They left the café with full stomachs and the bitter taste of cheap coffee still lingering on their tongues. Matt brushed a breadcrumb off his black waistcoat while Lira adjusted hers, glancing to both sides of the street as if she expected someone to recognize them.
"Come on," she said, taking the lead without asking. "If I let you guide us, we'd end up in a dead-end alley or in a fight with dock thugs. I know this area better than you."
Matt raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. He followed behind her with his hands in his pockets, enjoying the walk the way someone might watch an anthill before stepping on it.
The morning fog was beginning to lift, though it still floated low between the grimy brick buildings. They headed north, leaving the narrow streets of East Borough and moving closer to the Northern Docks. The smell changed gradually—first bread and coal, then brine, rotting fish, and the smoke of steam chimneys. Cargo carts rattled over the cobblestones, loaded with barrels and crates stamped with false seals. Men in worn caps unloaded goods while women sold roasted chestnuts over improvised braziers.
Everything looked normal… if you didn't look too closely.
Lira spoke quietly as they walked, not quite turning around, as if she were giving directions to an ordinary customer.
"The Northern Docks Black Market isn't just one place. It has two layers—like the fog here. The first one is visible, hidden among normal people. Improvised stalls in alleys, behind taverns, under torn canopies. They sell the usual things there: stolen weapons—single-shot pistols, knives etched with fake runes—exotic animals brought from the colonies or the sea. Monkeys with strange eyes. Birds that repeat secrets. Dogs that growl in strange tongues."
She continued calmly.
"You'll also find rare herbs for 'medicine,' jewelry nobody asks about, old books with marked pages, and sometimes artifacts that look harmless but feel… wrong to anyone with even a bit of spirituality."
Matt nodded, glancing sideways at a group of men carrying cages full of chickens.
The feathers were far too bright to be normal.
"And the second layer?" he asked quietly.
Lira tilted her chin toward a large drainage outlet at the end of the street. A rusted grate covered it, though faint marks could be seen along its edges.
"The sewers. Hidden entrances all across the district—under bridges, in abandoned basements, even behind certain taverns. Down there is where the things no one wants to see in daylight are traded."
Her voice lowered slightly.
"Human trafficking—not just forced laborers. People disappear for experiments or cheap rituals. Dirty jobs: assassins who take contracts without questions, surgeons who change faces for a price, objects no one dares sell aboveground. Badly brewed potions, creature parts that still move, forbidden seals."
She shrugged faintly.
"It's more dangerous. There are guards with rifles, trained dogs, and… worse things living in the pipes. The police know it exists, but they look the other way as long as nothing reaches the surface."
Matt processed the information without slowing his pace.
Weapons to resell. Animals that might have cheap Beyonder traits. Information about who buys what… and below, slaves or contracts that could lead to useful contacts.
Not a bad place to start.
"And how do we get in without being treated like fresh meat?" he asked, smiling slightly.
Lira stopped briefly at a corner, pretending to examine a "WANTED" poster showing the face of some petty thief.
"We enter through the surface first. I talk. You stay quiet and observe. With those waistcoats we look like serious buyers. If we see something interesting, then we decide whether to go down or not."
She looked at him sharply.
"But remember—there are no rules down there. One mistake and you end up sold… or floating in the Tussock River."
Matt let out a quiet laugh.
"Sounds fun."
Lira glanced at him sideways, half exasperated, half resigned.
"You're impossible. Come on. The Old Bridge is three streets away. The surface market starts just before it."
The fog thickened slightly as they approached the river. Water slapped softly against wooden pylons, and the constant murmur of voices lowered whenever the two of them walked past. A couple of men in ragged coats watched them from a doorway, but after noticing their black waistcoats and confident pace, they returned to their business.
Matt felt the familiar cold excitement stirring inside him.
Nothing personal.
Just opportunities.
Beside him, Lira guided the way—without realizing she was leading a Wingless Angel straight toward the heart of the corruption she had come to hunt.
They continued walking, exchanging brief comments now and then. Matt remained mostly distracted, lost in his own thoughts.
Meanwhile, Lira found herself seriously wondering whether it might be wiser to run away while she still could.
Matt and Lira moved through the surface section of the Black Market like any other buyers among the crowd.
The air was thick with hushed shouts, the smell of burnt oil, and sweat. Beneath torn tarps and inside narrow alleys between abandoned warehouses, vendors offered their wares in low but urgent voices.
A man with scars across his face sold modified single-shot pistols engraved with faintly glowing runes.
"Guaranteed not to fail in the fog!"
Another displayed cages full of exotic birds. One repeated whispered secrets in ancient tongues. Another had feathers that shifted color with the phases of the moon.
