The Polar Night Dagger (3)
On the outskirts of District 13 lay an expansive vineyard managed by the Ospelt family.
At its annex, speaking the secret passphrase prompted the guards to swing the heavy door open without a single question. That was the hallmark of such clandestine black markets: so long as you possessed the method of entry, they admitted you without hesitation, for the means of access was itself a jealously guarded secret. In Ziel's case, however, the urban legend of the Dark Ghost had allowed him to acquire that secret without spending a single brass farthing.
"This is my first time at this kind of black market too, Boss," Gilbert whispered under his breath. "I knew it existed, but..."
Black markets came in many tiers. With a bit of legwork, an ordinary citizen could stumble into one, though the merchandise peddled in such dens was rarely worth a second glance. In that regard, the market Ziel had previously visited with Gilbert had been quite respectable. Yet this gathering was on an entirely different echelon—a sanctum reserved solely for those who paid exorbitant sums to purchase the "secret," where extraordinary treasures awaited.
Instead of anticipation, however, Ziel voiced a different observation.
"I smell something familiar."
"Pardon? A familiar scent?"
"Yes."
The lingering trace in the corridor was unmistakably recognizable. 'It's too faint. I'll know for certain once we head inside.'
"Halt and put on your masks," a new gatekeeper commanded, stepping forward as they reached the subterranean corridor beneath the annex and offering them two porcelain visors.
"You must not remove your mask, nor may you speak. Even if you recognize an acquaintance, you must make no sign of familiarity."
Such were the inviolable rules of this bazaar.
"All bidding and purchases are conducted strictly by numbered paddles. Your numbers are 34 and 35, respectively. Payment is, naturally, in silver coin."
Following the masks, the gatekeeper handed them their respective wooden paddles.
"Upon conclusion, proceed behind the stone lion statue to exit. In the event of an emergency evacuation, make use of the passage concealed behind the grandest ornamental tapestry."
The instructions made it clear that every guest was assigned a different egress route. 'They're preventing buyers from tailing one another.'
"Attempting to depart through an emergency tunnel under normal circumstances, or deviating from your designated route, will result in immediate execution. Take heed."
Just as Ziel expected. While admission required nothing more than a passphrase, everything within operated under cold, ironclad discipline.
"Furthermore, every movement of the attendees is monitored without blind spots by the Eye of Askal."
The Eye of Askal. Ziel was familiar with the name—an exceedingly rare and costly surveillance magitech artifact.
"The Eye of Askal... that's incredible," Gilbert murmured in quiet awe.
"From the moment you cross this threshold, all speech is strictly forbidden," the gatekeeper warned, his tone flat, bureaucratic, and laced with unmistakable lethal intent as he stood aside.
Ziel and Gilbert stepped across the boundary.
'Deploying the Eye of Askal must have required astronomical capital.'
That particular magical device replaced an operator's standard vision with the perspective projected through the artifact itself. In essence, it temporarily substituted one's physical eyes with the omniscient Eye of Askal.
'They're taking every conceivable precaution to ensure absolute security.'
Who could the mastermind behind this black market be? Exercising such meticulous caution and mobilizing high-tier artifacts required wealth and political leverage far beyond the reach of ordinary nobility.
'House Ospelt, advanced magitech, rigid protocol, and... a dense web of mana blanketing the entire subterranean chamber.'
Organizing the gathered clues in his mind, Ziel made his way deeper into the hall. 'Let's observe the lay of the land first.'
Inside, dozens of plush seats faced a raised wooden stage. Nearly every chair was already occupied. Harsh spotlights beat down upon the platform, where both the auctioneer and the illicit goods were soon to appear.
'The overall security tier is remarkably high.'
Aside from the glaring spotlights on stage, Ziel counted at least five separate Eyes of Askal mounted along the ceiling. In addition to a variety of defensive magical wards, no fewer than a dozen sentries lurked within the upper rafters, keeping vigil over the floor below.
'Their respiratory rhythm and scent... professional assassins.'
Ziel's curiosity deepened. Who had organized a bazaar under such formidable protection? The sole objective of tonight's excursion was to trace the source leaking the Black Sky's confiscated relics. The operator would certainly know that backer's identity. Or rather—'they might be the very same person.'
