Chapter 99: Golden Fortune City V
The forge street blazed with sparks and clamor, but Rhys passed through it without pause. He didn’t haggle, didn’t linger. His stride was calm, steady, his hood drawn low. To others, he was just another bidder leaving the auction, blending into the stream of players hungry for trade.
The alchemy row glimmered next—rows of potions, herbs, and shimmering dust. Merchants shouted loudly, scents clawed at the air, but Rhys’s gaze barely flicked their way. His focus was elsewhere. Deep inside, his [Tamer of Ancients] pulsed faintly, a subtle pull that whispered whenever something tied to the past lay nearby.
Scroll markets followed, high spires lined with shelves and contracts. Again, Rhys walked on. He wasn’t here for tomes or weapons. His goal was rarer, quieter—remnants of creatures older than kingdoms, fragments overlooked by those who only saw profit in what glittered.
He passed the Beastmaster pens too. Wyverns roared, war-bulls stamped the ground, foxes flickered like firelight. Children and mercenaries crowded the cages, marveling, bargaining. But Rhys’s senses remained still. These were bred, raised, bought. None carried the echoes of what he sought.
So he kept walking. Shop to shop, stall to stall. Hours passed in the endless tide of Golden Fortune’s streets. Most vendors pushed glittering baubles, overpriced gear, or false relics dressed in runes. A few fakes made his Archive stir faintly, but only with irritation. Nothing true.
Then, in a quiet corner far from the main streets, he found it.
An old shop, tucked between a rune scribe’s stall and a tanner’s shed. Its sign was half-faded, its shelves dusty. Inside, boxes of discarded beast bones and cracked scales lay stacked like junk. The owner, an old NPC with cloudy eyes, barely looked up when Rhys entered.
Rhys’s gaze swept the shelves—and then he felt it. A flicker in his core.
[Predator’s Archive: Recognition]
— Ancient Beast Residue Detected.
His eyes fell on a small wooden tray shoved near the bottom shelf. Inside, among dull claws and chipped tusks, lay a single tooth—jagged, faintly scorched, as though lightning still slept in its veins.
The Archive whispered:
Remnant of Raiju, the Thunder Beast. Fragment of a fang, preserved as a relic of storm. Forgotten. Unclaimed.
The shopkeeper noticed his glance and chuckled dryly. "That one? Just an old curio. Traders said it came from a mountain storm beast a century back. Useless for enchantment, too brittle. I’ll let it go cheap if you want it."
Rhys reached down, his fingers brushing the surface. The faintest spark tingled against his skin, recognition thrumming through his Tamer’s bond. This was no worthless scrap.
It was exactly what he had been searching for.
Rhys didn’t haggle. He didn’t ask for proof. He simply laid a handful of gold coins on the counter, enough to cover the owner’s casual price.
The old man blinked, surprised, then slid the tray toward him with a shrug. "Yours, then. Good luck finding a use for it."
Rhys slipped the tooth into his storage. The moment it vanished, the faint tingling in his core deepened, settling into him like a quiet stormcloud waiting to break.
He inclined his head once in thanks, then stepped back out into the streets.
Golden Fortune stretched around him in every direction, its veins glowing with torchlight and runes. He let himself wander, not rushing, not drawing attention. The crowds blurred into background noise as his focus drifted inward, feeling for the subtle tug of the Archive, the soft recognition that only awoke in the presence of ancient remnants.
The forge row had been fire and steel. The alchemy row had been color and scent. Now, the streets opened wider into something else entirely: the cultural quarter.
Here, performers took the center of broad plazas. Dancers whirled in flowing silk, their movements in sync with hovering lanterns that pulsed like stars. Musicians played stringed instruments strung with mana-thread, their notes sending ripples of light across the cobblestones. Jugglers tossed crystal spheres that floated higher than they should have, glowing faintly with enchantment.
Crowds clapped and laughed, tossing coins into bowls. Children chased after sparks, and vendors sold roasted skewers, candied fruit, and steaming dumplings that filled the air with warmth and spice.
Rhys paused at the edge of the plaza. For a moment, it felt like another world—less steel and blood, more dream and color.
Puddle stirred faintly in his Heart Space, her voice soft with delight. "Master... it feels alive here. Like the city itself is dancing."
Rhys’s gaze wandered. At first, he meant to move on. But then the Archive whispered again. Faint. Barely noticeable. A resonance.
