothy simply stared at the offered hand, calculating, weighing risk against certainty one final time.
Then, slowly, he reached out and took it.
“…Deal.” Timothy’s grip was firm despite the exhaustion still lingering in his eyes.
“And stop calling me Mr. Granbell. If I’m working for you now, you might as well use my name.”
“Sure, Timothy.” Dylan released his hand, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask.
Just like that, one of the most reliable characters of the original story now belonged to him instead of Ethan Walker.