The city of Elkrim sprawled across a valley between two mountain ranges, its architecture a mixture of practical stone construction and more decorative elents that suggested wealth accumulated over generations.
It was larger than the city Rey had fled, more cosmopolitan, with a population that included not just native citizens but travelers from across the Nether Realm.
Trade routes converged here, making it a natural hub for comrce both legitimate and otherwise.
One month had passed since the Desgarron Manor incident.
One month since Rey had faked his death and vanished from the world that had known him as Cursed Boy, as a naless slave, as the mysterious challenger who had supposedly perished in the Coliseum explosion.
In that month, he had transford himself completely.
The man who now walked through Elkrim’s rchant district bore no resemblance to the young slave who had once served the Desgarron Family. This person appeared to be in his late forties, with the distinguished bearing of soone who had spent decades building a successful enterprise.
His appearance was that of a full Nether citizen—not a Half-Breed or Cursed One, but soone with pure bloodline evident in his features.
He had dark purple eyes, alongside ash-gray hair touched with silver at the temples, suggesting maturity and experience. A physique that was solid but not overtly threatening, the body of a rchant who could handle himself but didn’t seek conflict.
The transformation had required multiple Elixirs and Artifacts working in concert—bone restructure, age progression, bloodline markers altered at a mystical level.
It was expensive, thorough, and most importantly, completely undetectable by conventional investigation thods.
His na, according to all official docuntation, was Modred Helt.
Unless one descended from Noble heritage or had ties to the Devils, titles and surnas were not common.
However, for business owners that ran enterprises, they often had family nas that signified the na of their company.
Rey’s approach was no different.
As Modred Helt, he had a new identity.
A rchant from a distant territory, recently relocated to Elkrim seeking better comrcial opportunities. His papers were impeccable—not forgeries, but genuine docunts purchased through careful bribes to the right officials.
Tax records showing years of legitimate business in his supposed ho territory.
Comrcial licenses properly filed and approved. Even fabricated family history that would withstand most background checks.
The Sunlit Order’s information, combined with Rey’s substantial remaining wealth, had made it all possible.
Modred—Rey—had spent the first two weeks simply establishing his presence. Renting comrcial space in a respectable but not overly prominent section of the rchant district. Making introductions to neighboring businesses. Participating in the social rituals that marked soone as a serious rchant rather than a transient.
Then he’d opened his shop.
"Helt’s Scrollworks" was modest but well-maintained.
The storefront displayed quality craftsmanship without ostentation. Inside, shelves lined the walls, filled with scrolls of various types—Technique diagrams, mystical formulas, educational texts on Ancient MajiK theory.
Critically, none of these were stolen Desgarron treasures.
Rey had been careful about that.
Everything in his current inventory had been purchased with Nether currency in legitimate markets across multiple cities. The items were genuine, properly docunted, completely clean.
The Desgarron treasures—that precious five percent he’d kept—remained hidden in his spatial storage cube, waiting for the right mont and the right buyer.
Trying to sell them now, even cleansed of mystical tracking, would be too risky.
No, this shop was about sothing else entirely.
It was bait.
Rey staffed his establishnt with three workers—all slaves, purchased through legal channels with proper docuntation. To outside observers, this was normal. Slavery was common in the Land of Nether, and a successful rchant having slaves to handle nial work raised no suspicions.
What those observers didn’t know was that these slaves were bound not by conventional slave contracts, but by the sophisticated Curse Art scrolls Rey had taken from the Desgarron vaults.
Their loyalty was absolute, their silence guaranteed, and their discretion beyond question.
They handled custors, managed inventory, maintained the shop’s appearance while Rey cultivated his reputation in the broader rchant community.
And that reputation was growing exactly as planned.
Helt’s Scrollworks had distinguished itself through two key factors: price and service.
Rey sold his wares at prices that undercut most competitors—not drastically enough to suggest desperation or fraud, but enough to attract attention and generate steady custor flow. Combined with knowledgeable staff who could actually explain the items being sold rather than just taking paynt, the shop had rapidly built a positive reputation.
rchants talked.
Custors quickly began to recomnd his place.
Within weeks, Helt’s Scrollworks had beco known as a reliable source for quality Ancient MajiK materials at fair prices.
Rey wasn’t making profit.
In fact, he was operating at a deliberate loss, subsidizing his prices with the wealth he’d stolen.
But profit wasn’t the goal.
Attention was the goal.
Specifically, attention from people who operated in markets beyond the legitimate.
The Dark Comrce District existed in every major city, but one didn’t simply walk in and start doing business. The criminal underworld had its own hierarchies, its own gatekeepers, its own thods of determining who could be trusted.
Rey needed to be noticed by these gatekeepers.
He needed to present himself as soone potentially valuable—a rchant with access to quality goods, selling at prices that suggested either desperation or access to supply chains others didn’t have.
Soone interesting enough to investigate.
Soone worth recruiting.
And after one month of careful operation, it was finally happening.
Rey stood behind his shop counter, reviewing inventory manifests with one of his enslaved workers, when he felt them enter.
The shift in atmosphere was subtle but unmistakable. The casual custors browsing his shelves suddenly found reasons to leave.
The ambient noise of the rchant district seed to quiet slightly, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Three n entered Helt’s Scrollworks.
They moved with the distinctive swagger of people accustod to violence, their clothes a mixture of quality materials and practical functionality that suggested success in dangerous work.
Each carried visible weapons—not the ceremonial swords of guards or soldiers, but actual fighting implents worn with the ease of frequent use.
But it was their eyes that marked them as truly dangerous.
Cold... Calculating.
Assessing everything in the shop with the practiced evaluation of predators determining if potential prey was worth the effort.
These were not legitimate rchants.
These were representatives of the Dark Comrce District.
Rey’s enslaved worker tensed, recognizing the threat these n represented.
But Rey himself remained calm, his aged face showing only polite professional interest as he looked up from his manifests.
"Gentlen," he said, his voice carrying the slight rasp of his assud age. "Welco to Helt’s Scrollworks. How may I assist you today?"
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