The Black Market (2)
"We have 3.5 million! 3.5 million cel!"
"And now 3.6 million! The bid just broke 3.6 million in the blink of an eye!"
Just how high was this going to climb?
Erso’s heart thudded hard against his ribs. Of everything on display today, that assassin’s sword was the prize he coveted most. Longer than a dagger, yet shorter than a typical arming blade, it was a classic weapon of their shadowy trade. And according to legend, Phantom had carried a blade just like it to pull off several utterly impossible contracts. The weapon itself held no extraordinary craftsmanship, but the 'Phantom markup' had launched its value straight into the stratosphere.
Too bad it was a fake. At least, as far as Ziel knew.
I never used junk like that.
Ziel had always favored daggers. He had trained in swordsmanship, of course, but daggers were vastly simpler to conceal beneath ordinary clothes.
"Moving on to 3.9 million! Do I hear four? Any more bids?"
The call inevitably blew past four million cel. Four million. That was enough coin to purchase a lavish estate in the Imperial Capital without breaking a sweat, yet someone was happily setting it on fire for a single short sword.
"Going once, going twice—sold to Bidder Number Thirteen for 4.2 million cel! Phantom's personal assassin sword belongs to you!"
A round of polite applause rippled through the hall. Some aristocrat had clearly claimed the prize; Ziel caught the unmistakable waft of expensive floral cologne drifting off the ecstatic man.
"And with the blade comes the operational log detailing its storied assignments! A relic perhaps even more precious than the steel itself—an authentic, internal security dossier straight from Black Sky!"
A blatant forgery. Someone was turning a monstrous profit peddling the names of Phantom and Black Sky. With the syndicate thoroughly wiped out, there was no one left alive to contradict the lie anyway.
Is that how people make money?
A sudden spark of economic enlightenment flickered in Ziel’s mind.
"Senior, I'm so jealous of that guy," Erso whispered, practically drooling. "Aren't you?"
"Envious?"
"Yes! It's an actual weapon used by Phantom! Anyone would be. If I had the coin, I'd have snatched it up in a heartbeat. Ugh, though millions of cel is a bit out of reach..."
Ziel couldn't quite fathom this fanatical devotion, but he could tell that Erso revered Phantom from the very bottom of his heart.
"Once the job is finished, I'll give you another dagger."
"Ah... right. Thank you." Erso’s tone carried zero gratitude.
"Besides, that wasn't Phantom's sword."
"Pardon? What do you mean...?"
"I just know."
Erso blinked, utterly lost. Not Phantom's? How could he possibly know that? Wait, does that mean it's a counterfeit?
"How could you know something like that, Senior?"
"I just know."
"You just..."
If anyone else had uttered those words, Erso would have dismissed them as drunken nonsense. But this was Senior. The confusion didn't linger long before his imagination took a wild, reverent leap. Wait... has Senior actually crossed paths with Phantom before? Is that how he knows?!
Meanwhile, the auctioneer ushered in the next lot with theatrical flair.
"Next is the second treasure in our Phantom Collection! The Pathfinder Compass carried by the Wraith himself! Masterwork engineering! Unfailing precision under any conditions! It even features enchantments that align directly toward your target! An exceptionally rare marvel issued only to Black Sky's supreme operatives!"
Now that, we actually used.
Though Ziel's own compass wasn't on that stage. It was tucked safely inside his faculty lodgings at Edelbein Academy, secured in a case only his mana could open.
"Due to the overwhelming passion in the room, and to keep things civil, we will open bidding at two million—"
"Three million!" someone barked immediately.
The bidding overheated anyway. Ziel watched the spectacle with mild curiosity. All that gold changing hands—enough to buy millions of skewers of street-cart chicken—just because someone attached the name 'Phantom' to an ordinary brass dial.
People in the outside world certainly have coin to spare.
Back in Black Sky, no matter how flawlessly you carried out an assassination, every single copper went directly to the syndicate. The operatives were thoroughly brainwashed tools, stripped clean of personal desire to ensure absolute obedience. They had no reason to spend money, nor any inkling of a desire to earn it.
Is this what people call resentment?
If he hadn't spent all those years conditioned like a machine, he probably could have eaten chicken skewers until he burst without worrying about the cost. Right now, he was actively stressing over how to stretch his meager academy instructor salary.
"...And sold for five million cel!"
Well, resentment aside, the auction was genuinely entertaining to watch. In his indoctrinated days, such a mundane event wouldn't have stirred a single emotion.
"Senior, is there anything you're looking to buy?" Erso asked.
"No. I have no interest in Phantom's belongings."
"D-do you dislike Phantom or something...?"
Ziel fell silent. Was this kid asking him if he hated himself?
Before he could formulate an answer, the auctioneer clapped his hands to reset the room's attention.
"The enthusiasm tonight is truly breathtaking! To give our esteemed patrons a brief breather, we will now introduce an auxiliary piece."
The attendant wheeled out a small display stand. It wasn't Velberg's Wing.
"Now, this isn't strictly an intermission piece. It isn't directly attributed to Phantom, though who knows? Perhaps the legendary assassin held it in his hands at least once! Behold: an iron key bearing the insignia of Black Sky!"