At a nearby stall, an old woman offered dried roots that supposedly "cured any fever… or caused one."
Farther ahead were leather-bound books with suspicious ink stains across their pages, and knives that supposedly cut deeper than ordinary steel.
Matt observed everything calmly without stopping. He touched a few objects out of curiosity but bought nothing.
Lira walked beside him, tense, glancing sideways at every stall as if she expected something to explode at any moment.
Suddenly Matt leaned closer and murmured:
"Take me down there."
"To the underground."
"To where they sell slaves."
Lira stopped as if someone had slapped her.
Her golden eyes widened.
"Slaves?" she repeated quietly, disbelief clear in her voice. "Matt… why the hell would you want a slave? Are you insane? This isn't some back-alley criminal whim. They're people. Educated or not, they're still people."
Matt shrugged, his crooked smile barely visible.
"I need practical help. Someone who doesn't ask questions. Someone who can clean an altar, carry heavy things, and disappear when necessary."
He added calmly,
"And forty pounds is nothing compared to what I can earn later."
"Come on."
Lira pressed her lips together, clearly confused and disgusted, but she didn't argue further.
Instead she led him toward a large drainage outlet behind a warehouse that smelled of rotten fish. She moved a rusted grate marked with a nearly invisible symbol, revealing a narrow iron ladder leading downward.
They climbed into the darkness.
The smell changed instantly—stagnant water, mold, waste, and something metallic that reminded Matt of old blood.
Oil lanterns hung from pipes overhead, casting long, trembling shadows across the damp stone walls. Guards armed with old rifles stood at every corner, watching silently with hard eyes.
The underground section was quieter.
Darker.
They passed areas where "dirty work" was sold openly: chained men offering to carry out assassinations for a few pennies, surgeons promising to change faces on crude operating tables, and locked chests containing objects that shimmered with dangerous spirituality.
But Lira led him deeper still, down a side tunnel marked with a red X.
And there—
Was the slave section.
Rows of well-dressed people in simple gray clothes sat on wooden benches beneath the dim light of lanterns. They didn't look like broken prisoners. They were clean, well-groomed, their gazes lowered and their posture polite.
A fat man with a mustache—the seller—welcomed them with an oily smile.
"Completely trained," he explained proudly. "They serve in the house, in the kitchen, in… whatever the master desires. Forty pounds each. Guaranteed absolute obedience. No screaming, no escapes."
Lira stopped a step behind, arms crossed, looking at Matt with a mixture of confusion and obvious disgust.
Why would a Wingless Angel want this? To have a maid… or something worse?
Matt walked down the line with cold gray eyes.
He stopped in front of a young woman of about nineteen.
Her name was Sera.
Long, straight dark-brown hair tied in a practical braid. Pale skin with faint scars on her wrists—training marks, not abuse. Light green eyes, calm, with no visible fear. A slender but strong figure, dressed in a simple gray dress that reached her ankles.
She carried the posture of someone who already knew how to serve without making noise.
"Her," Matt said simply.
The seller smiled wider.
"Excellent choice. Sera can cook, clean, read and write basic text, and… please if the master wishes. Fifty pounds and she's yours."
"Forty," Matt replied without emotion. "That's what she's worth."
The man haggled a little out of habit, but accepted.
Matt took out his leather pouch and counted forty pounds exactly. Sixty pounds, two solis, and ten pennies remained.
The seller scribbled a simple paper with a red wax seal—a "property contract" that meant nothing under the law but carried weight in the underground world. He fastened a thin iron bracelet around Sera's wrist, marked with a carved symbol, and handed the chain to Matt.
"She's yours. If she doesn't obey, bring her back and I'll return half. Good luck, sir."
Sera stood silently, eyes lowered, and moved behind Matt without a word.
Lira looked at both of them, still confused as they climbed back toward the surface.
"A slave?" she muttered. "Seriously? You could've bought a guard dog for less."
Matt gave a crooked smile without looking at her.
"A dog can't prepare an altar or keep secrets. She can."
They left the sewers beneath the noon fog.
Sera walked two steps behind them, silent and obedient.
Lira, beside Matt, still wore the expression of someone thinking this can't be real.
Matt only thought:
Another tool for the garden. Useful. Nothing personal.
The Black Market faded behind them.
And the weight of forty pounds less in his pouch felt… strange.
They walked back through the midday fog—three now instead of two.
Sera maintained exactly two steps of distance behind Matt, eyes lowered, hands folded before her gray dress. She didn't speak. Didn't look at Lira. She simply followed, silent as a well-trained shadow.
Matt felt the absence of those forty pounds in his purse in a way that was oddly satisfying.
But inside his head, an old little voice—the one that remained from the criminal of East Borough—began poking at him.
