"Even you don’t dare…"

Shea fell silent. The man before her was the Slums’ biggest black market dealer. If even he refused to take more, showing her goods to other merchants wouldn’t just risk rejection—they might report her.

After all, who wouldn’t want the bounty on the Lost Empire’s wanted posters?

Plus, the ring held many weapons. Shea couldn’t tell which ones didn’t belong to the Lost Empire, so she couldn’t pick out items to fence separately.

This was a real headache.

If she couldn’t sell this loot, keeping it would bring endless trouble. She needed to offload it fast—but that damned Hunter, Abel, was probably already hunting her.

Even dumping it somewhere was risky. If he caught her, the consequences would be severe. For now, she’d keep it on her and wait for a chance.

But fencing was a dead end tonight. She’d have to target another minor noble.

This was truly her last resort. Hopefully, that Hunter wouldn’t interfere.

"Hold on," the black market dealer called out as Shea turned to leave. His bony fingers stroked the crystal ball. "But if you bring me a few items every now and then… I could take them. Though the price will be even lower."

"...Fine."

Hearing that, there was no reason to dump anything now.

Sell what she could.

Even if Abel caught her, she’d rather die with a belly full of loot.

Leaving the shack, Shea slipped back into the Slums. Night had fallen. The area was deathly quiet, broken only by the scuttling of rats.

She entered another abandoned building and shifted into her Nightshade Catfolk form. This gave her huge advantages at night: boosted strength, sharper senses, and—most crucially—night vision.

She swapped her ragged clothes for dark gear, then scaled to the highest point in the Slums.

Scanning the brightly lit city below, she picked her target.

"The mayor? I hit him recently. Earl Nelson? Too many guards. Dekkers Trading Guild? That might work."

Once decided, Shea leaped down. A twenty-meter drop meant nothing to a Nightshade Catfolk.

She landed lightly and headed straight for a small Dekkers outpost.

Its defenses were weak and sloppy—perfect.

"Through East Street, into the alley… ah, found it."

After circling a few times, Shea spotted a window to slip through. It wouldn’t alert the front guards.

Even four stories up, she scrambled up in three quick jumps.

Her combat skills weren’t top-tier, but her parkour was unmatched.

In her past life, skyscrapers were her playground. These thirty-meter buildings? Child’s play.

She pried the window open and slipped inside. Something felt off—not just this room, but the whole building was dark.

Even at this hour, a rich man wouldn’t extinguish every light.

Luckily, Shea’s night vision cut through the gloom. She looted all fourth-floor rooms smoothly. Few coins turned up, but no one spotted her.

Or… was anyone even here?

The longer Shea thought, the wronger it felt. Years in the Slums honed her instincts—this place screamed danger.

Sure enough, on the third floor, her sharp nose caught a faint trace of blood in the air. Fresh blood. Beneath it lingered a salty, fishy stench—like ocean wind.

This was an inland city, far from the sea. Why that smell?

Anyone else would’ve fled.

But as they say, curiosity kills the cat.

And Shea’s curiosity ran deep.

Besides, she’d come this far. Why leave empty-pawed?

Confident she could escape, she pressed deeper.

————

On the streets, Abel geared up. With gold "borrowed" from Shea, he’d bought decent weapons from a shop.

Tonight, he’d gotten word: Dekkers’ branch had been seized by the Tidal Cult. No one who entered had come out alive.

Dekkers didn’t want the city guards involved—they’d burn the place down to handle such threats. To minimize losses, they’d hired Abel to deal with this eerie incident.

"Cultists… hope they don’t pull anything nasty," Abel muttered, polishing his new longsword. He approached Dekkers’ front door.

Just near the building, the stench of rotting fish and Corruption hit him. Sword in hand, he eased the door open.

Inside, blood coated the floors—but bodies were gone. Abel guessed they’d become fodder for abominations.

"If only I still had my gear… would I be this careful?"

The thought made him itch to catch that thief, Rico. He’d string her up and teach her not to steal from him.

After this job, he’d check the black market for his weapons. Lost Empire arms were unique—he’d recognize them instantly. Then he’d trace them back to that wretched thief.

"Tidal Cult… just as I thought."

Abel stared at the robed figures ahead. Beneath their hoods writhed octopus tentacles—the classic mark of a Tidal Cultist.

These monsters had sold their bodies and souls. They weren’t human anymore.

Two Cultists, unaware of Abel lurking in shadows, chatted idly.

"Still haven’t caught that annoying cat upstairs?"

"She’s fast. We can’t pin her down."

"Forget her. Hurry up and offer these corpses to our Lord. No distractions."

At their feet lay piles of bodies. Some were barely recognizable; others were reduced to severed heads.