"The market doesn’t care who you are. It only cares what you’re carrying." — Unknown.
Micah spent ten minutes in front of his mirror getting the disguise right.
He pulled on a pair of faded grey pants that were slightly too short at the ankles, a wrinkled white shirt with a frayed collar, and a brown jacket that had a tear in the left pocket. All of it was random stuff he’d found stuffed in the bottom of his footlocker, left behind by whoever had occupied this room before him.
Then he put on the black tactical mask. The same one he’d worn in the vault, the same one that had convinced Dexter and Myra he was a Legendary Warrior. It covered everything above the jaw, leaving only his mouth and chin visible.
He looked at himself in the mirror. The combination of cheap clothes and faceless mask made him look like a street-level courier or a low-rent mercenary who didn’t want to be identified. Nobody would look twice at him. Nobody would connect him to the academy.
’Good enough.’
He tucked the Liquid Flux Condenser into his jacket’s inner pocket, where it sat in a padded pouch he’d fashioned from a spare sock. The twelve low-tier consumables went into a small leather satchel he’d found in the supply closet. The Astral Prism stayed hidden in his quarters, wrapped in cloth and shoved inside his mattress through a hole he’d cut in the stitching.
He was not bringing the Prism to the market. Not today. Not until he understood how things worked.
He slipped out of his quarters and headed for the academy’s western perimeter. The eastern fence was closer, but the guards there had gotten lazy lately, and lazy guards meant they actually paid attention to anything unusual because they had nothing better to do. The western gate was busier. Supply trucks came and went throughout the day, and the guards there were too overwhelmed with cargo inspections to notice one extra body slipping through the crowd.
He blended into a group of civilian workers heading toward the commercial district. Kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, his pace casual. Nobody looked at him. Nobody cared.
The commercial district of Astralis City was a thirty-minute walk from the academy walls. The streets got wider as he moved away from the military zone, the buildings taller and cleaner. Civilian cars hummed past on the main roads. Food vendors lined the sidewalks, selling skewered meat and rice balls to office workers on their lunch breaks.
Micah had never actually been to the commercial district. His predecessor’s memories had fragments of it, blurry images from before the recruit had enlisted, but nothing detailed. He was navigating blind.
He didn’t need directions, though. The Astral Trade Syndicate was the kind of building you could see from anywhere in the city.
It stood at the center of the commercial district like a monument to greed. Twenty stories of polished black glass and reinforced steel, shaped like a massive pyramid with the top cut off. The main entrance was a set of double doors so tall that three men stacked on top of each other could have walked through without ducking.
The lobby alone was bigger than Micah’s entire quarters block. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a reception desk staffed by four people who looked like they’d been hired for their cheekbones alone.
But Micah didn’t go through the front door. The front entrance was for clients with appointments, members with credentials, and nobles with family crests stamped on their credit chips. A masked man in a torn brown jacket would get about three steps inside before security put him on the pavement.
Instead, he followed the flow of foot traffic around the building to the east side, where the public trading floor was located. This entrance was smaller and less glamorous, a single metal door flanked by two guards in black body armor. Above the door, a sign read: PUBLIC TRADING FLOOR — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL AND LICENSED TRADERS ONLY.
The guards were checking credentials at the door. Micah watched from across the street for five minutes, studying the process. Licensed traders flashed a digital card and walked through. Unauthorized visitors were turned away with a firm hand on the shoulder and a not-so-gentle shove toward the exit.
He didn’t have a license. He didn’t have credentials. What he had was a satchel full of system-generated consumables and a face that nobody could identify.
He waited until a group of four traders approached the entrance together, their arms full of sample cases and equipment bags. They were arguing loudly about pricing margins and didn’t notice Micah fall in behind them.
The guard checked the first trader’s card, waved him through. Checked the second. Waved her through. The third and fourth walked past without even being checked because the guard was already looking at his tablet, distracted by something on the screen.
Micah slipped through behind them like a shadow.
The public trading floor opened up in front of him like a small city built inside a building.
It was enormous. Three levels of market stalls, shops, and counters arranged in concentric rings around a central atrium. The ceiling was glass, letting natural sunlight pour down onto the floor below. Escalators connected the levels, and digital screens hung from every available surface, displaying real-time prices for Flux crystals, monster materials, weapons, armor, and consumables.
The noise was overwhelming. Vendors shouted over each other from behind their counters. Buyers haggled in clusters, waving credit chips and product samples. Security guards in black armor patrolled the walkways in pairs, their eyes scanning the crowds from behind tinted visors.
The first level was for low-tier goods. Basic monster materials, standard weapons, field rations, cheap potions. The kind of stuff that recruits and low-level soldiers bought with their monthly stipends.
The second level was mid-tier. Better weapons, refined materials, specialized equipment. The prices here started in the thousands and climbed fast.
The third level was where Micah needed to go. The high-end appraisal counter. The place where rare, unidentified, and high-value items were professionally assessed and sold.
He took the escalator to the third level, keeping his head down and his satchel close to his body. The crowd thinned out as he went higher. The people up here dressed differently. Designer clothes, custom armor, expensive weapons strapped to their backs. Nobles, elite mercenaries, corporate buyers.
Nobody looked at him. He was invisible among the wealth, a speck of dust in a room full of gold.
The high-end appraisal counter was at the far end of the third level. A long, polished glass counter staffed by three people in tailored suits. Behind them, a wall of locked display cases held samples of items that had been appraised and were waiting for buyers. Everything from glowing crystals to vials of colored liquid to weapons that hummed with Flux energy.
Two of the three clerks were busy with other clients. The third was standing behind the counter, leaning on his elbow, looking bored out of his mind.
He was a thin man in his late twenties with a sharp nose and greasy hair slicked back with too much product. His suit was expensive but fit poorly, like he’d bought it one size too small and refused to admit it. The badge on his chest read: GREG HARLOW — JUNIOR APPRAISER, TIER 3.
Greg looked up as Micah approached. His eyes traveled from Micah’s masked face down to his torn brown jacket, his faded pants, and his scuffed boots. The journey took about two seconds, and by the end of it, Greg’s expression had settled into something between amusement and contempt.
"Can I help you?" Greg said. His tone made it clear he didn’t want to help with anything.
"I have items for appraisal," Micah said. He kept his voice flat and his words short.
Greg’s eyebrow twitched. He looked Micah up and down one more time, then glanced at the satchel.
"This is the premium appraisal counter, friend. The general goods counter is on level one, next to the restrooms. They’ll be happy to help you there."
"I’m not looking for the general goods counter."
Greg’s smile thinned. "Sir, this counter handles items with a minimum estimated value of fifty thousand credits. Based on what I’m looking at, I’d say your entire outfit isn’t worth fifty thousand credits."
A couple walking past overheard and snickered. Greg noticed their reaction and leaned into it, straightening up and adopting a louder, more theatrical tone.
"Tell you what. Why don’t you head down to level one, sell whatever you’ve got in that bag, and use the money to buy yourself a real pair of shoes? Come back when you can afford to be in this part of the building."
He smiled. It was the kind of smile that said, I win, you lose, now get out of my face.