CHAPTER 158: BY THE HOLY GREED OF GOLD

The faded red canopy above them rippled slightly, casting strange currents of shadow across their faces. Here, the light was murky, filtered through the fabric as if the sun itself hesitated to enter. The air reeked of melted wax, dry dust, and stale incense, laced with that indescribable scent that always haunted places burdened with secrets.

Dylan walked slowly, his footsteps echoing faintly on the uneven stones. The faceless statues, worn down to oblivion, seemed to watch them despite their lack of eyes. Some had bandages tied around their necks; others wore necklaces made of human teeth. An atmosphere of sacred delirium, of decadent oracles.

Jonas said little. He watched. Eyes were everywhere here. Beneath torn cloaks, behind grimy curtains, inside the cracks of crumbling walls. Whispers drifted through the air—elusive. Nonsense syllables. Or maybe too much sense.

An old man approached them soundlessly. His eyes were as white as the moon, and his lips moved without speech. A broken horn dangled from his neck, tied with a greasy string. He raised a hooked finger at Dylan.

"You carry a name that hasn’t bitten you yet," he whispered.

Dylan raised an eyebrow.

"And you, did your brain fry already or are you saving it for dessert?"

The old man laughed—a sound like a cracked hourglass. Then he backed into the shadow of a doorway and vanished.

Jonas said nothing. He pointed to a half-collapsed tent in front of which a circle of chalk had been drawn on the ground.

"In there. If anyone knows something, it’s probably her."

"Who’s her?" Dylan asked.

"She changes names every week. But here, they often call her the Weaver. Because she weaves truth with lies. Or the other way around. No one really knows."

Dylan smirked, amused.

"Perfect. I love people who talk in riddles. Gives me an excuse to break their teeth when I don’t get it."

He lifted the flap and stepped inside.

Inside, the light came from candles stuck into animal skulls, and the walls were covered in scraps of parchment, ribbons, rusty hooks from which hung strange objects: locks of hair, teeth, dried bird hearts. The air was heavy, like a living memory suspended in the room.

At the far end, seated atop a mountain of threadbare cushions, a woman watched them. She wore a smooth black mask, without eyes or mouth, and her delicate hands were weaving something—truly weaving—an invisible thread passed between her fingers like a trance-bound spider.

"You want to know," she said without raising her head. "But the real question isn’t what you seek. It’s what you’re willing to pay."

Dylan stepped forward.

"And if I haven’t decided what I’m looking for yet?"

"Then pay first. The answer will choose you—not the other way around."

Jonas stayed back. He knew these kinds of scenes and understood that the slightest interruption could snap the fragile thread of the moment.

Dylan reached into his coat and pulled out a small gem, just larger than his palm. It pulsed faintly like a sick heart, casting brief violet glimmers in the tent’s gloom. The light flickered, and the air seemed to vibrate a little harder.

He rolled it between his fingers as if hesitating. Then, without warning, he tossed it toward the Weaver.

"It’s a gem from a second-rank awakened beast," he said, voice calm but firm. "It belonged to my parents. It’s all I have left of them. But I need money. Urgently. So... do you know anyone who might be interested?"

A thick silence fell. Tense. Heavy.

Even Jonas turned his head, caught off guard by the tone. He didn’t know Dylan well, but a line like that—with that delivery—sounded like a lie dressed as tragedy. Too polished to be sincere. Too smooth to be grief.

The Weaver didn’t move. Her fingers kept weaving the invisible. But her mask tilted ever so slightly. She spoke softly, like through wet cloth.

"You’re lying. But it’s a rather elegant lie."

Jonas raised an eyebrow, muttering from the corner:

"Yeah, she’s not buying it."

But the woman continued, undisturbed:

"You lie... and yet you offer. Now that is interesting."

She extended her hand, palm up toward the gem.

"The spirit essence... still pure. Seems it hasn’t yet been corrupted by your greed. The soul fragment—it sleeps. And the negative energy... ah... it breathes."

A murmur slipped through the tent walls. Even the buzzing of the market outside seemed to lower, as if the air itself held its breath.

