And everywhere, there were players. Not heroic adventurers in gleaming armor, but men and women with weary faces and wary eyes. Some sold goods, others clustered together, examining merchandise or whispering intently. Mara saw a human woman with serpent tattoos on her arms hawking "Potion of Guaranteed Escape (Probably)" from her cart. A dwarf offered "Dungeon Leeching – You AFK, We Kill" services. They were the same isekai victims, but here, in this lawless city, they had evolved—or degraded—into something else. Something pragmatic, cruel, and fiercely survivalist.
They're not Crimson Crusaders. They don't have an agenda to kill me. They just want to live. But... they also wouldn't hesitate to sell me out if they knew who I am. My bounty could probably buy this entire district. A strange loneliness crept into Mara's heart, even amidst the crowd.
"This way," Seris tugged her sleeve, slipping them into a dark alley between two shops. The alley terminated before a three-story, listing building, its wood rotten and windows grimy. A nearly detached sign read "The Rusty Quill" with a picture of a broken pen. The noise from within was muffled, but Mara could hear coarse laughter and the clink of glasses.
"Tavern and information hub in one," Seris explained. "The broker we need is inside. His name is Grift. He knows everything about the small guilds operating under the radar. But be wary—he's a leech. He'll drain information and gold as much as he can before yielding what we want."
They entered. The light inside was dim, emanating from oil lamps hanging from the low ceiling. Smoke from cheap herbals formed a bluish haze. Several tables were occupied by whispering figures, their eyes glinting with suspicion. The bartender, a tiefling woman with short horns, merely gave Seris a slow nod, acknowledging their presence without warmth.
Seris guided them to a rear corner, where a man sat alone behind stacks of books and worn parchment. He was human, perhaps middle-aged, with an unremarkable face and plain clothes. But his eyes—those gray eyes darted swiftly, cataloging every inch of the room, every movement, every expression. They were the eyes of an accountant assessing the value of every soul present.
"Sera," the man greeted, his voice toneless. "Haven't seen you in a while. Still hunting ghosts?"
"Still, Grift. But today, I bring a client," Seris answered, sitting across from him uninvited. Nyxaria followed, settling calmly, her hands folded on the table. She let Seris lead.
Grift's eyes shifted to Nyxaria, sweeping from head to toe, pausing briefly at the gold pouch, then at the [Veil] she wore. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to pierce the illusion and failing. "Caelyn, yes? Collector. Wealthy patron. Interested in antiquities... exotic ones." He recited their cover story without inflection. "So what can Grift do for you, Miss Caelyn?"
"We seek The Archivists' Guild," Nyxaria stated directly, her voice deliberately flattened, impatient like a noblewoman accustomed to service. "We heard they possess access to... unusual goods. Goods the Church perhaps does not wish the public to see."
Grift didn't react. He merely took a small bottle of clear liquid from behind his book pile and poured it into a grimy glass before him. "Archivists. Bookworms. They have a headquarters. But..." he took a swallow, "they're experiencing difficulties."
I thought as much, Mara thought.
"What sort of difficulties?" Seris asked.
"Difficulties that walk on two legs and carry big weapons," Grift answered. "The Rust-Knuckles. A small gang, muscle for The Iron Grip. For the past few weeks, they've been visiting the Archivists' headquarters in the basement of an old bookstore in the Ink District. Claiming the bookworms have something that's 'caught their boss's eye'. Demanding a 'security contribution'." Grift offered a thin smile, an expression that never touched his eyes. "The Archivists refused. Said they have nothing. But the Rust-Knuckles aren't convinced. Now, every time there's a shipment in or out... incidents occur. Goods vanish. People get hurt."
"And the city authorities?" Nyxaria asked, already knowing the answer.
Grift emitted a short, unpleasant chuckle. "Authorities? In Ironveil? Miss, the authorities here are whoever fields more armed men and the will to use them. The Iron Grip is the authority in the Ink District. If they want something from a bunch of feeble scholars... that is their business."
