Soren’s three-month terminal vault was finally secured.
He put most of his money into it.
Not only the party funds he was entrusted with as treasurer, but also his personal savings, stuffed hastily into the vault.
Now, all he had left were a few silver coins and a pouch of small change.
‘This should be enough… for now.’
There weren’t any big expenses looming in the immediate future.
Besides, the vault was only five minutes away from the inn, which eased his anxiety about not having cash on hand.
“What now?”
“Well… I guess we could go to the market. I didn’t put all the party funds in.”
Soren left the management office with Loreia, who naturally trailed behind him.
He figured that even if they just returned to the inn, he’d only end up reading strategy guides anyway—so this was a good chance to get to know the winding city a bit better.
‘We’re running low on food… I should restock.’
“Should we get some good bread this time?”
“You shouldn’t tempt me.”
“It’s not temptation, really.”
Of course, even with that said, the only destination was the market.
Soren headed straight there.
The sun was up—as always—and the market was bustling with merchants calling out to potential customers.
In this winding city, merchants fell into two categories.
One was the peddlers who sold all kinds of odds and ends.
The other was the specialists who focused on a single trade.
The market Soren stood in now, the one in the Violet District, was home to mostly peddlers.
This area also had the highest concentration of general stores.
He had relied on them quite a bit before entering his first dungeon.
“Let’s grab some food. We also need lamp oil, right?”
“Yeah.”
The main customers of the Violet District’s market were explorers.
Since dungeon expeditions usually took at least a week, they came here to stock up on all the necessary supplies.
Soren and Loreia blended right in with the crowd.
They stepped into a general store, looked over what they needed, and if the price seemed fair, Soren tried to haggle.
“Eight bronze coins. No way this is worth ten.”
“You little brat! You think I’m digging these up out of the ground?!”
“Okay, okay. Nine coins. But I’m not paying ten, no matter what.”
“Unbelievable…”
Soren had a decent knack for haggling.
He’d dealt with traveling merchants who passed by his cabin on a remote hill—and they were notoriously stingy, having to make long trips.
Compared to them, the settled merchants in the city were manageable opponents.
“Stingy as hell… and the bowls are tiny, too.”
Loreia muttered something under her breath, but Soren pretended not to hear.
By the time they finished buying food and daily necessities, the sun was already high in the sky.
Standing at the entrance to the Violet District, Soren and Loreia looked at each other.
“Well, now what…?”
“Nothing else to do?”
They still had a bit of money left.
They didn’t have to spend it all, but Soren couldn’t shake a vague sense of dissatisfaction.
The two wandered aimlessly through the streets.
Leaving behind the crowded market of the Violet District, they passed the plaza with the clock tower and came to a cleaner, neater part of the city.
Soren, walking in silence, found his gaze drawn to a wide avenue.
Unlike the tightly packed and chaotic Violet District, this street was calm and pleasant.
Looking at the ground, he saw a border stone colored in shades between white and gray.
Soren’s eyes followed the stone, reading the inscription carved into it: Silver District.
“This is the Silver District.”
“The street of mages… yeah.”
It was a place Loreia had mentioned before.
Before he realized it, Soren was stepping into the Silver District, almost as if in a trance.
Loreia followed slowly behind.
As soon as they entered, a crisp breeze brushed against their skin.
‘So this is the mages’ street… it really does feel like it.’
The Silver District was exclusively for mages.
Stores lined both sides of the street, flanking a flower bed in the center like a median.
Each shop sold magic-related goods.
There were differences in specialization, of course, but Soren—who wasn’t a mage—had no idea what any of it was.
“They sell stuff related to curses here, right?”
“…Honestly, I’m not sure.”
Figures.
Soren clicked his tongue quietly.
Sure enough, there wasn’t a trace of curse-related items.
The closest thing he could find was a staff—but even that wasn’t suitable for a curses practitioner.
Soren and Loreia wandered through the Silver District.
Now and then, a few mages gave them curious looks.
Soren couldn’t really blame them.
‘He wasn’t a mage, so what was he doing here?’
“Hey, Loreia.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t see a single item I’m looking for.”
“…Yeah.”
The Silver District was expansive—comparable in size to the Violet District.
But the number of people walking around was a fraction of that.
It felt like a clear division of class: the Violet District for the commoners, the Silver District for the privileged mages.
Soren remembered how mages received all sorts of benefits even at the management office.
They were arrogant, sure—but forming a tower and asserting their rights collectively? That was smart.
The Mage Tower—an institution that united those under the title of “mage” and gave them a structured hierarchy.
Curse practitioners had nothing like that.
As Yerena from the Karel party once said, they tended to be societal misfits—hiding away and whispering among themselves.
‘Thanks a lot, you brilliant seniors.’
Because of them, Soren hadn’t been able to benefit from a single support system.
Since curse users never asked for anything, the city had no reason to offer them help.
Soren grumbled as he walked—until something caught his eye.
Nestled between the mage shops, barely noticeable, was a narrow alleyway.
His gaze stopped there.
Without thinking, his feet started moving toward it.
Something about that alley seemed to pull him in.
“Where are you going…?”
Loreia tilted her head, puzzled, but followed after him.
Soren stepped into the dimly lit alley, and the darkness enveloped his body.
For the first time, he could finally breathe.
It was only when soaked in darkness that he felt free.
He could never live like those bright, bustling people outside.
Soren was born in that cramped, damp, and dark shack.