The auctioneer held up a key crafted from dark, dense metal.
"We have not discovered what lock it turns! But who can say? It might open an armory packed with unimaginable wealth! We shall open this curiosity at a modest 100,000 cel!"
The audience showed little interest. Lacking the explicit 'Phantom' label, only a handful of eccentric collectors raised their paddles.
"Number Five at 180,000. Number Eight at 190,000. Do I hear another?"
"Number Sixty, 210,000!"
"Three hundred thousand," Ziel said flatly.
"300,000! A sudden leap of nearly 100,000 cel!"
Erso’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Three hundred thousand for a hunk of rusty iron?! Don't tell me Senior is a fan of Black Sky after all?! But if he was, why didn't he bid on the sword earlier...?
"Any further bids? Three, two, one... Sold! The Black Sky crest key goes to Bidder Sixty!"
Ziel claimed the item with zero fuss. Erso leaned over, his voice laced with hesitation.
"Um, Senior... what do you need that key for?"
"Reasons."
The first two auction items were utter fabrications, but this key was entirely genuine. Ziel had seen it only once before, carried by the highest echelon of Black Sky's command—a key designed to open a deeply classified sanctum.
To think I'd find it here. I'll have to pay that vault a visit soon.
Everything Black Sky had ever hoarded was locked inside. And if Ziel's instincts were accurate, the Imperial Knight Order's subjugation wouldn't have uncovered it; the vault was hidden using the highest arts of assassin tradecraft. And he had just snatched the key for a measly 300,000 cel.
Does Senior have an antique collection hobby? Erso wondered, utterly off the mark.
Just then, the main attraction finally made its appearance.
"And now, our next lot... Velberg's Wing! An extraordinary rarity! An alchemical reagent so elusive that all the gold in the empire can hardly buy it! We open the bidding at 200,000 cel!"
Ziel folded his arms, waiting for the room to establish its pace.
"300,000 over here! 300,000! Moving forward... ah, 400,000 from the gentleman in back! 400,000!"
Competition quickly turned fierce. The previous novelties had been useless trinkets to practical people, but the wing of a Velberg harvested from deep southern jungles had countless potent alchemical applications.
"Passing 500,000! Bidding increments are now raised to 50,000! 550,000! 600,000! Wonderful!"
The price surged from its modest starting bid past 800,000, barreling straight toward a million. By that point, the casual buyers dropped away, leaving only two determined figures locked in a bidding war.
"Down to two patrons! Number Fifteen at 900,000! Countered immediately at 950,000! Back to Number Fifteen at one million! Increments are now 100,000 cel!"
Supplies of Velberg's Wing had dried up across the continent lately, driving even a single specimen to exorbitant heights.
"Things are getting spicy," Erso remarked, smacking his lips. "Well, an ingredient like that deserves it."
He glanced sideways at Ziel. Senior couldn't care less, obviously. The man simply stood with his arms crossed, watching the stage like an emotionless statue. Why did we even come down to the black market, then?
"1.3 million! 1.3 million cel on the floor!"
Ziel raised his hand.
"Three million."
Erso’s jaw dropped so fast it practically hit the floor tiles. The entire auction hall plunged into stunned, breathless silence.
"If there are no other bids, I will take it," Ziel added smoothly.
There was not a single whisper of a counter-offer. Bidders Fifteen and Twenty-Four, who had been clawing at each other over increments of a hundred thousand, stared at Ziel in sheer disbelief, looking at him as if he were an escaped lunatic.
"S-S-Senior... three million is..."
Bang, bang, bang!
"Three million cel! Sold! Dropping out of nowhere like a falling star at three million! Done!"
Ziel stood up without hesitation and turned to Erso. "Where do we go to collect the item?"
Ziel had no money. More accurately, he lacked imperial paper currency. But he possessed silver coins—Diquelen silver coins, the unregulated bullion circulating exclusively throughout the continental underworld, each valued between 200,000 and 300,000 cel.
Erso felt as though he had stepped into a hallucination.
Is this real life?
Ziel's coat pocket was practically bursting with them. Solid, gleaming silver coins. Hundreds of them, at the very least.
Two burning questions tore through Erso's mind: How does someone possess this much underworld silver? And how the hell is he carrying that absurd amount of dead weight like it's nothing?!
"At today's market rate... fifteen coins will settle the balance, sir," the clerk stated with trembling hands.
Ziel counted out fifteen Diquelen silver coins and took custody of the velvet-lined wooden box holding Velberg's Wing. With a subtle click, he unlatched the lid to verify the contents.
"Harvested fresh from the southernmost jungles of the continent," the clerk assured him quickly.
"Understood."
Securing the box inside his coat, Ziel turned, only to find Erso staring at him with utter veneration.
"Senior... you are truly terrifying."
"What is terrifying about this?"
"Well... haha. I never imagined you'd drop three million cel without flinching."
Velberg's Wing was undeniably rare, but it certainly wasn't worth three million. At best, 1.5 million. The two bidders battling earlier had likely set their ceiling around that number. Yet Senior had instantly doubled it.
"Money is not important," Ziel replied flatly.
