Wanderer

"So this guy's bloated body wasn't a disguise after all, but an actual physical mutation caused by aberration?"

Suren looked at the glaring words "Half-Mutated Human" floating above the cloaked vendor's head and found it somewhat unbelievable.

Aberration was aberration, but there was such a thing as "half-mutated"?

What exactly was this vendor now? A human, or a monster?

This was another gap in Suren's knowledge.

But thinking it over, since he was rational, he should still count as human.

Suren did not dwell on it and instead turned his attention to the potions on the stall.

They were good stuff, and the prices were truly cheap.

If Suren had had money in his pocket right now, he definitely would have bought all those potions. The packaging was so crude that they would never sell on, but keeping them for his own use would have been excellent.

Unfortunately, he had no money.

Suren had no intention of giving up this chance to snag a bargain. Once the crowd around the stall had dispersed, he walked over and said directly, "I intend to buy all your potions, but I didn't bring enough cash. Could you leave me another way to contact you? I'll get in touch once I find the money. Of course, everything will follow Black Market rules."

There was nothing wrong with that proposal.

People in the Black Market were all highly wary and generally would not leave their own contact information. But they could leave a middleman—for example, certain taverns and inns offered message-delivery services for customers. Both sides could agree on a code word, retrieve messages themselves, and complete the transaction without meeting. It was safe and discreet.

Since he was temporarily short on money, Suren wanted to get the vendor's contact details first and figure out a way to approach him later.

The potions were secondary. No matter how high the markup was, there were only four of them.

If these potions had truly been brewed by this vendor himself, then he would be a steady source of supply. That would be a real jackpot, not a one-off deal.

The gangs still had channels for selling pirated or prohibited drugs. Then Suren could find a way to turn the potions into cash. As long as he had enough supply, getting rich quickly was not impossible.

When the black-cloaked vendor heard that someone wanted to buy his potions, he was delighted at first.

But after hearing Suren's next words, he immediately shook his head. "No. I only want cash."

"..."

From his tone, Suren could tell that he seemed to be in urgent need of money.

But on second thought, it made sense. Selling such good potions so cheaply meant he must be desperately short of cash.

That made Suren even more curious about the man's identity. Any potion master capable of brewing such potions would be part of the elite upper class of the Inner City. If he did not dare show his face, he was most likely some kind of wanted criminal.

Suren tried persuading him for nearly another minute, racking his brains to offer several alternatives, but the vendor stubbornly insisted on an immediate cash transaction.

He knew that if he kept pressing, he would look like he was up to no good. He could only step back and say, "That's truly unfortunate. If you change your mind, you can leave a message at the Three Muskets Tavern on Green Street at any time. The code word is 'pigeon.' Once I get the message, I'll contact you immediately."

"This..."

Hearing that, the vendor seemed to hesitate as well.

Clearly, he knew his potions would not be easy to sell. Having finally encountered an interested buyer, he did not want to give up just like that.

Just as he was hesitating over whether to agree, he suddenly seemed to spot something in the crowd. A flash of panic crossed his eyes. "Sorry, sir, I have urgent business and need to leave first."

Without waiting for Suren to react, he swiftly gathered the few potions from his stall and hurriedly disappeared into the crowd.

Suren had already noticed that the vendor's gaze had constantly darted around, as though he was terrified of being recognized.

Seeing him suddenly leave, Suren was slightly taken aback.

He swept his peripheral vision over the Black Market crowd, unable to tell whom the vendor had seen that had frightened him so badly.

Huh. Did he see those two men in trench coats Suren had encountered earlier?

Suren did not look too closely. He lowered his gaze and blended into the crowd as well.

His own identity could not stand the light either, so there was no benefit in lingering.

Yet from that brief exchange alone, Suren had guessed that the vendor was not very old, was rather polite, had likely received a good upbringing, was desperately short of money, possessed a mutated body, and had considerable skill in Potion Studies...

After thinking it over, Suren formed a rough guess about the vendor's background. Perhaps he came from some family of doctors in the Inner City?

Although the man had left, Suren had done everything he could. He did not dwell on it any further.

Looking at the bustling Black Market before him, Suren pursed his lips helplessly. "I hope he contacts me."

After coming several times before, Suren had roughly figured out what each shop in the Black Market sold.

He did not waste time in the shops run by shrewd owners. He wandered aimlessly until he slowly reached the makeshift shack district at the very bottom of the Black Market.

The Black Market had probably attracted many wealthy, hidden big shots today because relic treasures had appeared. Naturally, it had also drawn many opportunistic vendors.

Some were even large merchant associations from the Inner City that had merely changed their signs and attire.

Merchants chased profit. They did not care whether it was a Black Market or not.

After all, although the Outer City was poor, its population was dozens of times that of the Inner City. Even the low-end market held staggering profits.

The low-end goods, secondhand items, and defective products that could not be sold in the Inner City were top-tier sought-after merchandise in the Outer City.

For example, used high-end textiles, obsolete steam equipment, Mechanical Prosthetics...

Suren passed several stalls piled with Mechanical Prosthetics and took a look. Those military Mechanical Prosthetics phased out from the Inner City were indeed quite good. Though old, the parts that could be dismantled from them were absolutely premium components for gang-run mechanical modification shops.

These military machines were all prohibited goods. The Inner City would destroy them in bulk and would not allow them to circulate. Suren had no idea where those opportunistic merchants had found their supply.

However, used mechanical equipment and prosthetics were not cheap, often costing tens of thousands. A sharp-eyed mechanic might earn a twenty or thirty percent margin by stripping them for parts, but buying even a few required a great deal of capital.

Suren did not have that much money, and stockpiling mechanical parts was not suitable for him either.

He visited several more temporary shops, but they were mostly the same. With money, there might have been room to work something out. But he found no opportunity to strike it rich empty-handed.

In the end, Suren could only leave the Black Market helplessly.

Although Suren had been cautious enough, choosing to leave only when the tide of people was departing.

He had not expected to run into trouble anyway.

Seeing that he was alone, the wanderers lying in wait outside the Black Market set their sights on him.

Each time the Death Reaper harvested soul fragments, it would almost always grant a slight increase in Mental Power.

At first, Suren had not thought this attribute was especially important. Only later, as his perception gradually rose, did he realize it was a more practical lifesaving ability than strength or agility.

As his Mental Power grew, so did his ability to sense danger.

Those hostile gazes felt like needles against his back.