The minutes stretched like drops of water falling from the old brick ceiling. One… two… three… Matt counted them in silence, seated on the damp crate with his back straight and his hands resting on his knees. The steady dripping set the rhythm: ploc… ploc… ploc…, each drop striking the black puddles on the floor and spreading into perfect circles before fading away.
The stench of the sewer had blended with the faint scent of cheap incense and something metallic—like old blood that had never been fully washed away.
The hooded figures around him barely moved; only the occasional shift of cloth, a whisper so low it seemed to come from the river itself, or the creak of wood as someone adjusted their position.
Beside him, Lira breathed with controlled calm, but Matt could feel the tension in her posture. He, on the other hand, felt nothing. He simply observed.
The figure in the blood-red cloak remained motionless at the center of the makeshift platform, like a statue of heavy fabric absorbing the yellow glow of the lamps.
His two guards, clad in black cloaks and iron masks, did not blink. Time itself seemed to have decided to wait with them.
Then, without warning, the figure raised a gloved hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if each inch required effort. The voice that emerged from beneath the black iron mask was deep, hoarse, distorted by metal—yet every word was clear:
"On this new moon night… the Old Bridge opens its mouth. Formulas, ingredients, artifacts, commissions. Everything has a price. Everything can find a new owner—if the offer is right. Let us begin."
The silence tore apart like fabric.
A hooded man to the left spoke first, his voice trembling but eager:
"I offer the complete formula for Sequence 9: Sailor of the Sailor Path. Core ingredients verified through spiritual means. Base price: two hundred and twenty pounds. Speak now if you want it."
A low murmur rippled through the chamber. Someone in the back raised two fingers, but no deal was immediately struck. Matt did not move.
Sailor… useful for someone planning to flee by sea. Not for me.
Next, a woman in a dark gray cloak, seated atop a rusted barrel, lifted a small wooden box sealed with runes:
"A Pugilist Heart from the Giant Path. Extracted from a monster that lost control two moons ago. Three hundred and fifty pounds, or equivalent in high-value ingredients. Whoever uses it… I wish you luck."
A couple of figures leaned forward, interested. Whispered negotiations began in the corners. Matt watched calmly.
Physical power… interesting. But my Pugilist Bracelet already gives me that—and without mixing a heart that likely carries madness within it.
The next to approach was an old man who limped as he stepped forward. From his cloak, he produced a dull silver ring set with a black stone.
"A low-grade item. It allows you to hear conversations up to two hundred meters away—if you concentrate. The drawback is that each use brings whispers that may leave you paranoid for hours. Five hundred pounds, or trade for a Spectator Path formula."
Someone offered four hundred. The deal nearly closed, but the old man shook his head and returned to his place.
Then came a small green glass bottle, held by a thin figure.
"I call it the Eye of a Degenerated Shadow. Harvested from a Hanged Man Path monster that lost control. Perfect for Sequence 7 potions or above. One hundred and eighty pounds."
The guards in black remained unmoving, observing everything. The organizer only nodded when offers seemed legitimate.
Matt stayed still, but his thoughts turned with cold precision.
All of this is… predictable. Cheap formulas for the desperate—unlikely to work. Ingredients for the ambitious. Artifacts with hidden bites for the reckless. The Mother gave me the coat and the scar. The Abyss gave me the flames and the slow decay. What else do I need from this place?
Then the shift came.
A hoarse voice from the back of the chamber cut through the flow of items:
"I need a commission. An assassination. Target: a Sequence 7 Beyonder of the Lawyer Path, operating in the dock district. Works alone, but he's cunning and protected.
Payment: eight hundred pounds in pure gold, plus a rare main ingredient from the same Path. Full details… in private, after the meeting. Anyone interested—approach the organizer at the end."
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Several figures shifted uneasily. Whispers spread:
"Lawyer Path? That one's treacherous…"
"Eight hundred… too much risk for a Sequence 7."
