CHAPTER 162: CHAPTER 162: RAT STREET_1

"Look, when the time comes, just say that the clerk deliberately treated customers poorly and didn’t maintain the firearms. That’s why your shop’s goods aren’t selling and large batches have rusted and become scrap," Lance laid out the plan.

"Don’t worry," he continued, "I’ll report this to the academy. They’ve already expelled plenty of students; one more won’t make a difference."

The manager readily agreed, a thrill coursing through him. Usually, his deals were small, piecemeal affairs. But this single transaction, even after greasing the necessary palms, would net him a profit equivalent to his annual salary.

Lance and the manager had casually decided a person’s future.

He’s a grown man, after all—he should be responsible for his actions, Lance thought.

"Expelling students? Did something happen?"

After concluding the transaction, Lance didn’t rush to leave. Instead, he began to inquire with the manager.

Predictably, upon hearing this, the manager couldn’t help but start complaining.

"I heard the academy’s funding was cut, but I don’t know the specific reasons. The reality is that the workshop has downsized, many students have been expelled, and those who remain, like that fellow we just saw, have to take on jobs.

"That kid must have had good grades to get such an easy assignment. More students are sent to the workshops because some craftsmen have also been laid off. Thankfully, our firearms section is still doing okay; it’s mainly the people in the cannon foundry who are affected."

Listening to this, Lance understood. No wonder that guy looked down on people; he was an academy student. In the future, whether he joined the military or relied on his education, he could have secured a good job. Naturally, he would feel superior to common folk, as if he had already ascended to the upper echelons.

But now, forced to interrupt his studies to tend a shop, it was no surprise he acted as if the world owed him something.

However, Lance perceived deeper implications. That battle must have been covered up; at least the common folk didn’t know their side had been defeated.

The Artillery Legion, equipped with the best gear for testing purposes, had performed poorly in actual combat. This feedback would undoubtedly have reached the upper echelons of the Eastern Province, leading to cuts in related funding.

Factional struggles exist anytime, anywhere. Military funding is finite, so the increased budget for the nascent artillery branch in recent years must have encroached upon the interests of traditional factions.

Now, those who had lost out would naturally fight to reclaim their piece of the pie.

It was safe to say that the artillery branch and the academy would inevitably be targeted. The funding cuts signaled a short-term contraction in related industries that had previously been booming.

Those students and craftsmen were merely specks of dust in the political games played by powerful figures.

But now, Lance found himself interested in these specks of dust.

On the pretext of needing someone to help repair weapons, Lance asked the manager about the situation with the craftsmen.

Unfortunately, the manager didn’t know much, as he rarely interacted with them. However, he did give Lance a location.

It wasn’t a craftsman association or any similar place, but rather a tavern popular among craftsmen: Furnace Tavern.

Founded by an iron-smith who loved to drink, it had originally been a simple gathering spot for a few friends but had gradually evolved into a favorite haunt for craftsmen seeking leisure.

After agreeing on a secret signal with the manager, Lance departed. However, he didn’t head directly to the tavern to gather information.

It wasn’t the right time yet; the tavern would only liven up at night, making it more convenient for him to find useful leads.

Now, he was headed to a very special place Barton had mentioned—Rat Street.

Before Totnes underwent its second expansion, this part of the Central City District was actually the Outer City. The environment back then was nowhere near as pleasant as it is now.

Prosperous commercial activity inevitably breeds shadowy sales channels—what is commonly known as a black market.

Due to its peculiar nature, those involved rarely showed their faces in daylight. They were often referred to as "sewer dwellers," and those who frequented the area were mostly called Rat-men.

Later, during the city’s expansion and redevelopment, the authorities surprisingly didn’t crack down on it. Instead, they preserved certain aspects, making one wonder who exactly was backing such an operation.

In any case, it gradually evolved into a rather unique area within the Central City District.

It was a semi-public black market, remarkably stable despite the absence of sheriffs.

Barton had said that one of the five great legends of Totnes was the Rat Street Treasure. Good things often surfaced there, Extraordinary items were not uncommon, and some people had even struck it rich overnight.

Such a place, steeped in legendary tales, naturally attracted many curious onlookers, as well as dreamers nursing unrealistic fantasies.

Lance was no different today; he was keen to explore this "street of many treasures," reminiscent of something from a Western fantasy novel.

Upon entering, Lance noted that the buildings were largely indistinguishable from those in the surrounding area, except for a rat symbol hanging at the street entrance, indicating he had crossed into Rat Street’s domain.

The foot traffic here was even heavier than in the commercial districts. It wasn’t just locals; Lance also spotted many people who were clearly foreigners, distinguished by their attire, skin color, and facial features, all of which showed considerable diversity.

Perhaps nowhere else on the entire continent could one witness such a melting pot.

Both sides of the street were lined with all sorts of ground stalls. A piece of red cloth would be spread on the ground, with the stall owner squatting beside it, hawking their wares to passersby.

Approaching one casually, Lance saw that the items displayed on the red cloth grew progressively more outlandish, alongside some antiques of dubious origin.

"Look here, this is from... it’s quite exquisite, truly beautiful! An antique like this, it can’t be faked. They might be able to imitate the shape, but they can’t replicate this rust!" The old stallholder, gesturing earnestly to a customer, quoted his price, "I won’t ask for much. Eighty thousand!"

The stall owner was spinning a tale for a customer while holding up an item. Nearby, a shill, pretending to be another customer, chimed in enthusiastically,

"That’s a real treasure! You could easily resell it for a hundred thousand! What a pity I’m short on cash... Brother, why don’t we pool our money, buy it together, and then take it to an auction house?"

With the stall owner and the shill working in tandem, an uninformed person could easily be fooled.

But Lance, with his background in archaeology, could tell with a single glance that the item was at most a week old—newer even than the red cloth it sat upon.

Not to mention, their cringeworthy sales pitch made his skin crawl from head to toe; it was so embarrassing he could barely stand to listen.

It was just a pile of counterfeit and shoddy goods, meant only to dupe tourists and ordinary folk dreaming of striking it rich.

Any sense of novelty Lance had initially felt for Rat Street was instantly extinguished.

Isn’t this just a fucking street-side antique scam? he fumed internally.

What happened to the Mysterious Otherworld Black Market I was promised?

Give me back my otherworldly fantasy!

Lance didn’t expose anything and quietly walked away. Smart people wouldn’t be deceived, and as for fools, even if he pointed out the con, they’d likely just assume he was also interested in the item, which would only invite trouble.

Uninterested in such displays, he turned his attention to the shops lining either side of the street, noticing that pawnshops were the most common establishments.

These businesses, with actual storefronts, couldn’t simply pack up and flee like the ground stalls. Consequently, they were far more restrained; most of the items displayed on their shelves and in their cabinets appeared to be genuine.