CHAPTER 157: DIRTY THINGS

Dylan and Jonas entered the alley Jonas had pointed out. It rose gently, almost slyly, as if the city itself was testing the resolve of those who dared to climb. The walls, pressed close on either side, sweated limestone and humidity, and the smell of old stone mingled with the sharper stench of torn-open trash. Breathing here was done halfway.

"Are there many paths like this one?" Dylan asked, his hand absentmindedly brushing the hilt of his jian.

Jonas nodded.

"Dozens. Maybe more. But not all of them lead this far. And most are watched... or trapped. You’ve gotta know them well."

They emerged into a small circular square, paved with a half-erased spiral pattern. A crumbling old well stood in the center, surrounded by three rickety benches and a few kids screaming while throwing rocks at each other. A woman pushed a cart full of fish that had been dead far too long, and an old man struggled to keep a stall of rotting fruit from collapsing.

Dylan wrinkled his nose.

"Do you guys have, like... a cleaning system? Or do you just wait for it all to rot and magically vanish?"

Jonas shrugged.

"There are sweepers. Collectors. But they mostly work when someone from the High-Tier comes down. You know, for appearances. The rest of the time, it’s every man for himself."

They walked around the square and slipped into another street — wider, but not any cleaner. Above them, makeshift balconies of rotting wood and twisted metal sagged under the weight of soaked laundry and dead flowerpots. A woman watched them from a window, then slammed it shut without a word.

"And the Count?" Dylan asked, without much conviction. "What’s he doing for his city?"

Jonas burst out laughing. A real one, this time.

"The Count? He throws banquets. Signs treaties. Collects magical artifacts he doesn’t understand."

Dylan muttered a soft "of course," continuing to scan the surroundings.

He spotted an old carved column tucked into a recess, draped in scraps of red cloth tied like offerings. The inscriptions looked ancient, worn, but still legible in places. A language he didn’t fully recognize... but not entirely foreign either.

"What’s that?" he asked.

Jonas stopped and sighed.

"One of the old markers. A few are still around. This city used to be a sacred crossroads. The old Orthodox Church held crusades, and this was the final rallying point."

Dylan raised an eyebrow.

"And now?"

Jonas shrugged again.

"Now, people piss on them. And then wonder why miracles don’t show up anymore."

Dylan stepped closer, ran his fingers over the carvings. A faint jolt of static tickled his skin, but he said nothing. Just a shiver. Or an old memory surfacing.

They kept walking.

"This city’s ancient, Dylan. Too ancient. It’s standing out of habit. But the foundations are groaning. And there are things beneath it we’d best not wake."

Dylan nodded, thoughtful.

A street vendor passed by, pulling a cart of stale bread and singing a half-forgotten song in a dialect even Jonas didn’t seem to understand.

The sun was climbing slowly, making the light harsher. More real.

Dylan squinted and stopped.

"Show me the market. The real one. Where the info flows."

Jonas gave him a sideways glance.

"The real market? You wanna see the beasts, the weapons, the drugs, the secrets, the live auctions, and the dodgy sellers all at once?"

Dylan grinned.

"Exactly."

Jonas sighed, hands deep in his pockets, then slowly nodded.

"Alright. But keep your eyes wide open. This place doesn’t forgive clumsy curiosity."

He turned into a dead-end alley that looked like nothing — a grimy cul-de-sac littered with overturned crates and a cracked wall streaked with mold. At the far end, a metal door was embedded in the stone like a festering wound. Jonas stopped in front of it, glanced left and right, and knocked three times, in a precise, almost ritual rhythm.

A series of clicks answered, followed by the scrape of metal.

The door opened slightly — a narrow slit, no wider than a smirk. A bloodshot eye appeared in the gap.

"Code?" came a deep voice.

"No code. I’ve got a guy who wants to buy a lie, sell a memory, and maybe trade his soul if the price is right."

The eye narrowed.

Then the door creaked open, revealing a spiral staircase plunging into the city’s belly. The air that seeped out smelled of damp earth, stale sweat, and iron.

Dylan barely hesitated before stepping in.

"Charming welcome," he murmured.

"It’s their version of politeness," Jonas replied. "Don’t worry, it gets worse."

They descended.

The staircase felt endless. With each step, the air grew heavier, hotter. The silence thickened. Until a low rumble rose to meet them — a diffuse buzzing, like a giant hive made of voices, shouts, clanking metal, animals, and discordant music.

Finally, they emerged into a vast artificial cavern, carved into the side of a long-forgotten hill.

The black market.

And it lived up to the name.

Light came from lanterns trapped in cages, from enchanted orbs that flickered constantly, throwing warped shadows across the walls. The stalls sprawled in all directions, haphazard and overcrowded like the dreams of the desperate. Everywhere, the smells of leather, spice, sweat, machine oil, and scorched magic filled the air.

Dylan felt his stomach twist between wonder and disgust.

One man was selling phoenix feathers — or so he claimed. Another displayed a mechanical arm, still bloody, saying it moved under moonlight. Farther down, a cage held a six-eyed beast, its silver fangs gleaming in the sickly light. It growled with every passerby.

"Welcome to the Gorge," Jonas said, arms spread, almost reverent. "Here, everything’s for sale. Even the things that shouldn’t be."

Dylan nodded slowly.

"You think we can get reliable info here?"

"Nope. But we’ll find something better — clues, rumors, and people who lie so badly they almost tell the truth."

He waved to a shirtless kid carrying a tray of multicolored vials.

"Where do we start?" Dylan asked.

Jonas grinned.

"That way."

He pointed toward a narrow alley covered by faded red fabric, flanked by statues with no faces.

"That’s the Speakers’ Corner. The beggars who know everything, the madmen who speak truths, the dream-peddlers who usually end up hanged. If something happened in this city, they’ve heard it."

Dylan tightened his belt, took a deep breath, and followed Jonas into the alley.

"About damn time."