The Black Sky had fallen. Ziel had systematically erased every trace of his own existence. Yet the world had not forgotten the mythical shadow known as the "Phantom." So long as relics associated with the syndicate continued to surface, there remained an infinitesimal chance that an investigator might pick up his scent. The likelihood was microscopic, but Ziel was a veteran operative. Throughout his life, he had weighed every fraction of a percent to arrive at the most pragmatic course of action.
'This way, Boss,' Gilbert signaled with a brief tilt of his head.
The two took their seats. Gilbert was visibly taut with tension, and with good reason. Even without mastery of the Breathing of the Polar Night, anyone with combat experience could tell the assembly was packed with monstrous talent.
'Six Great Knight-tier combatants, four just below that rank. And a considerable number of seasoned mages.'
Gilbert could gauge their martial caliber by intuition, but Ziel possessed a method entirely his own: scent.
From his years in the underworld, Ziel maintained an unbreakable habit of memorizing the unique olfactory signatures of every individual he crossed paths with. When synchronized with the Breathing of the Polar Night, his sensory recall was absolute.
'So these were the scents drifting down the entry corridor.'
Many were vaguely familiar, but two belonged to individuals he had encountered quite recently.
'Professor Marchen Curtis.'
The supervising professor of the Sword School's third-year class. He had shared a meal with her not long ago at the restaurant known as Lancaster's Star. For reasons Ziel could never fathom, she had appeared utterly incensed when settling the bill. 'She was smiling, yet she radiated pure fury.' Unlike her condescending attitude at the start of the term, she had abruptly turned amicable toward the end—only to revert to bristling hostility the moment they finished dining together. Finding her in a place like this was thoroughly unexpected.
And the second familiar scent belonged to someone even more surprising.
'Personnel Director Locus Abue.'
The head of the Academy's dreaded Personnel Bureau. Dean Berhal's son, and the man who kept that stern investigator, Lena, constantly by his side. What could his purpose be here? 'I'll need to keep an eye on him.'
At that moment, a figure stepped onto the brightly lit stage. He wore a mask as well, though unlike the audience's full-face visors, his was a silver half-mask that left his lower jaw exposed.
"Greetings, esteemed guests. Welcome to our nocturnal festival. As many of you are aware, tonight's catalogue features an extensive selection from the renowned 'Black Sky Series.' May fortune favor your bids."
The host wasted no time on pleasantries, diving straight into the proceedings.
"Our first lot of the evening. Boasting an exquisite and noble craftsmanship..."
Nothing particularly noteworthy caught Ziel's attention during the opening rounds. But by the tenth lot, the auctioneer's tone shifted with deliberate theatricality.
"Now, the moment you have all been patiently waiting for. We shall begin introducing the Black Sky Series. Before we proceed, the opening bid starts at a baseline of two hundred thousand, with no ceiling on increments..."
It had begun.
"Lot eleven: a Monument of Illusions! Given the fervent reception in our previous gathering, we managed to procure additional stock. Regrettably, our scouts could secure only three. This will truly be the final offering of its kind, as very few ever existed within the Black Sky syndicate to begin with!"
A Monument of Illusions. The bounty fugitive had claimed he purchased his own stone at the prior market, confirming the host's claims. While inferior to the supreme-grade monument Ziel currently carried, it remained a formidable clandestine tool.
"Next, the syndicate's proprietary monofilament wire. A vital staple carried by every Black Sky operative. Forged from Vermesan steel drawn to microscopic thickness via arcane metallurgy, and coated with a unique paralytic dusting..."
That, too, was authentic. Ziel possessed several spools of the identical wire. The reality of the syndicate's leaked arsenal was confirmed beyond all doubt.
A succession of specialized underworld tools followed, every single one of which Ziel had handled extensively during his past life. To Ziel, they were mundane utensils of a former trade; to the cloaked figures in the audience, they were mythic relics. A tangible tremor of excitement rolled through the gallery. Several patrons gripped their wooden paddles so tightly their knuckles whitened, beads of nervous sweat forming behind their porcelain masks.
