Lingchen Yao froze, a chill skimming his spine like frost on bamboo. He braced one hand on the Obsidian Stone doorframe. The boss had caught a lie. It fell inside the man’s patience, and no fists flew—luck flickered like a lantern in wind.

“Thanks for the warning.”

He strode out of that wasp nest toward the trading floor, boots cutting through noise like oars through dark water.

“Kid, that necklace’s carrying foreign Mana,” the Eye Orb murmured, a cold bead of ink in his mind. “That guy marked you. Relax, I can swallow the thread.”

“Then swallow it.”

Facing the black market boss, the Eye Orb finally pulled weight. On equal exchange, Lingchen agreed. Besides, the necklace gleamed like moonlight on steel; he wasn’t tossing it.

Behind the Obsidian Stone door, the boss lounged on a wheeled leather chair, spun once like a lazy hawk, and cracked open a fresh lollipop. He felt the Mana he’d left on the necklace snuff out, like a wick pinched between wet fingers.

“Oh? Not bad. Looks like he’s got tricks.”

“I smelled octopus rot on you ages ago. Saw this little pet and knew you were linked. An almost-perfect graft—High-Speed Regeneration and three other traits—how does a nameless Cantata Two kill that?”

“And, Doctor, the kid you picked—decent.”

If Lingchen hadn’t sensed the weak Mana clinging to the necklace, the boss would’ve sent knives in the dark, reclaimed the piece, and sniffed out Aklatia’s final experiment.

“If they can’t handle this, what revival are we talking about? May the days ahead be interesting.”

A crooked smile cut his lips like a hook.

“How much do those clowns owe me?”

In the trading pit, Lingchen moved two Magic Stones. He’d thought the worst-grade pair would stall like a broken cart. Instead, hands flew in like hungry gulls. Scarcity bit the air like iron.

He walked out with four white cards. Each white card meant ten thousand—cash at the counter or wired straight to a bank. Higher tiers shone like flags—yellow for a hundred thousand, red for a million, black for ten million.

Poverty fenced his imagination like bamboo. Did anyone here really spend black cards?

“Some materials hide deep. A trip to the Abyss, and you’ll understand.”

Lingchen and the Eye Orb slid through the crowd. The place deserved the name—black market like a coiling dragon. Magic Stones, Magic Tools, a Magic Maiden’s intimate silks, even strategic weapons—all for sale. Cyborgs, researchers, and swarms of organization types gathered like crows on carrion.

“Hey! That wood carving with the inset slot—selling or not?”

The shout rang like a hammer on an anvil. Lingchen’s gaze snagged.

A wood carving?

As a lover of carved grain, he pushed in, heart rising like smoke.

A hulking brute in an iron mask jabbed a spiked hammer toward a dark carving laid on a carpet. Muscles knotted like ropes under stone.

“Is there wood that color? Its breath feels strange.”

“That’s Abyss wood. Long soaked in Abyssal Aura, it mutates on its own.”

The Eye Orb flicked a glance, a cold lens in moonlight.

“But… there’s Mana woven through this thing. What took me years in a lab, I’m seeing in a block of wood. A mutation…?”

“What are you mumbling?”

“Nothing. This carving has teeth. If I can photograph it and study it, I might crack something new.”

“Five red cards.”

A girl in a black robe spoke, silver-white mask gleaming like frost, deep-blue eyes blinking with river-light. Her voice rang clear, a bell over water. Five million, thrown like a gauntlet.

The iron brute clicked his tongue. He pricked the carving with that thorned hammer, lazy as a cat.

“This junk is five red cards? Are you dumb, or am I? Try five white cards.”

“Hey! If you don’t want it, say so. Don’t touch it.”

“I’ll touch it. So what?”

Cold bled off him like winter storm. Frost filmed the floor in white scales; the crowd recoiled like fish from a net.

So cold. Summer shrank into winter’s bite.

“Thick Abyssal Aura,” the Eye Orb muttered, voice a drop of ink. “This cyborg’s Cantata Two. Years of killing in the Abyss soaked him deep. That aura sharpened him like a whetstone. Shame for him—the girl’s no ordinary stock. Those are crafted lenses.”

The girl shut her eyes, and starlight flowed in her blue irises, then congealed into pitch black. The market lights wavered like reeds in wind. The brute’s chill pressed in, but her power rolled back like thunderheads.

A crackle licked her eye corner. “Ka-cha!” The overhead tube snapped, night falling like a curtain. Thick golden arcs hugged her skin like coiled serpents; the lightning’s feral temper crushed the cold as if grinding ice to powder.