Erso’s heart skipped a beat at the sheer aloofness of that answer. Holy shit, he's cool as hell. Hundreds of Diquelen silver coins jingling in his pocket, unfathomable personal wealth, and the supreme calm of someone who couldn't care less about mundane gold! I have to get on Senior's good side, no matter what!
In reality, Ziel hadn't given the matter any grand thought. Now that I have the wing, it's time to return. He hadn't packed the silver coins anticipating an extravagant bid; he had simply grabbed as many as his coat could hold to prepare for unexpected underworld emergencies. Back when he acquired them, he had possessed zero grasp of their actual market value. The merchant demanded fifteen coins, so he handed over fifteen. And he had called out three million cel simply because doubling the bid would prevent the auction from wasting any more of his valuable time.
The trouble was that through Erso’s warped perspective, every single deadpan gesture looked masterfully calculated and insanely cool.
"Um, Senior... is my role finished here, then?"
"Ah. Yes." Ziel reached into his coat and produced two daggers. "As promised."
"Thank you so much!" Erso received them with both hands, his expression beaming—a total departure from his disappointed scowl earlier.
Did he suddenly find a use for daggers? Seeing the subordinate so visibly delighted improved Ziel's mood as well.
"Shall we head out now?"
"I have acquired everything I came for."
"Allow me to guide you to the exit. Right this way."
Their business had concluded, but the auction hall behind them was still roaring with feverish shouts.
"And we are back from the break! Once again, an authentic artifact from the Wraith! This item is none other than—"
Erso didn't spare the stage a backward glance. Pfft, like I care about overpriced knockoffs I can't afford anyway.
"A dagger! The very essence and symbol of an assassin's trade!"
A dagger? The ones Senior just handed me are infinitely more valuable! A professional among professionals! A man who strolls through the shadows with sacks of pure silver!
"Oh, look who it is. Erso? You done already?" the smuggler guarding the corridor asked as they reached the rear tunnel.
"Yeah. Found what we came for. Everything quiet?"
"Quiet enough. But damn, why'd you get even uglier since you went inside? You wearing a Skin Mask or something?"
"Why does every bastard in this place use the exact same insult?" Erso grunted. Then, catching himself, he grinned broadly and clapped the guard's pauldron. "Next time we run into each other, drinks are on me."
"What kind of nonsense are you babbling now?"
"You'll see soon enough. Big news on the horizon, my friend."
"What, are you dying?"
"Screw off!"
A career change! Leaving Red Shadow behind to start an illustrious new life under a true master. Erso’s chest swelled with wild ambition.
"The surface exit is through here."
They stepped out into the damp, shadowed alleyway behind the warehouse.
"Is my mission fully complete, Senior?"
"Yes. You are dismissed."
"Thank you for entrusting me with the task. Please call on me whenever you have need."
Erso puffed his chest out with pride. He had done well. Perhaps too well—the job had been absurdly simple. Just navigating the black market? He's testing the waters first, giving me easy errands before ramping up to the real wetwork.
His delusions were snowballing out of control, but to Ziel, a compliant guide was a helpful guide.
"Are you heading back as well, Senior? If there's anything else you require—"
No answer came.
Erso turned his head and realized Ziel wasn't looking at him at all. His dark gaze was fixed on the far end of the alleyway.
"It seems we have people waiting for us."
"Pardon?"
The instant the words left Ziel's lips, half a dozen figures stepped out from the dense gloom. Though wrapped in heavy travel cloaks, they couldn't conceal the sharp metallic scent of weapon oil or the muted clinking of plate armor beneath the fabric.
Nobles?
Erso’s posture stiffened into high alert. Had imperial authorities arrived to raid the black market? Tensions in the underworld had been razor-thin ever since Black Sky was dismantled; was this an imperial sweep?
The man standing at the head of the group stopped a few paces away and addressed Ziel.
"I understand you won the auction for Velberg's Wing. Is that correct?"
"It is," Ziel replied evenly.
"I will pay you double your winning bid. Hand over the wing."
Ziel’s answer was just as calm.
"No."
A stunned silence hung in the alleyway. The man had clearly not expected such an immediate, unyielding refusal. When he spoke again, a thread of tightly suppressed irritation edged his tone.
"It is an extraordinarily generous offer. Double your bid equates to six million cel. An absurd sum for an alchemical ingredient."
Ziel tilted his head slightly.
"Then why didn't you simply buy it at the auction?"
It was an inquiry born of pure, literal curiosity.
"...Circumstances prevented my attendance."
"Is that so?"
Assuming Ziel was beginning to see reason, the man pressed forward. "I will pay every single copper of that doubled sum. So yield the wing. It serves a matter of supreme importance."
Ziel’s response remained identical.
"No."
"..."
The man lapsed into heavy, suffocating silence.
Then—
"Forgive me. It appears I must draw my blade."
Addressing the cloaked figure standing silently behind him, the man reached down toward the hilt at his hip. But just as the cold steel began to whisper from its scabbard—
"Stand down, Sir Lelio."
A voice laden with profound, undeniable imperial authority cut through the alley, freezing the knight's hand in place.