The priest is going to see me come back with another woman and think I'm a complete pervert. First Lira, now this slave… what's he supposed to think? That the "blessed of the Mother" is nurturing the garden in a different way—with fresh flesh every week.
Matt clenched his jaw and shook his head once, as if brushing away a fly.
No. Enough. The priest never asks. And even if he did… let him think whatever he wants. I only need useful hands.
He turned slightly toward Sera.
"Are you hungry?"
For the first time, she raised her eyes, surprised but not afraid.
"A little, master. Whatever you decide will be fine."
Matt shook his head.
"No. Tell me what you want to eat. Doesn't matter if it's expensive or cheap. Choose."
Sera blinked, as if the question itself were unfamiliar.
"…Lamb stew with black bread and a little light beer," she said carefully. "If it's not troublesome. I haven't tasted anything hot that wasn't watery soup in months."
Lira snorted beside him.
"You're seriously asking what your newly purchased slave wants to eat? After what we just saw down there?"
Matt shrugged.
"I need her functioning. An empty stomach isn't useful. Besides…" he gave a crooked smile, "nothing matters enough for me to starve her out of spite."
He pointed toward a decent tavern at the end of the street—one of the few that didn't smell like rotten fish.
It had clean wooden tables and a chalkboard menu.
Not cheap—two pounds per full plate.
Matt didn't hesitate.
"There. Lamb stew for her. Whatever you want for yourself, Lira. I'm paying."
Sera lowered her head slightly, almost a bow.
"Thank you, master."
"You can call me Matt," he said with a tired smirk. "I'm already sick of hearing that word."
Lira muttered something that sounded like "this is surreal," but followed anyway.
As they crossed the street, Matt felt that cold, perfect calm again.
Another tool. Nothing personal.
The inside of the bar looked exactly like one expected from a decent place at the edge of East Borough.
Dark wooden tables worn smooth by years of elbows. Gas lamps flickering with yellow light. The constant murmur of low conversations between dockworkers and small merchants.
The air smelled of spilled beer, hot stew, and cheap tobacco.
No one paid them special attention. Three people in clean clothes passed easily as respectable customers.
The food soon arrived.
Sera had a generous bowl of steaming lamb stew before her, tender chunks of meat floating in thick gravy, with two heavy slices of black bread.
Lira had ordered the same as Matt: grilled sausages with boiled potatoes and a mug of light beer.
Matt himself had ordered only black bread, hard cheese, and a cup of strong tea—nothing noticeable.
Sera ate with precise, silent movements, like someone trained never to make noise.
Matt watched her for a moment while cutting a piece of cheese.
"After this meal," he said suddenly, his voice quiet but clear, "you'll receive your first task. Nothing complicated. But listen carefully, Sera."
She raised her eyes briefly.
"If the idea of escaping crosses your mind… I wish you luck. In your current state, with that bracelet and the mark you carry, you wouldn't make it three streets before something unpleasant finds you. So finish eating calmly."
Sera nodded once.
"Understood. I won't run."
Matt took a sip of tea and continued as if discussing the weather.
"When you finish, I'll tell you exactly what to do. For now… tell me something about yourself. What do you like to eat? Any particular interests? Books, music—anything. I'm not fond of silent dolls."
Sera chewed slowly before answering.
"I like hot stew… and fresh bread. Before… I used to read simple stories when they allowed it. Tales about harvests and journeys. I don't know much about music. Only the songs we were taught to sing quietly while serving."
Across the table, Lira stabbed a sausage with her fork like she wanted to stab someone.
"You're seriously asking about her favorite food to the slave you just bought in a black market under the city?" she muttered. "Is this part of your master plan?"
Matt shrugged, cutting another piece of cheese.
"I need to know how to maintain her usefulness. If she likes stew, I'll give her stew. If she likes stories, maybe I'll let her read. It's not charity."
"It's maintenance."
Sera continued eating quietly, answering only when Matt asked directly.
"Favorite color?"
"Dark green, master. Like leaves after rain."
"Something you hate doing?"
"Nothing the master orders."
Each answer was short, correct, and carefully neutral.
Matt nodded slightly to himself.
Good. Obedient. Not talkative. Perfect for the altar… and for keeping secrets.
Forty pounds well spent.
Lira sighed heavily.
"This is the strangest thing I've seen in my life… and yesterday I fought a Shadow Ascetic."
Matt raised his teacup with a crooked smile.
"Welcome to the garden, Lira. Everything grows in strange ways here."
Sera finished her stew, carefully aligned the spoon beside the bowl, and waited with lowered eyes—ready for her first task.
Around them, the tavern continued buzzing with noise.