The legendary assassin syndicate, Black Sky. Once a terrifying shadow that held the Empire in mortal dread, now reduced to broken history. Ziel could hardly fathom what emotional thrill it stirred in these people, but—
"We must extend our sincere regrets, however: tonight's collection contains no personal belongings attributed to the 'Phantom'."
One truth was undeniably clear: the Phantom's reputation was the primary engine driving this entire frenzy.
A figure once spoken of only in hushed, trembling whispers had, in the wake of the syndicate's destruction, transformed into an object of romanticized legend and obsessive reverence. The Phantom had become a symbol that provoked human greed and curiosity to its absolute zenith. None of them dreamed for an instant that the very Wraith they worshiped was sitting quietly among them in seat number 34.
"However, we have ensured an abundant supply of alternative artifacts, so please, participate with enthusiasm. Thank you. Now, let the bidding commence!"
As the frenzy began, Ziel made no move to raise his paddle. He had zero interest in buying back weapons he had used for years. His gaze remained fixed entirely past the spotlight, locked onto the backstage curtains. He wanted the provider pulling the strings.
"Paddle fifteen, seven hundred thousand!"
While Ziel remained inert, someone else in the gallery was practically vibrating with fervor. Her face was hidden beneath a mask, but the distinctive scent radiating from her was impossible to disguise. It was Professor Marchen, vigorously raising her paddle at every opportunity!
"Paddle seventeen, eight hundred thousand! Eight hundred thousand going once! Any further bids? Five, four, three, two, one... Sold! Congratulations to paddle seventeen!"
Having successfully secured the Black Sky monofilament wire, the petite professor wriggled in her seat with sheer, unbridled ecstasy. Eight hundred thousand chel for a single spool of wire! It was an absurd markup, yet such was the terrifying cachet of the Black Sky name.
'Is she planning to incorporate it into her curriculum?' Ziel mused, mentally reviewing several tactical training exercises one could conduct using high-tension wire. 'She is far more dedicated to the art of education than I gave her credit for.'
Alas, Ziel's pragmatic mind completely missed the mark. He had no inkling that Professor Marchen was, in secret, an ardent and obsessive disciple of the Phantom's legend.
While Marchen continued to bid furiously on subsequent items, another figure caught Ziel's attention.
'What could he possibly be aiming for?'
Personnel Director Locus Abue merely kept his eyes glued to the stage. Just like Ziel, he had not raised his paddle a single time.
There was, incidentally, one other attendee who hadn't bid once—though in his case, it was born entirely of barren pockets.
'Ugh, if only I'd hauled out all the silver from the safe house!'
Gilbert was equally devoted to the myth. He squirmed in agony, his foot tapping rhythmically against the floorboards.
"Sold, sold! Totaling one million! Our congratulations!"
If only he could afford a single keepsake! Even if it hadn't been wielded by Lord Mortis himself, it was still authentic memorabilia from the now-extinct Black Sky. All Gilbert possessed on his person were a few loose silver coins and, absurdly enough, the combat dagger his boss had casually handed him as a mission commission!
'No, wait. Why am I despairing? I have the Boss.'
Just as Gilbert comforted himself with that revelation, a stagehand hurried out from behind the velvet backdrop and handed a lacquered ebony box to the auctioneer. The host leaned down, exchanged a few hurried whispers, nodded with gravity, and raised his hands to address the crowd.
"Ah, ladies and gentlemen, we must temporarily suspend the scheduled catalogue."
A chorus of disappointed, muffled groans rippled through the seated buyers.
"Our deepest apologies, but this interlude will not be long. We do so only to deliver news that will bring our distinguished guests the greatest joy imaginable."
At those words, cold light flickered through the eye-slits of dozens of masks.
"Brace yourselves! We have just this second procured a verified personal possession of the 'Phantom' himself!"
The sullen murmurs instantly dissolved into sharp, collective gasps. A true relic of the Phantom! This was the singular prize that every wealthy patron in the room had paid fortunes simply to have the chance of seeing. A suffocating wave of quiet, electric tension enveloped the chamber.
'Time to move,' Ziel decided.
"Now then, behold!"
Click.
The gilded latch sprang free.
"A genuine dagger."
