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The night in Golden Fortune was busy. Taverns were loud with laughter, dice games rolled on, and steel rang from duels in the distance. Rhys kept walking, steady and quiet.
He wasn't here for food or games. He was looking for old beast remains—small pieces others overlooked but still useful to him. Each time he found one, it reminded him there were still many more hidden around the city.
He turned down an alley and saw a stairway leading underground. There was no sign, but scratches on the stone showed people used it often. Curious, he went down.
[ Subterranean Reliquary Bazaar – Golden Fortune City ]
The air below was cool and damp. The noise here was low—no shouting or music. Just quiet trades and the clink of relics set on stone tables.
The stalls were simple. No bright signs, no decorations. Just hooded sellers and their goods: broken weapons with faint magic, bone charms, old scales, feathers, and shells. Most of it looked useless, but Rhys still checked carefully.
He stopped at one stall and picked up a cracked stone pendant. The seller leaned forward and said, "Old piece. Travelers say it came from a lightning beast. Not worth much, but maybe you'll find it interesting."
Rhys nodded once, set it back, and moved on.
At another table, he saw a small bundle of dark feathers. The seller claimed they came from a firebird line long gone. The feathers were dull, but Rhys still studied them for a moment before leaving them behind.
At the end of the hall, a chest sat half-open, filled with dust and coins. Inside were scraps—bone, scales, and a shard faintly glowing. No one was guarding it closely. It was just another piece of junk to most.
Rhys looked at it, then picked it up without hesitation. The seller barely glanced at him. "That one? Old bone. A few coins if you want it."
Rhys paid, slipped the shard into his storage, and kept walking.
No danger followed him. No one stared. It was just another night of shopping in Golden Fortune.
When Rhys came back up from the underground bazaar, the streets were still crowded. Lanterns burned low, and the smell of food drifted through the air—grilled meat, fried dumplings, spiced bread. Players sat on corners eating and trading, their laughter echoing off the stone walls.
Rhys didn't stop. He moved from one district to another, checking stalls that most people ignored. A junk trader near the outer walls had a box of cracked claws mixed with iron scraps. Rhys sifted through them, found a chipped fang that still held faint markings, and bought it for a single silver.
Another shop, run by a tired old woman, sold charms strung with bones. Most were fake, carved for tourists, but one bead was real—an old beast's knuckle polished smooth. Rhys bought it without comment, slipping it into his bag.
Hours passed like this. Street after street. Market after market. The city never really slept, and neither did the trading. To most, these scraps were worthless. To Rhys, they were pieces of something larger.
By the time he stopped, his storage carried a handful of relics—small, quiet things that no one else cared for. A tooth, a shard of bone, a scale dulled with age. Nothing rare enough to turn heads, but exactly what he had been searching for.
He found a quiet corner by the outer walls and sat on a low stone step. The city's noise dulled here, replaced by the faint hum of torches and the sound of the night wind pushing against the gates.
Rhys leaned back, cloak pulled close, and finally let himself rest. Golden Fortune had shown him what he needed. Not treasures or weapons, but proof that ancient fragments were scattered everywhere.
Tomorrow, he would search again.
Rhys rested for a while, letting the night pass around him. The city was still busy, but out here near the walls, the noise was softer. Guards walked their patrols, players came and went through the gates, and the torches flickered against the stone.
After some time, he stood and headed back toward the inn he had rented. The streets were calmer now, with fewer merchants calling out and only a few food stalls still open. He stopped at one, bought a skewer of grilled meat, and ate quietly as he walked.
When he reached the inn, the common room was half-empty. A few players sat drinking, talking about dungeon runs and loot they wanted to sell at the next auction. Rhys paid no attention. He went up to his room, closed the door, and set his bag down.
One by one, he took out the fragments he had bought. The tooth, the shard of bone, the polished knuckle, the dull scale. He set them on the table and looked at them in silence. To anyone else, it was just junk. To him, it was progress.
He stored them away carefully, then lay down on the bed. For the first time since the auction, he allowed himself to sleep.
The city outside went on without him—gamblers shouting, smiths hammering, taverns roaring—but Rhys's night was quiet. He had found what he came for. Tomorrow, he would continue.
Morning came with the sound of bells ringing in the distance. The city was already alive again—wagons rolling, hawkers setting up their stalls, smiths striking iron.
Rhys rose, packed his things, and left the inn without drawing notice. The streets were different in daylight. Busier, brighter, and louder, but he walked the same way as before—steady, quiet, and watchful.
He started at the smaller markets near the walls. A blacksmith had a crate of scrap metal mixed with beast parts used in old fittings. Most were worthless, but Rhys picked out a bent plate with a scale still fused into it. He bought it cheap.
From there, he moved on to a charm-seller. The man had a table full of necklaces, most carved from wood or stone. At the edge, half-buried, was a claw tied to a frayed cord. Rhys examined it, decided it was genuine, and added it to his pouch.
Hours went by the same way. Stall after stall, some with nothing, others with a piece worth taking. By midday, he had gathered a few more items—small bones, cracked scales, a single fang. None of it looked special, but together they built his collection further.
When he finally stopped, he sat down on a low wall overlooking one of the busier squares. The air smelled of cooked food, and the noise of bargaining carried across the open space. Rhys rested there, eating a simple meal, his pouch heavier than when he started.
It wasn't treasure. It wasn't rare. But it was exactly what he was searching for. And tomorrow, he would keep looking.
For now, he let the crowd pass him by. Traders shouting prices, mercenaries laughing too loud, guilds haggling for bulk goods—life in the Golden Fortune never slowed. From his seat on the wall, Rhys could see it all flowing past, a river of people and noise, carrying with it countless unnoticed fragments.
When he finished eating, he rose and moved again. Not toward the wealthier districts or the shining auction halls, but deeper into the alleys most players ignored. Here the air smelled of damp stone and rust. Shops were smaller, shelves stacked with chipped tools, cracked glass, faded cloth.
He walked without hurry, eyes sliding over the clutter until something caught. A box of broken hilts, where one grip was bound in hide so old it had hardened like bone. A shelf of tarnished coins, one of which carried a sigil he half-recognized from the ruins outside the forest. Each piece was bought quietly, tucked away into his pack without drawing attention.
The day stretched long. The sun shifted above the city walls, shadows growing sharper, markets changing hands as some stalls closed and others opened. Rhys kept moving, slow and steady, following no map but his own instinct.
By evening, when lanterns began to burn again, his pack was heavier. Not with gold or gems, but with the weight of history. A chipped plate, a half-shattered horn, fragments that others had forgotten.
He paused at a fountain near the heart of the city, sitting on the cool stone edge. The water shimmered with the lanternlight, masking the noise of the streets. Rhys leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let his gaze rest on the surface.
Piece by piece, he was building something. He didn't know yet where it would lead—but the city had plenty more to give.
He sat there a little longer, letting the noise of Golden Fortune wash over him. The laughter, the haggling, the clatter of boots on stone—it was all background now. His focus stayed on the fragments he'd gathered, their shapes and textures replaying in his mind like puzzle pieces waiting for a frame.
When he finally rose, the square had already shifted. Lanterns glowed brighter, performers had taken corners with flutes and drums, and the smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the crowd. Rhys moved through it all like a shadow, slipping between players drunk on food and drink, unnoticed and unbothered.