"The address," Nyxaria said, her tone edged.
"Certainly." Grift extended his hand, palm open. "But information concerning active troubles... carries a higher price. Greater risk. Let's say... fifty gold pieces. For my earnest goodwill."
Fifty? Highway robbery! Mara wanted to protest. But Nyxaria merely produced a small pouch and calmly stacked coins upon the table. Metal clinked with a final note.
Grift swiftly swept the coins into a hidden drawer beneath his table. Then he scratched something on a scrap of paper and slid it forward. "Bookstore 'Folio & Dust'. Ink District, near the old drainage channel. Use the rear entrance. Do not approach from the front."
[System Feedback]
Transaction Logged: Information Acquired.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
Local Threat Assessment: Updated.
[Ironveil – Faction Tension] – Status: Volatile.
They rose to leave. As Nyxaria turned, Grift spoke again, his voice lower.
"One more thing, Miss Caelyn. The word on the street... that gang isn't merely intimidating. They're testing. As if they seek something specific. And they're beginning to lose patience." He looked at her. "If you intend to deal with the Archivists... you may find more than you bargained for."
"Thank you for the warning," Nyxaria replied, without looking back.
Leaving The Rusty Quill, Ironveil's foul air felt like a reprieve. They walked swiftly, leaving the market crowds, entering the labyrinth of Ink District alleys. This district was quieter, more dilapidated. Its buildings pressed tall and close together, blocking the feeble daylight. The reek of clogged sewers grew dominant.
They're looking for something specific. Grift's words echoed in Mara's mind. What's the link to the 'slumbering temple' Lumi marked? Is The Iron Grip also hunting ancient artifacts? Or... is the Church using them as a long arm? That eight-thousand-hour paranoia ignited every alarm. Every shadow in the corridor now looked like an ambush.
After several turns, they reached a dead-end street. At its terminus stood an ancient stone building that seemed ready to collapse. Its front window was thick with dust, but the faded letters remained legible: "Folio & Dust". No sign of life. The shop appeared derelict.
"Rear door," Seris whispered.
They descended the narrow gap beside the building, over heaps of rotting refuse. The back door was solid wood, reinforced with iron. Seris raised a hand to knock.
But she halted.
The sound came from within. Muffled, dampened by wood and stone, but unmistakable.
It was the sound of a hard impact—like a table or bookshelf toppling. Followed by a cry. Not a shout of anger, but a choked scream of pain, then abruptly severed.
Then, a rough voice, laughing.
Seris froze, her hand still poised in the air. Her eyes met Nyxaria's.
We're too late.
Nyxaria didn't move. All her level 999 senses—which even the [Veil] could not wholly suppress—focused on that slab of wood and iron. She could hear rough breathing, more than one set. Could hear the rustle of parchment being trampled. Could feel the vibration of fear radiating from within the room.
Seris drew her dagger soundlessly, her elven eyes narrowing to slits.
Inside, the laughter sounded again, followed by indistinct muttering. Then, the shatter of breaking glass.
Mara, behind Nyxaria's calm fa?ade, felt something unfamiliar ignite in her chest. Not the epic fury of the Demon Queen. Something older, more human. A vague memory of a ruined guild hall, of screams in a chat channel suddenly cut off, of the sensation of helplessness.
No, she thought, her voice clear and cold within her own skull. Not again. Nyxaria's still-gloved hand reached for the cold iron door handle. She did not turn it. Not yet.
She merely stood there, in the gloom of the fetid alley, listening to the violence unfolding beyond the door, while her shadow, misrendered by the [Veil], fell upon the ground, silent and waiting.
[System Feedback]
Location: Ironveil – Ink District.
Status: Undetected.
Ambient Threat Level: Critical.
Objective: ???
