The  Black Market

The flea market, shrouded in morning mist, carried the stench of rotting fish and soot. Oliver pressed his hood low over his brow, occasionally brushing his palms against the pockets of his coat as he navigated the crowded stalls. Inside, hidden in his pockets, were 143 silver coins he had scavenged from Sister Marta.

The cold, heavy silver coins were a relief to him.

He had never held so much money in his life.

"Freshly baked black bread! Three copper coins!" The old woman with a frostbitten face huddled under the leaky shack, shouting her wares.

Beside her, a seven- or eight-year-old child kneaded wood shavings into the dough.

Oliver counted out five copper coins. As he took the bread, he noticed that the child was missing three fingers on his right hand. He'd heard that the boy had gone to church to steal, gotten caught, and had his fingers cut off.

This was a common sight in the marketplace, where many bore the scars of punishment by the church—disabilities left behind from their brutality.

Oliver shoved the dry, hard black bread into his mouth and chewed, the faint sweetness mingling with the taste of wood chips.

"Get out of my way, all of you!"

A commotion erupted ahead, and four guards in leather armor parted the crowd with long whips, shouting, "Dirty rats! Make way for Lord Roderick!"

A crippled old man, unable to dodge in time, was knocked over by the overturned pickle barrels. One of the guards kicked him to the ground, and the old man could only writhe in pain.

Oliver glanced at the wagon with disgust, but, powerless to change anything, he turned away.

The commotion continued behind him.

Lord Roderick, Oliver knew the name. He was a level 3 Divine Artist.

Level 1 Divine Magicians, like Sister Marta, were already treated like nobles, enjoying special privileges such as tax exemptions.

Level 2 Divine Magicians belonged to the wealthy elite, living in grand homes with endless wealth and indulgent feasts.

Level 3 Divine Magicians, however, were the true powerhouses of Glensorne City. With a single word, they could decide the fates of countless people.

Just like now. Lord Roderick's procession had caused such a disturbance. Ordinary people who couldn't avoid it had been kicked by his guards, breaking their legs. With no money for medical care, their injuries would leave them disabled for life.

In front of a level 3 Divine Artist, ordinary people were as insignificant as ants—utterly humble.

"When will I ever be this powerful…" Oliver couldn't help but think.

He was a False Believer (2/10), far stronger than an average level 1 Divine Artist, but still far from a level 2, let alone a level 3.

Stepping away from the chaos, Oliver made his way toward the legendary black market.

Sister Marta's silver staff, with its hidden dagger and power-enhancing properties, was a C-rank magic artifact. How much could it sell for, he wondered?

The smell of rotting fish and soot was replaced by sulfur as Oliver rounded the corner of a sewer. His boots sank into a sticky, gelatinous sludge.

The fee just to enter the black market had cost Oliver ten silver coins.

That was what he would've earned after a week of part-time work back in the day.

Following a worn, hand-drawn map, Oliver pressed on. Before he passed through the third iron fence, he saw the reflection of the one-eyed guard's candlestick in the twisted, blood-red vines on the wall—the church's living sirens, now coated in powder made from baby teeth, their bodies stiff and unnatural.

"New face?" The guard sneered, eyeing Oliver. Calmly, Oliver pulled a vial of reagent from his black robes and handed it over.

"Fresh clergy brains… you qualify."

The guard eyed Oliver again, nodding. A flicker of awe and doubt passed through his gaze. To him, Oliver seemed like an ordinary man, not even possessing The Divine Circuit—so what had made him kill a clergyman?

The Black Market in Glensorne City was a haven for those opposed to the church!

To enter, one had to prove they were persecuted by the Church of the Seven Gods or had a severely strained relationship with them.

Oliver pulled out Sister Marta's fresh brain, allowing him to pass.

After passing through the iron fence, there was still a narrow, filthy passage, like a sewage outlet. It wasn't until after walking through the 18-meter-long sewer tunnel that Oliver officially entered the black market.

It wasn't large—there were only seven stalls. Three were closed, and the remaining four were dealing in food, weapons, armor, and magic artifacts of uncertain origin.

The stall selling weapons and food had the most onlookers gathered in front of it.

In front of the blacksmith's store, a massive cast iron furnace roared with fire, molten silver swirling in the crucible.

One-armed smiths poured rare steel and iron into various weapons, imbuing them with a touch of magical power. Every time one was finished, someone would rush forward to buy it.

This one-armed smith, said to possess the strength of a rank 2 Divine Artist, held a prominent position in the black market.

When Oliver approached the blacksmith's stall, the apprentice in charge gave him a quick glance and said coldly, "New face? Wait on the side!"

Meanwhile, a Level 1 Divine Arcanist who had arrived with Oliver was immediately given a seat.

The Divine Circuit on Divine Magicians made them as noticeable as stars in the night sky, earning them special treatment and respect.

It was only natural for someone like Oliver, an ordinary person, to be looked down upon.

"Lately, the good stuff from the Solon Mines has been getting rarer and rarer. The lone clergy members are even rarer. I haven't had anything worthwhile in half a month. Last time, I got a D-rank secret silver stone and was thrilled for days…"

"Be content. I haven't had anything in over six months and have been living off the church's relief."

"Huh? You're anti-church and still taking relief from them?"

"Most of the people in the church are bastards, but Archbishop St. Claude is different. What I receive is the relief distributed by him personally."

Archbishop St. Claude, one of the top three rank 3 Divine Magi in the Glensorne Church, was said to be on the verge of being promoted to rank 4.

This archbishop, known to the public as the Silver-crowned Saint, was a philanthropist. Born to a fallen noble family, 20 years ago, he had donated all his family's wealth to rebuild a church in the slums. He presided over the "Mass of the Dawn," a ritual that could temporarily heal the disabled and even revive the terminally ill…

He wore a silver mask at all times, declaring that "his face is dedicated to the gods."

Oliver listened to the conversation while observing the transactions in the blacksmith's stall. Most of the items being bought and sold were grade E or even grade F.

Occasionally, a D-rank item appeared, drawing gasps of admiration.

Sister Marta's silver staff, however, was a C-rank item—far superior to what anyone else in the market was selling.

Though she was also a rank 1 Divine Magician, Sister Marta seemed far wealthier than the other rank 1 Divine Magicians in the black market.

This made sense, of course. Marta had the backing of the Church of the Seven Gods, which provided her with ample resources. Her wealth surpassed that of wild Divine Magicians.

In contrast, the anti-church rank 1 Divine Arcanists didn't fare as well.

When Oliver brought out the silver staff, the crowd fell silent for a moment.

"A D-rank silver staff, in perfect condition. Young man, are you sure you want to sell it?"

Even the blacksmith raised his head and looked toward Oliver, signaling that this was a deal to be taken seriously.

"Of course, it's dirty, and I'd like it disposed of properly."

This was a market full of anti-church individuals, so Oliver wasn't afraid of revealing the staff's sordid origins. Even so, he kept his hood low, his face still covered.