Chapter 122: One-Eyed Bandit
The forest broke at the cliffside, and the bandits slowed as the trees gave way to stone. Garruk One-Eye raised his scarred muzzle, lifting a hand for silence. Fifty men fell quiet.
They stared.
Instead of the grim crypt they expected, an estate garden sprawled before them — fountains spilling clear water, neat rows of flowers, benches polished as if nobles might sit there for tea. At the cliff wall, set seamlessly into the stone, loomed a massive slab of gray.
A frogkin snorted. "What in the hells is this? Looks like we stumbled into some lord’s summer house."
Another spat. "Where’s the rot, the bones, the stink of death? I thought this was an undead’s lair."
Garruk smirked, scar twitching with the motion. "No mistake. This is it. People said the Market was too rich to be true. But look." He spread his arms toward the fountains and flowers. "Rumors didn’t do it justice. The bastards are living like kings."
The bandits muttered, some laughing, others whistling low.
A kobold nudged his companion. "If this is the front yard, imagine what’s inside. Gold for days."
"Gold, and more than gold," another added, licking his teeth. "I heard they sell steel sharper than anything the Lupen forge."
Their chatter broke when a ramari slapped a hand on the slab. "Oi. Problem." He hit it again. "Door’s solid. Not even a seam to pry at. Just a wall."
The excitement dimmed. A few growled. One muttered, "Figures. All this show and no way in."
Garruk walked forward and pressed his palm flat against the cold stone. "Not a wall. A door. You don’t build fountains and benches to stare at a rock. It opens somehow." He turned his head. "Kenji. Get over here."
A foxkin slipped from the crowd — lean, dark-haired, with sharp eyes behind his spectacles. He placed his hands behind his back, studying the slab. After a moment, he tapped the small embedded crystal with a claw. It flared faintly, lines of light threading across the surface.
"This isn’t stone," Kenji murmured. "Not really. It’s stone carried by mana. Think of it like a locked chest. The key isn’t metal, it’s flow."
"And you can open it?" Garruk asked.
Kenji’s lips curled in a thin smile. "That depends. Do you trust me?"
Some of the bandits chuckled. A frogkin shouted, "Never trust a foxkin!"
Garruk grunted but gestured for silence. "Answer the damn question, Kenji."
The foxkin reached into his coat and pulled out a crimson crystal. The moment it cleared the fabric, the air thickened. The bandits shuffled back as one, uneasy. A kobold gagged. "What in the name of—"
Kenji held it up between two fingers, letting it glow. "Qualscoo," he said calmly. "An artifact. I liberated it from one of our own nobles. It unsettles anyone who isn’t foxkin because it disrupts natural flow. Any flow. Steel, stone, air... even mana itself. Except for me."
The bandits murmured uneasily.
Garruk tilted his head, eye glinting. "Clever. I’ve said it before — foxkin look weak, but sly as knives. Masters of secrets and shadows. So tell me. Can it open my door?"
Kenji gave a little bow. "That’s the idea. Watch closely."
He held the Qualscoo to the embedded crystal. The glow stuttered and flared, cracks of light running across the slab like veins. The air hummed.
Kenji’s smile sharpened. "Now, push."
A frogkin and a kobold stepped up nervously, shoulders against the slab. They heaved. With a groan of stone on stone, the door slid back, leaving a gap wide enough to squeeze through.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then a cheer erupted, rough and wild, echoing off the cliffside.
"Ha! We’re in!"
"Get moving before it shuts again!"
"Glory to the Black Poison!"
They poured through, boots clattering against marble.
Inside, the noise died.
The chamber stretched wide, lit by rows of glowing light stones embedded in the walls. Stalls lined the room, stocked neatly with goods: shelves of folded cloth, racks of shining weapons, rows of small wooden figures. The air was clean, almost perfumed.
A kobold’s jaw dropped. "By the stars... all this, just sitting here?"
Another muttered, "How many stones are there? Dozens? Maybe hundreds? You could ransom a town with that."
"Forget ransom," a frogkin cackled, scrambling onto the nearest shelf. "Take them all!"
Soon the chamber was chaos. Bandits hauled cloth, yanked light stones free, pocketed figurines. A ramari stuffed his sack with leather, laughing like a madman.
Garruk walked slower. His eye roved the room, his hand reaching for a blade displayed on a rack. He pulled free a damascus sword, its polished edge gleaming, and tested the weight. His grin widened. "Hah. Worth every drop of sweat."
The looting grew louder, greed feeding greed.
Then came the crack.
Kenji’s hand jerked as the Qualscoo split down its center with a sharp snap. Dust crumbled in his palm. Behind them, the great door slammed shut with a deafening boom.
The cheer cut off.
Every head turned.
"What was that?!"
"The door—look, it’s closed!"
"We’re trapped!"
Weapons hissed from scabbards. Torches flared higher. Fear flickered in the greedy eyes of the crowd.
Garruk’s smile vanished. He turned to Kenji slowly. "You forgot to tell me your little toy explodes."
Kenji’s ears twitched, but he kept his composure. "Not exploded. Overwhelmed. The Qualscoo works against most locks, but this place... the pressure of mana here is unlike anything I’ve seen. The artifact couldn’t bear it."
"You underestimated," Garruk growled, hefting the sword.
"I measured," Kenji said evenly. "I was wrong about the depth, not the function. The crystal still did its job. It opened the door. That was always the risk."