The iron brute’s pupils quaked. He staggered back two steps and slammed into a bystander, clumsy as a bull in a crowd.

Golden thunder stretched into a sharp Spear, tip leveled at his skull.

“In here, give me some face.”

The black market boss’s voice drifted from the Obsidian Stone doorway, smooth as smoke. The arcs folded like wings; the Thunder Spear unraveled before the brute’s brow. The girl’s eyes sifted back to deep blue. The crowd melted away like rain on hot stone—no one wanted the boss’s displeasure.

“Mm.”

She let go. The brute turned to bolt, but a massive hand dropped from the air, pinched him like a crab, and flung him inside the Obsidian Stone door.

“I said no trouble here. He started it. You’ll submit double repairs and today’s profit.”

“Got it…”

The girl scooped up the carving, voice flat as a blade’s back. She opened her wallet, stepped to the counter, and laid down profit and compensation like stones on a shrine. Then she headed for the main doors, the hem of her robe a black wave.

Lingchen went paper-white, fists locked like knotted roots. He hardly dared breathe. A stray filament of lightning had brushed his Magic Layer; it shattered like thin ice.

Strong. She was likely a heartbeat from Cantata Three.

The Eye Orb’s judgments were knife-true; Lingchen didn’t argue.

He hurried after her, steps like a shadow clinging to moonlight.

She glanced back at the tail, pinched a strand of lightning like silk, and weighed finishing him outside.

“Will you trade the carving for goods?”

She paused and let the spark die, sand scattering from a fist.

So he wasn’t brainless.

She tipped her chin, voice cool as rain.

“Second-tier Magic Stones with pure energy. Plants raised by thunder. Anything tied to Cantata Three. Or five red cards.”

Lingchen went silent; his pockets were dry leaves.

“No?”

She turned. A crisp mechanical chime cut the air, like a coin on glass.

“I don’t have those, but I can give you intel on plants.”

“What made that sound?”

“Uh, a bio-electronic pet… We do have the intel.”

Lingchen scrambled, words tripping like beads. Suspicion flickered in her eyes like a cat watching grass.

“Abyss. There’s a mountain wrapped in thunder year-round. The rift sits in District Ten, at an abandoned graveyard. Once inside, go north. It’s an irregular tear; it may not still exist.”

The Eye Orb didn’t ask permission; it flowed like ink.

“I know that site. I’ve been. No thunder-wrapped mountain.”

Her brows drew together, willow leaves crossing, memory stirring like mud under rain.

“Heh. Is the Order Keeper’s progress that slow?”

“I understand you’re provoking the Order Keeper.”

A sliver of killing intent flashed in her deep-blue eyes, then ebbed like a wave. She wouldn’t pay another fine. If she fought, it’d be outside.

Relief spilled through Lingchen like warm tea. If she swung again, today would be his last dusk. Wait—did the Eye Orb just say she was an Order Keeper?

“Don’t believe me? Test it. You want Cantata Three, right? You’re smothering your impatience. I don’t know what drives a powerhouse to race the clock, but I see the strain.”

The Eye Orb fell quiet. The girl thought, eyes like deep water. Everything was for Cantata Three—for becoming the twenty-third. Even if it was bait, she’d bite—for that single road forward.

“Fine. I’ll send a scout. What do you want? If the intel checks out, I’ll hand over the goods.”

“Magic Stones. The Basic Magic Chanting Manual… And keep the carving. I’ll buy it when I’ve saved enough.”

The Eye Orb fed the lines. Lingchen spoke, nerves plucking like strings. Facing an Order Keeper, fear scraped at his mask. The Eye Orb talking on its own thumped his fragile heart like a drum.

He’d had enough for one day.

The Eye Orb rolled an unseen eye. Already wobbling? You were all smiles when you bullied me. Still—first days are storms. Facing people dozens of times stronger in one afternoon—fear is natural.

“I understand. If the report proves out, I’ll inform you. If it goes smoothly, I might gift you the carving. It’s just a slightly unusual piece.”

She didn’t press why the Eye Orb wanted a common manual.

“Pleasure doing business. How do we stay in touch?”

“Call this number. We set a meeting. If other spots feel unsafe, come here. The boss can witness.”

She flicked him a slip of paper, then strode from the market like a raven taking wing.

Lingchen followed, breath a thin thread. In the blink of an eye, the girl vanished like lightning into cloud.