Cain stood still, listening.
The night didn't whisper — it called.
His name, stretched out in a voice too calm and too close.
It didn't echo like sound. It pressed into his ears like breath.
Something gripped his arm — not violently, but with the lost weight of a child clinging in fear.
His body stiffened — he didn't look back nor looked down.
Yet he felt fingers brushing across his waist, then crawling over his ribs, tapping at his spine despite the integrity of his suit.
The protective layers are meant to keep fire, freezing, and impact — but it was useless against this.
Was he hallucinating? No, he wasn't delusional at all.
Cain's surged forward, pouring every remaining thread of magicules into his legs.
His heart thundered, pushing dangerously close to collapse.
[Warning!]
[Blood Pressure: 180/120]
He didn't care
If he stopped, he didn't know what would follow.
Then — there was the light.
Faint at first — then it became solid rays of hope.
There, he spotted a presence at its center — it was a bard.
With a strum, what was clinging to him seemed to go away.
The musician wore a crumpled top hat laced with bones and beads, smoke curling from a lit cigar clenched between his teeth.
One leg crossed over the other mid-step as he strummed a banjo carved with a grotesque snarling face of a demon.
Cain's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, the strange bard still strumming casually beneath the starlit cliff face.
But what caught Cain's attention was the badge pinned just beneath the collar — worn, chipped, and nearly lost in the tangle of fabric.
Even dulled with age, its sigil was unmistakable.
The Syndicate.
Specifically, a student badge from the Syndicate's School of Criminality.
A prestigious — morally grey academy that forged the pillars of humanity's survival.
It wasn't meant for decent men — it was built for those willing to abandon the light and confront monsters on their own terms.
They didn't seek justice.
What they deliver is a smiting retribution — to the horrors reserved for those who once burn our cities to the ground.
They burn them tenfold — that's why they called it Criminality.
Alongside it stood the other pillars of education — Royal Light, where his Aunt Roberta studied, The Yen Yuan School of Thought, Orthodoxy of Arcane, and the Magisoldier Foundation.
All of them are the leading institutions for the past three hundred years since the rise of mankind.
'I'll go to one of those schools... And I hope it's soon.'
Examining it closely the bard's badge wasn't metallic but made out of matte black and ivory, the kind issued to initiates and first-years.
'A dropout, maybe?'
Still, Cain didn't look down on him.
Survival aged people into usefulness, the man might've failed class, but he hadn't died trying.
The bard grinned, revealing yellowed teeth as he casually lifted his boot and flicked a switch embedded in the side of his cart.
A neon sign buzzed to life behind him, projecting prices in shimmering red.
[Night Guarding Participation] [50 Silver]
[Regular Safety Perimeter] [1 Gold]
[Premier Safety Perimeter] [5 Gold]
It also indicated services ranging from dream training, epiphany enhancement, to less subtle indulgences Cain had no desire to explore.
"Hey there little man, you're in luck. Just cooked up a brand new tune. Gonna make you feel like you trained a whole month in just eight hours of sleep. Hundred percent safe, Syndicate stamped and all."
The man offered it all with equal cheer, a performance routine perfected over a lifetime of half-sold truths.
Cain declined politely. Still, he scanned the board.
No one who slept alone in Fracturion could guarantee waking up.
What was a handful of gold worth compared to a guarantee? In those fleeting moments of rest, who could say your soul wouldn't be snatched mid-slumber in these forsaken lands?
Besides, dream music wasn't some tavern trick. It took decades to attune melodies to neural patterns, to lead minds into clarity or comfort.
That kind of expertise couldn't be faked.
Cain didn't argue. He simply swiped his terminal, feeling the subtle pulse as funds deducted from his account.
[Deducted: 1 Gold]
[Spot: 1172]
Cain had seen markets, slums, and warzones online — but this place was something else entirely.
At first glance, it looked like an organized camp — with tents dotting the landscape, all remarkably tidy despite the different brand and makers.
Ten by ten feet, not a span larger or smaller.
As he walked through, he heard faint muffled sounds of suppressed moaning — the kind he'd learned not to react to.
Avoid staring, no need to look, and no need to ask — not unless you were buying.
Here, everything was permitted.
You could sling potions, craft artifacts, or sell your own damn body for some pleasure or experimentation — as long as the price was fair and both sides signed off.
Cain kept his head low and focused on finding his spot.
But before he could unpack his tent, a nearby occupant waved him over.
The man — was hunched, eyes wild and yellow like twin lanterns glowing from within a scarecrow's shell.
He clutched a sealed jar filled with golden cicadas, each one twitching gently inside.
"Wanna buy? Hmmm... These are pretty good for you, makes the depression and anxiety go bye bye..."
"Not interested, but do you have recovery leaves, the fresh kind."
"Recovery leaves?"
The madman stumbled backward into his tent, and when he returned, he was completely changed.
Gone was the tattered hat, the cracked eyes, and even the desperate vibe he exuded.
The man wore a clean, pristine bio-suit — streamlined, gleaming white with polymer armor and a tailored coat-skirt.
The look was clinical, polished, and intimidating. He stood tall now, professional.
"I'm Domingo. Master herbologist, and entomologist here is identification, my credentials are for public viewing and I will not hold it against you for sharing my personal information.
"This is part-time market behavior research. Is your recorder on standby?"
Cain nodded, transmitting the signal.
"Yes, I'm ready to record my purchase to you right now."
Domingo's recovery leaves were individually sealed in sterile containers — they were white, clean, and humbly minimalist by design.
Running his magicules through it, Cain gave a faint nod — the quality was undeniable.
"Two more."
[Deducted: 18 Silver]
"Need a duplicate receipt? Just give me your email and I'll send it straight over. And hey, you'll get my latest herbal promos too. We men could only stick with ourselves after all."
"No need, thanks though."
Cain finished the transaction, then pulled out his tent module — a four-unit automaton with foldable legs and snapping joints.
It clicked and hissed as it assembled itself, forming a two-by-two-meter shelter — just wide enough for his body and his gear, but compact enough for quick break.
Once inside, he stripped off his suit.
The moment the armor came undone, Cain's eyes shot to his body. One glance, and a bitter breath escaped his lips.
His torso, thighs, and arms were so discolored they looked like a fried motherboard — scorched purple, streaked with friction burns.
Even his ribs looked like weren't spared either — so he pressed them, making him winced a little.
'Two of them seemed to be broken... I hope that wolf chokes in his food.'
His body ached and spasmed all over but he pushed through — he knew that he could grit his teeth through pain, but not through an empty wallet.
'I hate that wolf... I wish I could beat him up a little more! But he offered me a job so....'
"Weird feeling, getting paid by someone who beat you up."
He muttered under his breath while chewing the recovery grass he purchased from Domingo.
It tasted like horse crap with a kick of spice, his tongue burned as sweat beaded instantly.
'Ew! It taste utterly disgusting. But still ten out of ten would recommend.'
His joke eased the taste while the leaves alleviated the pain ever so slightly, warmth seeping into his limbs.
Healing spell? Impossible.
It needed a full magicule pool and a controlled environment — not a cramped tent hundreds of kilometers from the nearest city.
Cain checked his clock.
'I guess I can at least move and not ache all over tomorrow morning...'
He ate a vita-gel ration, conjured water, and braced for tomorrow.