Black Market (3)
“Unnie…? Why’d you call me?”
“Come here. I’ll show you something cool.”
I called Sofia over first.
Illusion
A burst of light swirled around me, overlaying an illusion that completely changed my appearance.
“Wh-what…? Unnie…?”
“What do you think? This is the real me.”
“It’s amazing. Is this… that… magic…?”
I nodded and checked myself out in the full-length mirror.
Shoulder-length bob haircut. A refined face that wasn’t flashy— the kind people call a “plain beauty.” Add in the frilly summer outing dress, and it all came together into a pure, innocent image.
Compared to my true witch look, this was utterly ordinary. That one was basically cosplay anyway.
I’d designed it to be a believable beauty from the real world—nothing too out there.
I’d spent all day agonizing over how to make something pretty but inconspicuous. My masterpiece. Modeling it felt like crafting a daughter or little sister, which made me love it even more. Every detail was meticulously handcrafted.
Sofia stood there with her mouth agape, so I added,
“So, what do you think? Not bad, right?”
Honestly, I’d first tried projecting a male form. For shady dealings, a burly guy fits better than a girl—fewer unwanted incidents.
But my magic wasn’t advanced enough yet; I couldn’t stray too far from the original. So this was the result. Not because I prefer curvy figures or anything.
Sofia blushed and replied,
“…It’s sexy.”
Hold up. What?
“Huh…? For real?”
This was serious.
I’d deliberately made it plain to avoid attention, but if it came off as sexy? Total failure—180 degrees off my intent. Back to the modeling grind.
Did I sneak too much personal bias in?
As I fretted, Sofia continued,
“No, wait… I just need to eat something.”
“...What?”
She giggled and slipped away slyly.
Hearing her footsteps fade as she bolted, I stood there dumbfounded for a second.
...Was I just overthinking it?
Or was this Sofia pranking me?
I stared into the mirror at my (self-proclaimed) plain beauty self, absently stroking my cheek.
Anyway, the day passed without incident, and the next day, I headed to F Block.
The eastern corner of F Block, lined with hardware stores. Barrett’s gun shop.
Tatata-tang!
I heard faint gunshots and thought a fight had broken out, but it was just Barrett practicing.
Bang! Bang!
Cans lined up on Kyle’s head and shoulders exploded one by one in a bizarre scene. Across from him, Barrett grinned, twirling her revolver.
“Whew.”
Like some Western gunslinger, she blew away the gunsmoke with a puff from her lips.
“Arghhh…! Boss, is this for real?”
Kyle, reluctantly turned target, was freaking out, of course.
“You said you wanted shooting practice, didn’t you? So here we are. Got a problem?”
“No, this is insane… Shooting at a person? You’re a psychopath!”
“Guess I’m an emotionless psycho, so words don’t faze me…”
Business as usual—messing around.
As I approached, the two idiots spotted me and greeted me.
“Yo, mage. ‘Bout time. Feels like days since last time… Good to see ya.”
“Hello.”
After greetings, we got down to business.
Why F Block? Barrett had promised to explain how to use the black market last time.
“Right. Black market access… It’s complicated, so yeah, you gotta know it.”
We headed to the lounge in the corner of the first floor.
It was humble—just plastic convenience store chairs around a table.
Thud.
“Fake coffee beans are everywhere these days; even instant’s hard to find.”
Barrett grumbled while pouring mix coffee into paper cups.
We sat, and she began.
“First off, you need a ticket to enter.”
“Here’s the ticket the boss got for you.”
Kyle handed over the ticket from beside her.
It was black paper with white text, shimmering holographically depending on the light angle—unique.
Barrett sipped her cup and explained.
“Don’t lose this ever. It’s your ID verifier. Keep it on you inside to prove who you are.”
Uncharacteristically serious, she continued.
“Black market has strict rules. Break one, and your life’s at risk.”
According to Barrett, three taboos inside:
First: No real names. True names hold magical power, so use aliases. You get a “mask” on entry; shapes distinguish people. Violators get something non-human following them out.
Second: No violence. Security’s handled by creepy “Shadow Sentinels.” Act up, and it’s gruesome— they deal with souls directly; cause a scene, yours gets seized.
Third: Time limit. Sellers exempt, but traders must leave within three hours post-deal. Stay longer? You become part of the market permanently. Barrett didn’t elaborate.
The rules were creepy as hell. Like those Napolitan urban legends I used to read.
Barrett nodded emphatically and added,
“...That’s the basics. But hogging all the cookies and skipping the coffee? Too much.”
...Busted. How’d she know?
Two days later, Thursday morning.
I’d handled minor quests, played hide-and-seek with Sofia at the inn, trolled Barrett and Kyle… busy enough.
Finally, black market day.
Living illegally sucked. With so much to do, I needed ID fast.
Arrived. Please pay credits.
I took an unmanned taxi to I Block, activated my Illusion model, and stepped out.
End of the residential zone—last block before J Block’s waste dump.
Barren ruins everywhere, ghostly enough for actual ghosts.