The bandits muttered. Some shouted. "So what now?!" "We’re stuck in here like rats!"
Garruk raised his sword and barked, "Shut your mouths!" The noise cut off. He glared at Kenji, then exhaled hard through his teeth. "Fine. If the way back is sealed, we find another. These halls weren’t built for one door."
A ramari at the far side of the chamber waved. "Boss! Over here! There’s another door!"
Every head turned. A heavy wooden door stood flush against the far wall, untouched.
Garruk smirked again, mood shifting. He rested the damascus sword on his shoulder. "There. Problem solved. The Market won’t let us starve. It’s too rich for one room."
He pointed the blade toward the door. "Form up. Loot’s useless if we rot in here. We find the skeletons. We make them open the way. And if they won’t..." He grinned. "I’ll test my new blade."
The bandits cheered again, nerves washed away in noise.
"Open the halls!"
"Kill the bones!"
"Loot ’til our bags burst!"
Garruk strode toward the door, every step loud against the marble. The rest followed, steel flashing, sacks bulging with stolen goods.
The Black Poison was inside.
And the Market had just become their cage.
The spiral staircase groaned under fifty pairs of boots as the Black Poison descended. The further they went, the more the bright luxury of the first floor faded.
By the time they reached the landing of the second level, the sight had shifted entirely. Gone were polished floors and glowing stones. Instead, the chamber spread like a cavern: rough-hewn walls, stacks of pallets, heaps of stone blocks, iron beams propped against the walls, sawdust scattered across the ground. It smelled faintly of dirt and steel, sharp and raw.
A kobold whistled low. "Well now. That’s a face behind the mask."
A frogkin spat into the dirt. "Figures. Pretty fountains up top, rotting guts underneath. Same as every lord’s manor. Don’t matter if they’re human, beastkin, or undead — filth under the paint."
Another grumbled. "Like we just peeled their skin off. Friendly face on the first floor, corpse underneath. Bastards can’t hide it forever."
The murmurs spread quickly, feeding unease.
Kenji adjusted his spectacles, voice cutting through. "You’re mistaken. This isn’t rot. This is work. Renovation. I heard word myself — the so-called Necro Market was closing for construction. These materials confirm it." He tapped a beam with his claw. "Nothing sinister here."
The foxkin’s calm tone steadied some, but Garruk’s eye was narrow, sharp. He scanned the shadows, hand tightening around his damascus blade.
"Renovation or not," Garruk muttered, "it’s empty. Too empty. Where are the workers? Where’s the hammering, the shouting? Not a soul here. Even undead make noise when they shuffle."
The bandits shifted, blades drawn tighter in their hands.
"Maybe they knew we were coming."
"Maybe it’s a trap."
"Maybe they’re watching us now."
"Enough," Garruk barked, silencing them. "Stay sharp. Spread out. Find the next door."
The order barely left his mouth before a shout rose.
"There! Against the far wall!"
Torches swung, and indeed, another heavy stone door stood embedded in the cavern wall.
Cheers rippled, but low, more forced than before. Garruk’s gut knotted. He glanced at Kenji, who for once had no smugness, only a faint crease of unease across his muzzle.
The foxkin whispered, just for Garruk. "It’s too quiet. Even for a construction floor. Silence is the worst sound."
Garruk grunted. "Aye. Feels like the air’s chewing on my nerves." He raised his voice. "Form up. Nobody walks alone."
They pressed onward.
The spiral staircase down to the third floor loomed, but here the design shifted. The stairs no longer had wide railings that gave a view of the cavern — instead, stone walls closed around them, narrow and confining. Their torches painted shadows that seemed to cling. Boots scraped against stone, breath echoed strangely.
The unease thickened.
"Don’t like this," muttered a ramari.
"Feels like we’re walking into a throat," said a kobold.
"Then sharpen your teeth," Garruk growled, forcing bravado into his tone.
At the third level, the same sight greeted them: more pallets, more beams, piles of stone, dust thick enough to stir with every step. But the stillness was heavier now, pressing on their lungs.
"Where are they?" whispered a frogkin. "If this place is alive with trade, where are the dead?"
"No skeletons," Kenji said softly, scanning with his spectacles glinting in torchlight. "No staff. Nothing. Too consistent to be chance."
Garruk exhaled hard. "Keep moving. We’ll find them sooner or later."
Another door waited at the far end, and the men pushed toward it, tension growing with each step.
Then came the fourth descent.
This time, the stairs felt like a tunnel. Walled in, no gaps, no railings. A spiral throat of stone swallowing them deeper. Bandits muttered prayers under their breath, curses under their tongues. Even Garruk felt the weight pressing in, and for the first time that night, a bead of sweat ran beneath his fur.
Finally, the staircase spat them out into a cavern hall. And there, at the end, the first living soul they had seen since entering.
A kobold woman leaned against the doorframe, smoke curling from her lips. She exhaled lazily, eyes half-lidded, until they snapped open — locking with those of a frogkin bandit.
Her cigarette nearly fell from her mouth. Color drained from her muzzle.
"Shit," the frogkin breathed, a grin spreading. "Finally, some fun."
Garruk’s one eye narrowed, blade shifting on his shoulder.
Kenji’s ears twitched sharply. "Now, this... changes things."
Manicia stood frozen in the doorway, the smoke curling between them, as fifty bandits closed in.