Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  And step.

  Descending the stairs of this decrepit old building, hidden somewhere in the middle of nowhere, should've been an easy task, really.

  So why does it feel like it's taking longer than ever before? And why did they have to build it like this? Sadists. Could've at least made something humane for people who hate stairs. Not everything shady has to be a damn shithole.

  With a deep sigh of petty frustration, Corbin kept gliding down the byrinth of caves and tunnels, deeper and deeper toward the first section of the market.

  Unfortunately for him, most of the path was carved into a system of caves turned tunnels. But that's what he got for wanting to avoid the other outposts—stay as anonymous as possible. Even if it meant sacrificing comfort.

  The only thing keeping him from stopping to rest was the pouch dangling in his grip—a reminder of what life might offer if he pulled this off.

  And even then, he'd thought long and hard about this route. Decided wholeheartedly this was how he wanted to go about it. Even if he compined. Even if it was exhausting. Changing pns on a whim was the fastest way to end up dead.

  And it is the safest route anyway.

  So he kept going.

  Step after step.

  Deeper and deeper.

  It was dark. Very dark. Which slowed his progress. No torch, no light—just careful footing and a lot of squinting. Even the simplest lighting artifacts were disgustingly expensive. So he made do.

  The air had grown stale a long time ago.

  Still breathable—thanks to the Market Supremum—but far from comfortable. Especially when your body's already working overtime.

  That's why, after about forty minutes, Corbin finally sat down to rest.

  Ugh~

  His muscles were strained to a worrying degree. The soreness felt like punishment—like his body berating him for skipping out on any kind of endurance training.

  Yet, even thinking about proper training made him wince. The money needed for recovery and self-preservation wasn't that much… but it was still enough to scare him away. He would've had to work a lot more to supplement some sort of regimen. Work he ultimately didn't have the time and logistics for.

  I really need cash.

  Then he looked down at himself and gred deeply at his slightly worn cloak.

  And a bath, too.

  Sniffing his costume to gauge the damage, he groaned louder.

  Forget the money. Give me water and soap, and I'll kill for anyone dammit.

  As, he had to accept his current state. Thinking about his hygiene wasn't a luxury he had right now. He needed to focus.

  And so, for the hundredth time, he repeated the summery of his 6 and a half point pn:

  1. Arrive at one of the trade centers.

  2. Find a coin undry.

  3. Try to strike a deal. Negotiate if needed.

  4. Hopefully not get screwed over.

  5. Leave the market and avoid any temptation.

  6. Repeat when needed.

  Bonus: Stay out of anything involving the Supremum.

  It wasn't a complicated pn. The only thing that was a lot more bothersome was that bonus point.

  The Supremum ran a major part in the market. They pulled strings behind most businesses—basically a monopoly on par with the big corps in the legal world with enough employees to force cities into submission.

  The kind of power most dealers and merchants could only dream of.

  The type of influence Corbin despised.

  And the reason for his grudge was simple.

  Corbin liked the chaos of the market. It was where someone like him could vanish. Be forgotten. Blend in.

  That freedom died the moment order stepped in. Corps, syndicates—they brought structure. And structure meant exposure. It's just a fact.

  You can't control people. No matter how tight your setup is, someone always talks. In groups like the Supremum, people had to work together. Communication is the most fundamental attribute of their nature.

  And the moment someone besides the buyer and seller knows about a deal? For Corbin, that's an automatic no-go.

  He used to rant about this to other small-time thieves. Most thought he was overreacting—paranoid even.

  Maybe to them, he actually was. But to himself? He was just being careful. Clean. Efficient. Staying away from messes before they start. Having a clear sense of assurance that everything was safe enough.

  That's why he avoided the Supremum like the pgue.

  That's why he also needed to link up with an old contact—someone quiet, someone semi-reliable. A guide to find the best options he could get.

  But first, he still had to get there.

  Which meant standing up again. Even if the thought of committing to moving was tiring. He had to go on.

  He scowled in exhaustion and pushed himself off the step he'd been sitting on.

  About twenty minutes of marching left.

  He stretched—just a bit. Trying for the bare minimum of a warm-up.

  But his muscles had other ideas. Pain spiked in his lower back like a knife digging in. He let out every curse he knew as his body locked up, trying to soothe the ache.

  Shhh~

  Exhaling through his clenched teeth, he stood still and endured as new stings emerged all over.

  I will train. Please. Just this once, have mercy.

  After a few rough minutes of agony and pain, he finally managed to bring the pain down to something more manageable.

  Picking up his pouch and patting the dust off his cloak, he gave a satisfied hum and slowly, carefully continued the journey ahead.

  ---

  The exhaustion still held strong, practically clung to him like a second yer of skin. Yet he fought through, hopes high as the faint glow of nterns finally began to appear, signaling the entrance to his goal.

  The air had grown a lot fresher too. The Supremum's artisans seem to have been hard at work keeping the ventition system alive.

  Corbin often mused about their peculiarities. For a company so elusive, one might expect them to be more subtle in their influence. More covert, only revealing themselves to those worthy of their time and presence.

  But, funnily enough, no matter which city, no matter which sector and center, the Supremum's presence was always unmistakable—often through obvious proxies. Some of their people even wore the insignia of the Golden Owl carrying a snake. Like it was something to boast about.

  And maybe it was. Because the governments of all three ster nations didn't seem to care about their influence at all. Their actions against the market were mostly either noneexistent or cleverly hidden and cssified. Which didn't mean much as secrecy was pretty common in administrative work.

  In the end, it didn't matter much.

  Raising his brows in amusement, Corbin smirked behind his mask, its strange, outer design matching his expression.

  Who knows what kind of scheme crooked politicians and eccentric nobles were behind? Maybe they were the ones pulling the strings, who knows?

  Shrugging off the mildly amusing thoughts, he looked ahead, eyes narrowing as he took in what y before him.

  It had taken a lot of time, but just as the thoughts faded, a welcome sight emerged.

  Finally.

  A surge of relief embraced him like a wave and gave him the smallest boost of energy he needed to continue.

  There, in front of him, stood a small, wooden door set into a brick wall. It was out of pce in this crumbling tunnel, almost as if someone had deliberately wedged it between the ancient stones, waiting for the right moment to be noticed.

  The door was simple, unassuming, yet worn—its edges scarred with time and use.

  The faint gleam of torches with an otherworldly blue light flickered beside the door, casting shadows that danced as if alive, sensitive to the slightest breeze escaping the door's edges.

  Corbin could feel it—he was so close. The final step. The path to the market, and maybe, just maybe, a better life.

  His fingers itched as he moved toward it, a sense of anticipation pulling him forward.

  Alright. No time to waste.

  Determination welled up in him. He had no intention of failing now—not when he was this close.

  This is it. My biggest heist yet. My first—and probably—st chance at a normal life.

  His fist clenched, the decision final. This was it. No turning back.

  His gaze practically burned holes through the door as he approached.

  I've been in this for years, and I'm not about to screw it up now.

  With a heavy breath to steady his nerves, he grabbed the pouch, hidden it inside one of his cloak's compartments, and grasped the doorknob. It turned with a satisfying click.

  He slipped through the door and into the light of the market.