Late March in Silverhaven carried a rare kind of balance.
The air was neither too warm nor too cold—just enough to brush against the skin with a gentle, almost deliberate touch. A soft breeze drifted through the streets, carrying with it the mingled scents of roasted meat, engine oil, aged wood… and something older.
Something forgotten.
By the time Adrian Cole arrived at the Old District Market, the place was already overflowing with people.
Voices collided in the air—vendors shouting, customers bargaining, laughter echoing from corner stalls. The entire street stretched for nearly half a kilometer, packed tightly on both sides with makeshift booths and permanent shops alike. Tables were cluttered with artifacts—coins dulled by time, rusted armor fragments, delicate jewelry, cracked statues, mechanical oddities whose purpose had long been lost.
A chaotic museum.
Or a battlefield of deception.
Adrian parked his electric bike near the entrance, locking it with a soft click. For a brief moment, he stood still, observing.
The crowd moved like a living organism—shifting, flowing, unpredictable.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Then he stepped forward.
He didn't wander aimlessly.
His path was direct.
Purposeful.
Within minutes, he found it again.
The sword.
It lay across a faded velvet cloth atop a wooden stall—unassuming at first glance, yet subtly commanding attention. Its scabbard was worn, leather cracked with age. The hilt bore intricate engravings—faint, but deliberate.
It looked real.
Too real.
Behind the stall sat a man in his forties. Dark skin, weathered face, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. His expression was relaxed—almost bored—but his eyes were sharp.
They noticed Adrian immediately.
Recognition flickered.
"You came by yesterday, didn't you?" the man said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.
Adrian didn't answer immediately.
His gaze was locked on the sword.
"…Yeah."
The vendor smirked slightly, tapping ash to the ground.
"Good eye, then. Not many people notice quality like this. Thinking of taking it?"
Adrian crouched slightly, studying the blade without touching it.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether it's worth the price."
The vendor chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
"Six hundred sixty-five thousand Marks. For something like this? That's already a gift."
Adrian didn't react.
Instead—
His mind moved.
Activate: Truth Recognition.
The world seemed to dim for a fraction of a second.
Then—
A translucent overlay formed in his vision.
Item: Decorative Replica Sword
Estimated Origin: Industrial Manufacture (Modern)
Year: 2008
Material Quality: Low-grade alloy
Estimated Value: 1,200 – 2,000 Marks
Silence.
Adrian's eyes lingered on the sword for a moment longer.
Then—
A faint exhale escaped his lips.
Disappointment.
Not because he was fooled.
But because… he had hoped.
"Good craftsmanship," he said calmly, standing up. "But not what I'm looking for."
The vendor's smile didn't fade—but it stiffened.
"Suit yourself."
"Wait."
A voice—clear, composed—cut through the noise of the market.
Adrian turned.
A woman approached.
Late twenties. Maybe early thirties. Sharp eyes, confident posture. She wore a fitted coat despite the mild weather, her movements precise, controlled. Not flashy—but not ordinary either.
Her gaze shifted between Adrian and the sword.
"You were looking at this too?" she asked.
Adrian gave a small nod.
"Yes."
She stepped closer, crouching slightly to examine the weapon.
"For the price… it's risky," she said. "But if it's authentic, it's a steal."
The vendor leaned forward slightly, interest rekindled.
"Miss has a good eye. This piece? Old royal forge work. You won't find another like it in Silverhaven."
The woman frowned slightly, unconvinced—but intrigued.
She glanced at Adrian again.
"How about this," she said, straightening. "We split it."
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
"I cover half, you cover half. We get it appraised properly afterward. If it's real, we both profit. If not… we share the loss."
Her tone was practical.
Measured.
Not desperate.
Adrian studied her for a moment.
There was no deception in her expression.
No hidden signals to the vendor.
No performance.
She was genuine.
But that didn't change anything.
He shook his head.
"No."
The woman blinked, slightly surprised.
"No?"
"It's not worth it."
The vendor's expression hardened just a fraction.
"Careful with your words," he said lightly. "You're talking about a valuable piece."
Adrian ignored him.
Instead, he looked directly at the woman.
"You're serious about buying it?"
"Yes."
"Then don't."
A pause.
The noise of the market seemed to fade slightly around them.
"Why?" she asked.
Adrian stepped closer to the stall.
This time, he picked up the sword.
The metal felt… wrong.
Too light.
Too clean beneath the surface wear.
He turned it slightly, letting sunlight catch along the edge.
"Because it's fake."
Silence.
The vendor stood up abruptly.
"That's a bold claim."
Adrian didn't even glance at him.
Instead, he pointed at the blade.
"See this line? It's supposed to be a forging fold. But it's too uniform. Machine-made."
He rotated the hilt slightly.
"And this engraving—looks aged, but the depth is inconsistent. Acid etching, not hand-carved."
