Wanderer

"His bulky build wasn't a disguise after all, but a physical mutation caused by aberration?"

Looking at the glaring words "Half-Mutated Human" above the cloaked stall owner's head, Suren found it somewhat unbelievable as well.

An aberration is one thing, but there's such a thing as a "half-mutated" state?

What exactly was this stall owner now—human or monster?

This was another blind spot in Suren's knowledge.

But thinking it over, someone with reason should still count as human.

He didn't dwell on it and instead turned his gaze to the potions on the stall.

They were good products, and the price was genuinely cheap.

If Suren had money on him right now, he would definitely buy these few potions. With packaging this crude, they were impossible to sell, but they would be excellent to keep for his own use.

Unfortunately, he had no money.

Suren had no intention of giving up this opportunity to "find a bargain." When he saw the crowd around the stall disperse, he walked over and said directly, "I was planning to buy all these potions, but I didn't bring enough cash. Could you leave me another way to contact you, and I can get in touch once I find the money? Of course, everything would follow the rules of the black market."

There was nothing wrong with what he said.

People in the black market were all highly cautious, and most wouldn't leave their contact information. However, they could leave word with an intermediary. Certain taverns and inns, for example, offered a service specifically for passing messages to guests. The two parties could agree on a code and collect the goods themselves, completing the transaction without meeting in person. It was both safe and discreet.

Since he had no money for the moment, he wanted to establish contact with the stall owner first and then figure out how to cultivate the connection.

The potions were secondary. Even at the highest price difference, there were only four of them.

If these potions had truly been refined by the stall owner himself, then he had a steady source of goods. That would be the real "jackpot," rather than a one-time deal.

The gangs still had channels for selling counterfeit or prohibited medicines. When the time came, Suren could find a way to turn the potions into cash. As long as he had a sufficient supply, becoming rich overnight wasn't impossible.

The cloaked stall owner brightened at first when he heard someone wanted to buy his potions.

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 was in urgent need of money.

But then he understood. To sell such excellent potions so cheaply, he definitely had to be desperately short of cash.

This made Suren even more curious about the man's identity. Potion masters capable of refining such medicines were all elite members of the Inner City's upper society. If he dared not show his face, there was an eighty percent chance he was a wanted criminal or something similar.

Suren tried to persuade him for nearly another minute, racking his brains to suggest several plans, but the stall owner stubbornly insisted on a cash transaction right then and there.

He knew that if he continued, he would start to look suspicious, so he could only retreat and say, "What a shame. If you change your mind, you can always leave a message at the 'Three Muskets Tavern' on Green Street. The code is 'pigeon.' Once I receive the message, I'll contact you immediately."

"This..."

Hearing this, the stall owner seemed to hesitate as well.

Clearly, he knew that his potions weren't easy to sell. After finally encountering an interested buyer, he didn't want to give up just like that.

Just as he hesitated over whether to agree, he suddenly seemed to spot something in the crowd, and a trace of panic flashed through his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have an urgent matter to attend to. I have to leave first."

With that, before Suren could react, he hurriedly gathered the few potions on the stall and blended into the crowd in a panic.

Suren had already noticed that the stall owner's gaze kept wandering restlessly, as though he was afraid of being recognized.

Seeing him suddenly leave, Suren was slightly taken aback.

He swept a glance from the corner of his eye over the crowd in the black market, wondering who the stall owner had seen to make him so panicked.

Huh? Was it those two men in trench coats he'd encountered earlier?

Suren didn't look any further. He reined in his gaze and blended into the crowd as well.

His own identity couldn't see the light of day either, so staying longer would do him no good.

But from that brief exchange, Suren had also deduced that the stall owner wasn't very old, was quite polite, and had probably received a good upbringing. He was desperately short of money, had an aberrated body, and possessed considerable attainments in potion-making...

As Suren turned it over in his mind, he formed a rough guess about the stall owner's background. Could he have come from some medical family in the Inner City?

Although the man had left, Suren had done everything he needed to do, so he didn't dwell on it any longer.

Looking at the bustling black market before him, Suren pursed his lips helplessly. "Hopefully, he'll contact me."

After coming here several times, Suren had more or less figured out what each shop in the black market sold.

He didn't waste time at the stalls with shrewd proprietors. He wandered along leisurely until he slowly reached the makeshift shack district on the lowest level of the black market.

The black market was probably especially lively today because relic treasures had appeared, attracting many wealthy hidden powerhouses. As a result, many speculators had also come.

Some were even large merchant guilds from the Inner City that had simply changed their signboards and outfits.

Merchants pursued profit, regardless of whether this 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, and the low-end market offered extremely substantial profits.

The low-end goods, secondhand wares, and defective products that couldn't be sold in the Inner City were top-selling commodities in the Outer City.

For example, secondhand high-end textiles, discarded steam equipment, and Mechanical Prosthetics.

Suren passed stalls piled high with Mechanical Prosthetics and took a look. Those military-grade Mechanical Prosthetics discarded by the Inner City were indeed quite good. Though old, the parts that could be dismantled from them were absolutely top-tier components for the mechanical modification shops run by the gangs.

These military machines were all "prohibited goods." The Inner City would collect and destroy them, so they shouldn't have made their way out. Suren had no idea where the speculators had found their supply.

However, used machinery and prosthetics weren't cheap, often costing tens of thousands. A mechanic with a good eye might earn a twenty or thirty percent margin by dismantling the parts, but buying even a few pieces required a huge amount of capital.

Suren didn't have that much money, and stockpiling mechanical components wasn't suitable for him either.

The same was true of the next few temporary shops he passed. With money, he could make something work, but he found no opportunity to get rich empty-handed by finding a bargain.

In the end, Suren could only leave the black market helplessly.

Although Suren had been cautious enough and waited until the great tide of people was leaving before choosing to depart,

he still ran into trouble.

Seeing that he was alone, the Wanderers lurking outside the black market set their sights on him.

The Death Reaper gained a faint increase in Mental Power almost every time it harvested a soul fragment.

At first, Suren hadn't thought this attribute was particularly important. Later, as his Perception value gradually increased, he realized that it was a more practical lifesaving ability than Strength or Agility.

After his Mental Power increased, his ability to sense danger also rose accordingly.

Those hostile gazes felt like thorns pricking his back.