Fenrir felt the rough shove against his ribs as he was thrown into the back of a van.
His side hit the cold, ridged floor of the vehicle and the clang of the doors slamming shut echoed in the dark, metallic space.
He didn't resist, keeping his breathing shallow and steady, letting his body sag limply like a true captive might.
The engine growled to life, and the vehicle sped off, jostling him with every bump in the road.
Muted voices reached his ears—gruff, joking, careless.
"Kid's probably wetting himself right now. These rich kids are all the same. One scare and they break."
"Think we can sell him off? Or should we just call for ransom first?"
"Heard his folks have old money. We can name our price."
So that was their game.
'They think I'm some rich useless heir.'
Fenrir almost smiled. He let his expression twitch faintly—just enough to match their expectations—and slumped deeper into the floor.
The car eventually came to a stop.
Heavy footsteps approached, and hands grabbed him roughly by the arms. He let his head loll forward, keeping his eyes barely open, catching glimpses of his surroundings.
A concrete ceiling, rusted steel beams, flickering lights—some kind of storage facility or warehouse, he guessed.
They dragged him down a hallway and threw him into a small, empty room with metal walls and no windows.
The door shut behind him with a loud click. Then silence.
Fenrir waited until their footsteps faded before sitting up straight. His wrists were bound behind his back, but they hadn't taken any magical precautions.
That alone confirmed their amateur status.
"They didn't even check for a system. Idiots"
He muttered quietly.
With a slow breath, he reached out to his inventory mentally, and a tiny glint of silver flickered into existence behind him.
It was a thin knife—barely bigger than his finger—but it was all he needed. He guided it with his mana, carefully rotating it in the air until it found the ropes binding his wrists.
A clean slice. The bindings fell to the floor.
Fenrir rubbed his wrists and stood up, surveying the cell.
Plain, metallic, reinforced from the inside. But the walls weren't enchanted, and the lock on the door was mechanical—not magical.
He picked up the knife again, inserted it into the lock, and after a few clicks, the door creaked open. He peeked outside.
A long corridor stretched out, lined with old lights and industrial panels. He couldn't hear anyone nearby.
Logic told him to flee now, before anyone noticed.
But something about this place... something tugged at his instincts. He frowned and glanced behind him once.
"...No. I need to see what this place really is."
He stepped out silently, keeping close to the wall. His footsteps made barely a sound.
The corridor had other doors—most closed, some ajar. He peered into one.
Storage boxes, stacked high. Another had sleeping bags and trash scattered across the floor—probably a resting area for the captors.
Then he reached a larger chamber. The walls were covered in graffiti, and a single desk sat at the far end.
On it, he spotted something that made him freeze: vials. At least a dozen of them. And he recognized the seal on the box they were in.
'My potion boxes…'
Fenrir's eyes narrowed.
So these people weren't just amateur thugs—they'd somehow gotten a hold of potions he'd brewed and put up anonymously on the black market.
Were they buyers? Smugglers? Or simply opportunists?
Either way, it was too close for comfort.
He crept closer and scanned the files on the desk. Most of them were logistics—shipment schedules, anonymous order forms, burner emails. But one document stood out.
"Target X – Source Unknown. Capture potential associates. Track auction listings."
His name—or rather, his alias. X. These people were actively trying to trace his identity.
Fenrir narrowed his eyes as he listened from the shadows.
Two kidnappers loitered in the corridor beyond the doorway, chatting idly, their words clear in the silence.
"Once we get the cash for that rich brat, we'll have enough to fund the real job."
One said, leaning against a crate and lighting a cigarette.
"Yeah, tracking down 'X' is the big prize. Heard whoever's making those potions is swimming in gold. Boss says if we find them, we're set for life."
Fenrir's brow lifted slightly.
'So they're after "X" too… but they don't know it's me.'
That was... lucky.
Coincidental, even.
He'd assumed at first that they'd known something, but this confirmed it—they were simply dumb thugs who thought they'd struck gold by nabbing a rich kid from a well-known academy.
Their obsession with "X" was separate.
A dangerous coincidence, but at least it meant his identity hadn't been exposed yet.
That bought him time.
With a flick of his fingers, he summoned a small vial from his inventory—a sleep potion, Type C.
It was weak enough not to cause permanent harm but strong enough to knock out untrained humans for a few hours.
He held it between his fingers, waited for the right moment… then tossed it into the open space.
The vial shattered on the floor with a soft pop, and a pale, sweet-smelling mist quickly spread through the corridor.
"What the—?!"
One of the kidnappers exclaimed, but it was too late.
[Sleep Potion - Duration Reduced: 1 hour remaining]
Within seconds, both men slumped over, unconscious.
Fenrir stepped into the corridor silently and checked their pulses—stable. He moved efficiently, retrieving the potion box with his insignia and sliding it into his inventory.
Then, he scanned the crates around him more thoroughly.
That was when he heard it.
A soft, rhythmic scratching.
His head snapped toward the noise. It was coming from one of the larger, sealed crates at the end of the corridor.
He approached carefully, keeping his guard up. The sound grew louder—multiple creatures shifting and clawing inside.
He grabbed the crowbar resting by the nearby supply rack and pried open the crate.
Inside were small, round, fluffy creatures—about the size of his palm.
They had beady black eyes, twitching noses, and oversized ears. They looked almost like hamsters… except their fur shimmered faintly, shifting color with the light.
Some had tiny runic markings glowing beneath their skin.
Fenrir stared in surprise.
"Dungeon creatures?"
He opened two more crates. The next held similar creatures—one had tiny fox-like beings with crystalline tails, the other was filled with lizard-like hatchlings with glowing eyes.
A cold realization struck him.
'These aren't pets. They're dungeon creatures. Rare ones. Are they here to be smuggled as someone's familiars?;
These things weren't supposed to exist outside dungeons—not unless someone smuggled them illegally.
Doing so wasn't just dangerous, it was forbidden.
Dungeon creatures were unpredictable. Some of them could self-destruct when stressed.
These creatures required specific care. The danger was massive.
He scanned the room again. Smuggling. Not just people—but creatures too.
His jaw clenched.
'So that's what this facility really is. A trafficking ring.'
It made sense now.
They kidnapped people for ransom and profit, but their real business was moving dungeon creatures through black market channels.
That meant someone on the inside—a dungeon association official or a high-level hunter—was involved. No one else could transport these beings unnoticed.