The woman stepped closer, eyes narrowing as she followed his explanation.
Adrian continued, voice calm, precise.
"The leather? Artificial distressing. And the balance—completely off for a weapon meant for combat."
He lowered the sword back onto the table.
"Best case? Decorative replica."
Then his gaze shifted—finally—to the vendor.
"Worth maybe… two thousand Marks."
The air changed.
People nearby had started to notice.
A small crowd gathered.
Whispers spread.
"Fake?"
"Seriously?"
"That guy sounds like he knows what he's talking about…"
The vendor's face darkened.
"You think you can just walk in here and ruin my business?"
Adrian met his gaze.
Unflinching.
Cold.
"No," he said quietly.
"You did that yourself."
For a moment—
The tension snapped tight.
The vendor looked around.
At the crowd.
At the woman.
At Adrian.
Something in his expression shifted.
Calculation.
Then—
Without another word, he grabbed the sword, stuffed it into a case, and began packing up his stall.
Fast.
Messy.
Avoiding eye contact.
Within seconds—
He was gone.
The crowd buzzed with excitement, disappointment, curiosity.
Some laughed.
Some shook their heads.
Others dispersed, already moving on to the next distraction.
The woman exhaled slowly.
"…Well," she muttered. "That answers that."
She turned to Adrian.
"Thanks."
Adrian shrugged slightly.
"Just saved you money."
She studied him for a moment longer.
"You do this professionally?"
"No."
"Then how—"
"Observation."
A pause.
Then she smiled faintly.
"…Right."
Adrian didn't linger.
He turned and walked away, blending back into the crowd.
But inside—
He frowned.
One use.
Gone.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath.
If she had arrived earlier… he wouldn't have needed to use the system.
Now he only had limited uses.
A waste.
Still—
He adjusted quickly.
No point dwelling on it.
He spent the next hour moving through the market, scanning stalls, observing items—but not using the system.
Not yet.
Not until it mattered.
Eventually—
He reached the southeastern corner.
The air changed.
The polished antiques gave way to something rougher.
Raw.
Unrefined.
Stone.
Dozens of stalls lined the area—each one covered in chunks of irregular rock. Some small enough to hold in one hand. Others as large as a suitcase.
This was the raw gem district.
Uncut.
Uncertain.
Dangerous.
People crouched beside the stones, shining flashlights against their surfaces, peering into tiny cracks and fractures.
Hope.
Greed.
Calculation.
All mixed into one.
Adrian was surprised to see something like this in this world. In his previous life, he had only heard of stone gambling in distant eastern regions.
Adrian stopped at the busiest stall.
His eyes scanned the price tags.
And then—
He almost laughed.
"Everything starts at one hundred thousand?" he murmured.
Even the smallest pieces.
The larger ones?
Several hundred thousand.
One, roughly the size of a football, had a visible red and blue line running through a natural crack.
Price:
12 million Marks.
A few men stood around it, debating quietly.
Adrian didn't bother.
Instead—
He focused on a smaller range.
Four stones.
Each priced between 100,000 and 500,000 Marks.
Perfect.
His reasoning was simple.
One—
That was all he could afford.
Two—
Higher price usually meant higher probability.
And three—
He had the system.
After examining them visually—twice—he made his choice.
The largest one.
Oval-shaped.
Rough surface.
Unremarkable.
Activate: Truth Recognition.
The overlay appeared.
Item: Raw Sapphire Stone
Origin: Old Vein Deposit (Frontier Region)
Estimated Value: 3.3M – 4.7M Marks
Adrian's heart slammed against his ribs.
Once.
Hard.
But his face—
Remained calm.
He pointed at the stone.
"I'll take this one. Number 31."
The stall owner approached quickly.
"Good choice. 475,000 Marks."
Adrian nodded, pulling out his card.
"No problem."
Transaction complete.
"Want it cut here?" the owner asked, already smiling.
Adrian met his gaze.
"Yes."
The man's grin widened.
He grabbed a loudspeaker.
"Stone Number 31—live cut!"
Heads turned.
People gathered.
Excitement sparked instantly.
The stone was placed on the cutting table.
The machine roared to life.
SCREEEECH—
The first cut.
Clean.
Precise.
Water splashed across the surface.
And then—
A faint shimmer.
Blue.
"Wait—there's color!"
"Holy—he hit something!"
The crowd surged closer.
The second cut came down.
Slower.
Deeper.
And then—
It bloomed.
A rich, vivid blue erupted from within the stone, glowing under the sunlight like something alive.
Clear.
Brilliant.
Perfect.
"Sapphire!"
"That's high-grade!"
"He struck it big!"
Voices exploded around him.
Shock.
Envy.
Disbelief.
Adrian exhaled slowly.
For the first time since arriving—
He allowed himself to smile.
A real one.
Because this time—
He hadn't just survived.
He had won.