His eyes narrowed, following the pull. Not to the dancers, nor the musicians, but to a shadowed alcove at the side of the square where an old relic shop leaned between two taverns. Its windows were cluttered with oddities—cracked masks, faded charms, fragments of carved stone.
The Archive pulsed once more, stronger now.
He stepped off the main street, weaving between laughing crowds and fire-breathers spitting arcs of flame. The shift in noise was sharp—bright cheer behind him, dim stillness before him. The shop door creaked when he pushed it open.
Inside, shelves sagged under the weight of forgotten trinkets. Dust coated everything. But to his senses, this place hummed. It wasn’t strong—none of the fragments here were whole—but the echoes of the ancient still lingered in broken shards of bone, etched talismans, even a cracked feather frozen in crystal.
Not true treasures. But pieces. Seeds. Proof that Golden Fortune’s veins ran deeper than anyone else cared to see.
Rhys stood there in silence, his hood casting his face in shadow. For others, this was junk. For him, it was a map.
He didn’t buy anything this time. He didn’t need to. He only looked, let the Archive whisper, and then stepped back into the river of the city once more.
Golden Fortune spread wide, alive with dancers, songs, merchants, and firelight.
The streets shifted the farther he walked. The polished plazas of dancers and musicians faded behind him, swallowed by narrower alleys lit only by guttering lanterns. Here, the air smelled different—strong wine, incense smoke, and the metallic tang of coin.
[ Gambling Quarter – Golden Fortune City ]
Crowds pressed around tables where dice clattered, cards snapped, and glowing orbs spun like stars in cages of brass. Shouts rang out—cheers, curses, arguments over fortunes won and lost. Guild colors flashed at some tables, intimidating rivals into folding. Other corners were quieter, masked players moving in silence, wagers measured in blood-colored stones instead of gold.
Rhys slipped between them without pause. He didn’t glance at the wheels, the dice, the glittering piles of winnings. But as he walked, the Archive flickered faintly again—resonance from trinkets worn by gamblers who didn’t know what they carried. A claw strung into a necklace. A carved bone used as a "lucky charm."
Each one whispered of a beast long dead, its power forgotten, its remains reduced to superstition. Rhys felt them, but none were strong enough. Not yet.
The quarter bled into something darker.
[ Shadow Market – Golden Fortune City ]
Tents stretched low and narrow, stitched from hides too dark to be cow or horse. Lanterns burned with green flame, casting long shadows. Traders here spoke in whispers, their stalls offering wares not meant for daylight: assassin contracts bound in inked skin, poisons kept in glass fangs, relics stripped from unblessed graves.
Rhys slowed. Here, the Archive stirred harder. One tent displayed a rack of "exotic curios"—a cracked horn, a scale blackened by time, feathers dulled to ash-gray.
The vendor grinned, teeth sharp. "Rare beast remains, friend. Some say they belonged to creatures the gods themselves hunted down. Lucky charms, talismans of power—cheap tonight."
Rhys’s hand brushed over the scale. The Archive pulsed:
Fragment of Basilisk. Degraded. Power mostly lost. Still retains venomous echo.
His gaze moved to the horn.
Fanghorn Deer. Ancient bloodline. Extinct in this age. Resonance faint.
None were whole. None worth binding. He moved on.
The shadow market swallowed him again. Behind him, the vendor sneered, muttering about "cheap hooded wanderers."
Rhys ignored it.
Deeper still, the streets narrowed into silence. The lanterns thinned. Cracks split the stone underfoot. Ahead rose a shrine—or what remained of one.
The statues were shattered, their faces gone. Vines crawled across broken altars. Offerings long turned to dust lay scattered. Players gave this place wide berth; there was no profit here, no entertainment, only the weight of something forgotten.
But the Archive whispered loudest here.
The air trembled faintly with echoes. His pulse matched it. Puddle stirred in his Heart Space, voice hushed. "Master... do you feel it? Something old is watching."
Rhys stepped closer. He knelt, brushing aside the dust at the base of the altar. His fingers closed around a shard—small, brittle, but humming with recognition.
[ Ancient Fragment Acquired – Unknown Beast Relic (Sealed) ]
The moment he touched it, the city’s noise dulled. For an instant, he could hear only the roar of something vast, chained in thunder, long gone but not forgotten.
When he straightened, the shard slipped into his storage, its whisper quiet now but still alive.
Golden Fortune was loud, bright, alive with greed. But Rhys knew better. Beneath it, the city was layered with bones, relics, remnants. Proof of ages buried, waiting.
And he would find them all.