The gem hovered briefly above her palm, suspended by some unseen will. Then it descended slowly.

"And the essence is still quite fresh."

Dylan gave a half-smile, confirming nothing.

"I’ll take that as a ’yes, I might have a contact.’"

The Weaver turned her mask toward Jonas.

"Take him to the Skin Weaver. Tell him the Weaver recommends the buyer with the grey skin."

Jonas paled slightly. Not from fear—more like a gut-level instinct. Like someone had just offered him a handshake with a demon... wearing velvet gloves.

"The Weaver? Seriously?" he muttered.

But he nodded, motioned to Dylan.

"You want money? Get ready to find out what it really costs."

They left the tent. The outside air, though foul, felt nearly fresh after that charged atmosphere.

Behind them, the Weaver resumed her weaving.

And the gem, still hovering above her palm, no longer shone with quite the same light.

⸻

They plunged deeper into the black market.

This time, Jonas stayed silent. He moved fast, nervous, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, as if trying to melt into the strange crowd. Dylan, on the other hand, stayed calm. He observed, catalogued details, faces, goods, drifting rumors. His walk was confident—almost cocky—but his eyes never stopped gauging the space, always half-expecting a blade between the ribs.

They passed through several alleys. The atmosphere subtly changed. Less shouting, less movement. The vendors were quieter. So were the customers. Some wore masks, others thick cloaks despite the suffocating heat. The floor grew uneven. Lanterns sparse. The stares colder.

Finally, Jonas stopped in front of a low door carved into a stone wall covered in slick moss. No sign. Just a faint black symbol: a face sewn shut.

Jonas sighed.

"Alright... this is it."

Dylan tilted his head.

"The Skin Weaver lives in there?"

"He works in there. He lives... somewhere between flesh, shadows, and whatever twisted idea of art he clings to." He paused. "And trust me, it’s not a healthy one."

He knocked three times. Long. Short. Long.

A moment. Then a sinister click.

The door creaked open.

The smell hit first. Not rot. Not sweat. But something meticulously awful: alcohol, burned leather, scarred flesh. And beneath it... something older. More intimate. The scent of blood that refuses to fade.

Dylan stepped in without hesitation.

Inside was dark—but clean. Too clean. Surgical instruments gleamed on iron tables. Jars lined shelves, holding pieces of skin, eyeballs, fragments of jaw still bearing teeth. A curtain made of tanned viscera divided the space.

And behind it, a voice cut through.

"Enter."

They obeyed.

The Skin Weaver sat cross-legged on what looked like a throne of human skins sewn edge to edge, like a cursed patchwork. His skin was grey, almost ashen, like living soot, and his eyes were black, without iris. No hair, just a skull tattooed with unreadable symbols.

He barely raised his head.

"The Weaver sends you."

"She said you might appreciate what I’ve got to offer," Dylan said, pulling out another gem—not the same one. Duller. Less fresh. Just enough to bait the hook.

The Skin Weaver reached out, brushed the gem, and smirked.

"You want money. But you don’t know the worth of what you hold."

Dylan smiled.

"I leave that to the experts."

The Skin Weaver stood in one fluid, silent movement. He placed the gem into a small iron circle etched with runes on a bone table. The light changed. A red-and-black specter shimmered above the gem, briefly revealing its three inner layers: the clear essence, the inert fragment, and the... restless energy.

He nodded.

"This one, I’ll buy. Thirty gold pieces. Straight deal. No questions."

Dylan didn’t flinch, though he knew it was far below the real price.

He simply replied:

"And if I had another? More alive. Younger. Fresher."

The Skin Weaver froze.

Silence dropped.

Then, in a lower, slower voice, he spoke.

"If you show me that... it won’t be a transaction. It’ll be a conversation. And that conversation might cost you more than your goods."

Jonas swore softly.

Dylan crossed his arms.

"I’m willing to talk. But I want to hear the offer first."

The Skin Weaver straightened, eyes faintly glowing.

"Show me."