In the underworld of Nighthaven, all sorts of people crawl about.
There were the inept dreamers with neither ability nor luck, clinging desperately to the city.
The fools fleeing from laws and rules, living recklessly.
And the failures who stretched themselves too thin, only to crumble into ruin.
Naturally, no one in such a place could engage in productive work that created value.
Selling one’s body or taking what belonged to others were the only economic activities they could manage.
Wherever there were thieves to steal goods, there were inevitably fences to buy them cheaply.
Thus, the underworld had its share of professional fences who specialized in trading stolen items.
It was a mutually beneficial relationship.
Both sides walked away feeling as though they’d gained something.
I had just looted a handful of rings from a drug addict and was now on my way to one such fence to convert them into cash.
“This area is still as quiet as ever.”
Hopping from rooftop to rooftop, I stopped to scan my surroundings.
Even in the far outskirts, it wasn’t uncommon to see drunken people wandering the streets.
Here, however, not a soul was in sight—not even a single sewer rat.
The silence was uncharacteristic of bustling Nighthaven.
But of course, there was a reason for that.
This area was a “gray zone,” located on the fringes of the underworld, close to the city center.
People from the lawful side avoided it due to the palpable danger.
Those from the underworld rarely came here without a reason.
It was an unspoken buffer zone.
Causing trouble here could prompt corporations or the police to intervene in the underworld.
Or worse, it might give rival criminal organizations an excuse to surface en masse.
So, various factions kept their activities in check, maintaining a fragile peace.
“I like quiet places, so this suits me just fine.”
After confirming the coast was clear, I jumped down from the rooftop and landed softly in an alleyway.
Emerging from the slightly damp, musty-smelling alley, I found myself on a neglected road overgrown with weeds.
“These weren’t here a week ago.”
Clearly, the shopkeeper here wasn’t concerned with upkeep.
With a wry smile, I used telekinesis to pull up a few weeds and toss them into the drainage ditch.
When the road seemed passable enough, I entered the unlit shop in front of me.
At a glance, it looked like a closed-down business.
But as soon as I stepped inside, the lights flickered on, and a voice greeted me.
“You’re here.”
“….”
“Sit down.”
The shopkeeper was a massive orc, nearly twice my height.
His name was Greg Visk, and his sheer presence was enough to set off every danger sensor in my body.
But at least he wasn’t the type to hit his customers, so there was no need to be overly tense.
I quickly trotted over and sat in a chair meant for customers, while Greg settled opposite me at his desk.
The size difference was absurd—his shadow alone could have engulfed my entire body.
“Greg’s overwhelming presence never fails to impress. How can someone exude this much intimidation just by sitting still?”
If I sat there with my clothes off, I’d look utterly pitiful in comparison.
It was moments like these that reminded me how full of powerful non-human beings the fixer world was.
“Did you bring the goods?”
“….”
Lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed Greg putting on a pair of round glasses. Without waiting for me to reply, he naturally continued the conversation.
Not that I could speak, but his straightforward approach felt like he was acknowledging me as a regular customer.
Feeling slightly touched by his professionalism, I placed the rings I had taken from the drug addict onto the desk.
“Rings, this time? Quite a few of them. Especially this one….”
Greg glanced at the collection of over ten rings on the desk before picking up the ugliest one to inspect more closely.
“Estimare.”
He muttered a word as he touched the frame of his glasses, causing the right lens to emit a faint glow.
It was magic—specifically, a spell embedded in his artifact glasses.
The glasses’ function was to read faint residual thoughts imprinted on objects.
While it wasn’t powerful enough to fully uncover the past like psychometry, it could sense strong memories and emotions associated with an item.
This allowed him to gauge whether an item was valuable or dangerous.
“Greg downplays them as cheap artifact glasses that just ‘help him see things clearly,’ but….”
Depending on how they were used, they could be a trump card to turn unfavorable situations around.
They had even been pivotal in distinguishing a real bomb from a fake one in a life-or-death scenario.
Artifacts with magical properties, regardless of their purpose, were not to be underestimated.
At this point, you might wonder why I seemed to know so much about Greg.
It was simple—Greg Visk was a character from the original story!
“Wait, didn’t I vow to avoid anything involving the protagonist? And here I am, mingling with someone from the original story!”
If you’re thinking that, let me explain: this was an exception.
Among all the fences in the underworld, Greg was the most trustworthy.
Many fences, despite their collaborative relationship with the underworld, were shady in their own right.
They’d scam customers who didn’t know market prices, sell out sellers’ locations to the original owners for a bribe, or worse.
After being burned by such schemes three times, I had learned my lesson.
While I still intended to avoid the protagonist and their group, survival required me to work with a reliable fence.
And Greg was as dependable as they came. He offered fair prices, didn’t leak information, and treated me with respect despite my peculiar appearance.
Greg finished appraising the first ring, and the glow from his glasses faded.
“This one won’t do.”
“…?”
Refusal?
I tapped the desk lightly, silently asking for an explanation.
Greg lifted the ring closer to my face and explained:
“As you can see, this ring has no monetary value. It’s made from hardened entrails, a technique recently popular among vampires.”
The refusal made sense.
First, the ring was so poorly made that no one would buy it.
Second, owning it could provoke retaliation from a vampire organization.
His reasoning was mature and reasonable. I felt embarrassed for having doubted him.
“However, the rest seem like ordinary rings. I’ll buy them for… this much.”
“…!”
The price Greg offered was astonishing.
It was enough to let me live without bothering any thugs for at least two months!
Maybe even indulge in a sandwich stuffed with meat once a week!
Swallowing my excitement, I quickly stood up, signaling that I accepted the deal without any intention to haggle.
Greg handed me a cash card instead of loose bills, understanding that it would be inconvenient for me to carry a wad of cash without pockets or a bag.
I hopped in place, expressing my gratitude as best as I could.
Greg chuckled faintly. “Good deal, kid. And thanks for pulling the weeds in front of the shop.”
“….”
Wait… when did he see that?
Startled, I froze, but Greg had already closed the shop door behind him.
Even with my enhanced senses, I didn’t notice him observing me. As expected of a fixer from the original story—he’s terrifying.
Shuddering slightly, I rubbed my goosebump-covered arms and made my way back into the alley.
In my hand, I still held the rejected red ring.
“I should just get rid of this.”
With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the ugly ring into a sewer drain, where it sank without a trace.
Watching it sink, a thought crossed my mind:
“Why did that drug addict even have something like this? He didn’t seem like a vampire… did he just find it by chance?”
In the story, vampires were formidable foes, capable of giving the protagonist a hard time.
Why would someone as weak as that man be carrying such a dangerous ring?
The answer to that question became clear the very next day.
“Huff… huff… Found you! You miserable little wretch! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you for sure!”
A man with a dark bruise on his forehead stormed toward me, his face twisted in rage.
Trailing behind him were ghastly creatures resembling dried-up corpses—a pack of ghouls.
Oh no… was he a vampire after all?
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