The long-awaited artifact was revealed. Despite the absolute prohibition against speaking, several patrons leaned forward so violently their chairs creaked, breathless murmurs escaping their lips. Rather than enforcing the rules, the auctioneer clearly intended to ride the crest of this mounting hysteria.
Clack.
Snapping the lid shut, the host surveyed the room, the corners of his mouth curling upward into a triumphant smirk.
"As you all appreciate, this piece is exceptionally rare. Therefore, the opening bid will be set at an introductory price of two million."
Two million chel. An utterly preposterous sum, yet every paddle in the room was clutched in white-knuckled anticipation.
"Furthermore, allow me to make an announcement. Toward the conclusion of tonight's proceedings, we will offer a preview of our next grand auction, during which we shall unveil another truly peerless treasure to be sold in the coming month."
Yet despite the tease of an upcoming marvel, nobody could tear their gaze away from the box containing the Phantom's dagger. Only three individuals in the entire hall reacted differently.
The first was Gilbert.
'Wait a second.' Gilbert tilted his head, his brow furrowing beneath his porcelain mask as he replayed the glimpse of the blade in his mind. 'That looks... awfully familiar. Almost identical to the ones the Boss hands out like candy.'
A grim realization struck Gilbert. Could it be...?
'I almost feel sorry for these rich bastards.'
It was a blatant swindle! How could a plain, functional utility blade like that be the legendary Phantom's personal armament? 'The Boss handed me three of those identical daggers just to clean game and pry open crates! I have one tucked in my boot right now!' In fact, he had shoved it into his sheath when leaving the safe house this very afternoon. 'Tsk, tsk. Slapping the Phantom's name on standard steel to fleece these suckers, are they?' Gilbert clicked his tongue in disdain, silently pitying whoever threw two million chel away on common iron.
The second was Locus Abue. Entirely indifferent to the dagger, his cold eyes remained fixed solely on the structure of the stage, his underlying motives impossible to divine.
And the third was Ziel.
He didn't spare the wooden box a single glance.
'Let's begin.'
Keeping his mask level with the stage, Ziel barely parted his lips, vibrating the atmospheric mana to transmit his voice directly into Gilbert's ear canal.
"Gilbert. Do not reply, simply listen. The hall will plunge into complete darkness for a brief interval. When I return, proceed immediately toward the emergency exit."
The instant the command left his lips, Ziel cycled the Breathing of the Polar Night to its absolute apex—
In a fraction of a heartbeat, pitch-black void swallowed the entire subterranean hall.
The radiance surrounding the Eyes of Askal vanished. The blazing stage spotlights died. Every stray particle of ambient illumination within the chamber was violently snuffed out.
It was instantaneous. A span of roughly two seconds—barely enough time for a human mind to register the sudden blindness, let alone scream or lunge from a seat.
Snap!
Just as abruptly, the light flooded back.
"Wh-what was that?"
"The lights... all of a sudden..."
Muffled cries and groans echoed through the gallery as attendees shielded their stinging eyes from the searing glare. Even the auctioneer squinted behind his raised hand, though he swiftly forced his composure back into place.
"Apologies, ladies and gentlemen! It appears we experienced a momentary fluctuation in the illumination matrix. To resume our presentation..."
In the rafters above, the restored Eyes of Askal swept across the seated audience in rapid succession.
"No movement or departure detected."
"It appears to have been an isolated surge in the central mana core. Dispatch an engineer to inspect the primary magic stone."
Neither the sensory mages nor the hidden sentries linked to the surveillance network detected the slightest irregularity.
Or rather, that was merely how it appeared to their eyes.
'Wait... the Boss is still sitting right here?' Gilbert blinked dumbly behind his visor, looking at the silent figure beside him. 'Didn't he just tell me to prepare for an exit when he returned?'
Even Gilbert, sitting an arm's length away, failed to perceive that Ziel was already gone.
"Now then, let us commence the bidding! As stated, our opening price begins at..."
Hummmm.
Beneath seat number 34, buried deep in the shadows under the floorboards, a Monument of Illusions hummed with silent, translucent mana.
It cast an unbroken, perfectly breathing phantom.
The spitting image of Ziel Steelheart.