The slums of slums in this already shitty area. Even neon signs were dark.
Wind carried eerie noises: stifled giggles, drugged howls, smashing, infantile cries—cat or baby?
Ruins housed people; hostile eyes glared from shadows.
“Miss! What brings ya here? Need a guide?”
A leprous old man approached with a slurred voice.
“...No need.”
“Aw, c’mon!”
Whoosh. He snatched for my Opus at my waist.
But I was faster.
Lightning Bolt
Bzzzt!
“Gaaack—!”
The old man convulsed and collapsed, eyes rolled back.
If I weren’t a mage, I’d have been robbed blind. Even elders here were dangerous.
I Block: perilous, rundown. Perfect for black market HQ—secrecy via inaccessibility.
I reached Barrett’s contact point.
A man emerged from a crumbling storefront: black suit, deer mask.
“...Ticket.”
His voice distorted.
Deer mask in ruins, weird voice—surreal. I handed over Barrett’s ticket.
“...”
His eyes scanned it, then me.
“...Up the stairs. Wrap ticket on wrist.”
He stepped back, pointing inside.
I nodded and climbed the rickety stairs.
Thud. Thud.
Flash!
Second floor: space warped. Vast hall or warehouse, booths everywhere.
Dimly glowing chandelier; animal-masked people bustling.
Eerie panorama. The black market.
Rumor: pocket dimension, artificial. Some spatial mage’s work. I didn’t know spatial magic yet—curious to dissect it.
Ticket on wrist: mana gathered, owl mask appeared.
Identity protection—anonymous for risky deals.
I wove through booths and masks to Barrett’s contact: Shaman Spider.
Corner booth.
Ding.
Rustle. Distorted voice: “Who? Reservation?”
“Gunslinger said to meet you.”
“Ah, her messenger. Come in.”
Door swung open; Shaman Spider mask greeted me.
Inside: sci-fi vibe.
Vascular data cables from ceiling. Blue holographic screens everywhere.
Center: man in odd work clothes, spider mask, mechanical chair. Eight cyber arms from back worked busily—grotesque, spider-webbing.
He asked,
“Gunslinger intro… She always sends pains. Anyway, what’s up?”
“First, her message.”
I handed a note from my pocket—prepped by Barrett.
“Hm… Long time. What nonsense now?”
He skimmed it, inputting on screen with mech legs.
Minutes later,
“Done with her note. What’s your business, miss?”
Straight to it. I explained my situation.
“Need a new ID. Heard you’re the guy.”
“ID, huh? Laundry? Mega-corp heat? Makes sense.”
Spot on. Veteran.
“Not laundry—brand new identity. Weird, but I’m a John Doe right now.”
“Hmph… John Doe. Tough in this shithole world.”
He nodded, no prying. Shadow market unwritten rule: everyone’s got baggage.
“Got it. But payment?”
Slippery question.
Merchants, after all. ID forgery’s risky—big fee.
I was broke, as Barrett warned.
“No money…”
His face soured; I hurried on.
I came prepared.
“...But I’ve got something better than cash. You know I’m a mage?”
“...Yeah, her note said.”
Slide.
I placed a binder before him.
“Take a look.”
Grimoire excerpts: magitech info.
Barrett said he hunted Empire net backdoors; perfect trade. Win-win.
As expected, his eyes widened reading.
“...Where’d you get this?”
“My artifact’s power. That’s all.”
“...Fine. Damn, bigger deal than I thought.”
No wonder—pure Grimoire gold.
Info’s always king, isekai or not. Empire’s tech-advanced; even more so. Combat tech, magic, memory chips traded dark web.
“...Prepared, eh? Almost decked you for ‘no money’ bullshit…”
He chuckled.
“...Would’ve been trouble.”
“You’d get nabbed by sentinels anyway.”
“Joke. Just talk.”
…
About two hours into custom ID,
“...This good?”
Hologram sample: Illusion photo, name Damian Ain, age 21.
Peeking over, even I could tell: pro work.
“...Looks solid.”
Barrett recommended him.
“Good. Next market opening, pick up finished. Busy.”
Clunk.
Leaving Shaman Spider’s, I thought: Almost done. Survive to next opening, ID problem solved.
Collect overdue 10 million credits, ditch underworld hassle.
Illusion perfected—free from pursuit too.
Things’d straighten out; soon sleep easy.
Heading to exit.
But.
Atmosphere off.
Murmurs…
Tumult somewhere.
‘...?’
Barrett said no disturbances inside.
Curious, I found source: entrance.
There: maskless girl facing deer mask.
Odd suit-gosori mix, twin-tails.
“State your identity. How’d you enter without ticket?”
“Don’t wanna.”
She snapped back boldly.
“Leave now. No second warning. Don’t want your soul ripped out miserably.”
Shrrk.
Deer gestured; creepy robed hunchbacks slithered through crowd. Translucent, rippling—Shadow Sentinels.
And.
“So this is the black market? Perfect.”
Smiling girl reached toward deer mask.
Splat!
“……!”
Deer mask and sentinels exploded.