Matt did not move. But inside his mind, the thought came with the same calm amorality as always:
Eight hundred pounds. Enough for several potions—or to buy silence for months. A Sequence 7 of the Lawyer Path… interesting. I could use Slowness to immobilize him, Poison Flames to rot him from the inside without noise, and the Degenerated Stalker Coat to approach unseen.
The invisible noose afterward wouldn't matter if I finish quickly. And if I can extract his main ingredient myself—as I did with Joren and Vargan—the extra payment is pure profit. No one here seems to know how. I do.
The withered-leaf scar on his chest pulsed once, softly.
Nourish… or rot. The Mother and the Abyss can share tonight.
The blood-red cloaked organizer raised his hand again.
"Those interested in the commission… remain at the end. The rest… we continue."
The meeting went on, but Matt had already decided that the night would not end with just the formula he had come to sell.
Matt remained still on his crate, listening to the steady dripping overhead.
The Sequence 9 Lawyer formula… the one I pulled from the Shadow Ascetic's spirit.
The thought crossed his mind with the same cold clarity.
I won't offer it. Not yet. It's mine. It could serve as bait later—or be sold to someone who can actually use it. Here, it would only draw unwanted eyes.
He did not raise his hand. He simply watched as the offers continued.
Twenty more minutes passed.
Twenty minutes of whispers, long pauses, deals that nearly closed and then collapsed over a handful of pounds.
A woman sold a vial of "Diluted Mermaid Blood" for ninety pounds. A man traded a "Rust-Eaten Prisoner Chain Fragment" for an incomplete Sequence 9 potion from some Path Matt didn't bother identifying.
Another sold an old scroll containing a minor invocation ritual from the Sleepless Path.
Each offer was acknowledged with the same slow nod from the red-cloaked organizer. Each deal was sealed with the soft clink of coins inside leather pouches.
Matt counted every minute in silence.
The scent of cheap incense had grown thicker, almost cloying. The cold of the sewers seeped through the cloaks. Beside him, Lira barely moved—but he could feel her patience thinning.
Finally, the red-cloaked figure raised his gloved hand one last time. The distorted voice echoed again, slow and deliberate:
"The new moon has spoken enough. Offers end here. Those interested in the assassination commission… remain. The rest… the exit is open. Do not look back."
The hooded figures rose one by one. Some left in silence through the tunnel. Others exchanged a few final whispered words before disappearing. The sound of footsteps on damp stone gradually faded until the dripping once again became the dominant noise.
Matt turned his head slightly toward Lira.
With a barely noticeable gesture—two fingers raised, then pointed toward the exit—he told her to leave.
No words. Just a cold glance beneath the mask.
Lira understood immediately. She stood calmly, adjusted her cloak, and walked toward the tunnel without looking back once. Her footsteps faded into the distance.
Now only four people remained in the chamber.
Matt.
The blood-red cloaked figure, still seated upon the platform.
His two unmoving guards, one on each side, their black cloaks and iron masks glinting under the yellow light.
And the man who had issued the commission—a hunched figure in a dark brown cloak, hood lowered, standing near a column.
The organizer spoke first, his voice low and metallic:
"Only one has chosen to stay. Good. Let us proceed."
Matt rose without haste. He walked toward the center with calm steps, his hands visible and empty. The Degenerated Stalker Coat brushed against his skin beneath the new cloak. The withered-leaf scar remained silent.
The man stepped forward. His voice was hoarse, tense:
"The target is a Sequence 7 of the Lawyer Path. Some call him 'the Notary.' He operates in the northern docks, near the abandoned warehouses. He's been stealing clients and contracts. Payment: eight hundred pounds in pure gold and a rare main ingredient from the same Path. Full details… only if you accept now."
Matt looked at him for a second.
Then he turned his head toward the red-cloaked organizer.
"I accept," he said simply, without emotion.
The red-cloaked figure inclined his head once, very slowly.
"Then the private meeting begins."
The dripping continued to mark the passage of time.
And in the now nearly empty chamber, only four shadows remained beneath the trembling light.