The sound from behind the door still echoed—coarse laughter, cut-off screams, breaking glass. Nyxaria stood frozen, her gloved fingers still curled around the cold iron handle. All her level 999 senses concentrated on that slab of wood, mapping every movement inside: five rough breaths, panicked heartbeats, the iron scent of blood beginning to permeate.
We're too late. But we haven't entered yet. Priority: intelligence, not heroics. But...
"Sera," she whispered, voice flat. "You hear that?"
Seris had already heard. The elf pressed her ear close, green eyes narrowing to slits. "Not merely a fight. That's a purge. They're searching for something."
Then the world outside that alley detonated.
Not a physical explosion. But an explosion of sound—church bells in the distance clanging wildly, erratically, followed by steam-engine sirens wailing from guard towers. New screams arose, not from within the bookstore, but from the Ink District's main thoroughfare, spreading, swelling into a rolling wave of panic.
"Fire?" Seris hissed, her body pivoting, her scout instincts seizing control.
Nyxaria released the door handle. She stepped back, letting her shadow retreat. Her senses, though muted by the [Veil], could still perceive it—the shift in air pressure, the panic spreading like electricity across the city's skin. This isn't a fire. This is something more... systemic.
"Not fire," she muttered. She closed her eyes, letting the passive [System Feedback] flow.
[System Feedback]
Ambient Threat Level: Spiking.
Anomalous Mana Signature Detected: Eastern District.
Classification: Rapid-onset Biological Hazard.
Biological hazard? Plague? In an industrial city? Mara within her mind spun rapidly, accessing her eight-thousand-hour memory bank. World event? Quest? But there's no major system notification. This... is local. Deliberate.
Seris had already parted the gloom at the alley's mouth, peering onto the main street. Her face suddenly paled. "Cael—Caelyn. Come here. Look at this."
They abandoned the bookstore door, left the violence still unfolding inside, and stepped onto a street transformed into a river of panic. People fled, some toward the eastern district, others scrambling in the opposite direction. The faces Mara saw weren't ordinarily frightened—they were masks of pure horror. A human woman dragged her child, her hand clamped over the child's nose and mouth with a cloth. Smoke? No. There's no smoke. But there was a new odor in the air, cutting through Ironveil's sulfur and refuse: a piercing, cloying sweetness, like rotting meat mingled with stale honey.
"Eastern district," gasped a dwarven man sprinting past them, eyes wide. "People are collapsing! Their skin... their skin is blackening!"
Seris looked at Nyxaria. Their mission to the Archivist's Guild suddenly felt minuscule, profoundly selfish, amidst this chaos.
Plague. Fast. Spreading. In a dense city. Veteran gamer Mara's logic flashed red instantly. Environmental hazard zone. Must evacuate or neutralize the source. But we're not heroes. We have our own mission. But...
"We must leave," Seris whispered, her voice taut. "If this is a magical plague, your [Veil] barrier may not suffice. And we are unprepared."
Nyxaria didn't answer. She saw a human player running, then stumbling, falling hard upon the cobblestones. The man convulsed violently, foam bubbling from his mouth, and from his exposed neck, his skin began to change—healthy flesh graying, then deepening to pitch black, spreading like ink on cloth. He screamed, but his scream choked into a hiss. Another player tried to approach, a woman in healer's robes, hands glowing pale green. Her touch only caused the blackened skin to blister, releasing a viscous yellow fluid. The healer shrieked, yanking back her hand, which now also was beginning to blacken at the fingertips.
Healer failed. Not an ordinary disease. Brutal damage-over-time. High magic resistance. This... is engineered.
"The Church," Nyxaria said, her voice low, for Seris alone. "This is their work."
"What? Why would—"
"They require a scapegoat. And a sudden plague, one that can only be halted by their 'holy power'... or by something darker." Nyxaria's red eyes swept the panicked crowd. They want me to react. Or they want proof that 'demonic corruption' is spreading from my territory. But they overreached. Killing their own people...