He had lived there, grown up there.
Perhaps that was why the darkness of the dungeon felt so familiar.
Soren ventured deeper into the shadows.
A familiar scent tickled his nose.
Even in the dark, he managed to walk without misstepping.
Behind him, Loreia followed with a suspicious expression, but Soren paid her no mind.
“This place…”
At the end of the narrow alley stood a shop so gloomy it hardly belonged in the silver district.
***
Soren stared intently at the object hanging from the door—a sheep’s head, tied to a rope like a sign.
He reached out toward the pale sheep’s head.
The desiccated remains, preserved without decay, had clearly undergone a familiar tanning process.
Creak…
But before his hand could touch it, the tightly shut door swung open on its own.
‘Overwhelming.’
Beyond the door lay only more darkness.
The musty smell seeping from within, mixed with the stale dust, felt oddly comforting.
These were the same scents that had always filled the shack.
Amid it all, Soren sensed an overwhelming presence—so intense it felt as if Kun Allak, the entity to whom he’d offered tributes, had descended himself.
“Is this… also a shop?”
“Loreia. Let’s go in.”
Soren couldn’t bring himself to resist the pull of that energy.
Humans are drawn to the familiar, and Soren was no exception.
‘A presence similar to Father’s.’
The aura emanating from beyond the door unmistakably resembled his father’s.
Bang!
The moment Soren and Loreia stepped inside, the old door slammed shut behind them.
Then, one by one, faint candlelights began floating in the darkness.
Soren stared blankly at the oil candles hovering in midair.
This place was mysterious.
Every aura here felt extraordinary—some familiar, others unknown.
The most intense one was beyond comprehension.
“…You’ve come.”
That overwhelming presence came from the rocking chair ahead.
Soren’s gaze shifted toward it.
Illuminated by the floating candles was a deeply wrinkled face.
Eyes that must have once sparkled with wisdom were now clouded white.
In those hazy, glass-like pupils, Soren’s tense reflection stared back.
Yes, it was unmistakable.
“Who… are you?”
This old man was the strongest Soren had ever encountered—rivaling even his father.
He swallowed dryly.
Though he’d come here willingly, the old man’s aura was anything but ordinary.
The strong were capricious by nature, and the elderly even more so.
This old man was a wildcard—unpredictable in every way.
“Who are you?”
“Me? Hah…”
The old man’s parched lips twitched.
Black mist seeped from between his teeth, and Soren instinctively took half a step back.
“For a little guest to barge in and demand answers so rudely…”
“I’m not a kid—”
“But… very well.”
“Come closer.”
The old man twitched his gnarled fingers.
As if entranced, Soren sat before him.
Even Loreia, who’d been on edge, reluctantly took a seat.
Only then did the old man continue.
“Did you inherit it?”
“…What?”
“Ah, an inheritance… That staff. I remember it now.”
The old man pointed at the staff Soren always carried—his father’s legacy.
The raven feathers at its tip began trembling, as if resonating with the old man’s gestures.
“I made it. A gift for reaching the dungeon’s depths… I gave him that staff.”
Soren’s staff was his father’s heirloom, passed down to him.
His father had owned it from the beginning—or so he’d thought.
Yet this old man claimed to be its creator.
“Sir… just who are you?”
Soren spoke more politely this time.
The old man chuckled faintly.
“First, answer me. The one who left you that staff—what was he to you?”
“My father.”
“Your father… How peculiar. That fool who wouldn’t stop rambling about going home… actually left behind a child.”
Soren’s eyes widened.
This old man knew his father.
“You knew him?”
The old man closed his eyes silently.
Soren waited, ignoring Loreia’s anxious glances.
‘Father sought companions. Maybe…’
His father had been a dungeon explorer with comrades.
Perhaps this old man was one of them.
After a moment, the old man spoke again.
“Player name: ‘Gojol Ssaetdoru.’ Shaman class. ID: jun0412secx…”
“His name was Jun. I taught him, boy.”
The old man declared himself Soren’s father’s teacher.
Soren’s mind reeled.
His father had never mentioned a master.
‘A teacher? Out of nowhere?’
Though it made sense—his father was a shaman.
Someone must have taught him.
Soren stared awkwardly as the old man raised a hand.
“Arrogant brat. Never called me ‘Master’ properly—just ‘Promotion Instructor’ or some nonsense… Stubborn fool.”
“Uh… right.”
“…You’re definitely his child. The resemblance is uncanny.”
The old man shook his head, then lifted his hand.
A staff of ebony wood materialized from thin air.
“You came here because of that bloodline. Your father and I were bound by a blood oath as master and disciple.”
Soren tensed.
“But, boy… it’s not yet time.”
“What do you—”
“When the time comes, you’ll return. By the shadows of Kaba-Sheut, I swear it.”
The staff struck the floor.
From the rotten planks, something black and writhing erupted.
A massive, gaping maw swallowed Soren and Loreia before they could react.
The last thing Soren saw was the old man’s face.
“Don’t invoke your father’s name carelessly.”
“What does that—”
The encounter ended there.
Darkness swallowed his vision.
When Soren opened his eyes again, he was back in the silver district’s bustling streets.
He and Loreia glanced around dazedly.
The shops were unchanged—except for one thing.
The alley between them had vanished without a trace.
Soren stared at the empty space, then slowly turned his head.
The blue sky had turned crimson.
Unnoticed, the sun had begun to set.