The morning mist in the flea market was thick with the smell of rotten fish and coal ash.
Oliver pulled his hood down to his brow, weaving through the crowded stalls, his hand occasionally brushing the pocket of his coat. Inside it were the 143 silver coins he'd scavenged from Sister Marta.
The heavy silver coins, cool to the touch, gave Oliver a deep sense of reassurance.
He had never held such a large sum of money before.
"Freshly baked black bread! Three copper coins!" an old woman with frostbitten cheeks shouted, huddled under a leaky shack.
Next to her, a child of seven or eight was kneading wood shavings into dough.
Oliver counted out five copper coins and took the bread, noticing the child's right hand was missing three fingers—rumor had it the kid had once stolen from the church, was caught, and had their fingers chopped off as punishment.
This kind of thing wasn't rare in the market; many bore all sorts of disabilities left by the church's punishments.
Oliver stuffed the dry, tough black bread into his mouth, chewing with difficulty as a faint sweetness mixed with the scent of wood shavings spread across his tongue.
"Get lost, all of you, get out of the way!"
A commotion erupted ahead as four guards in leather armor cleared a path, swinging long whips to drive the crowd back: "Filthy rats! Make way for Lord Roderick!"
Beside an overturned cart spilling pickled vegetables, a lame old man couldn't dodge in time. The lead guard kicked him down, leaving the old man sprawled on the ground, howling in pain.
Oliver shot a disgusted glance at the carriage but was powerless to change anything, so he turned and walked away.
The chaos behind him continued.
Lord Roderick—Oliver had heard the name before. He was a level 3 divine sorcerer.
A level 1 divine sorcerer, like Sister Marta, was already equivalent to a noble, wielding immense authority and enjoying tax exemptions.
A level 2 divine sorcerer, meanwhile, was basically a tycoon—living in sprawling mansions, with endless money to spend and feasts to enjoy.
As for a level 3 divine sorcerer, they ranked among the most prominent figures in all of Glensorne City; a single word from them could determine the life or death of countless people.
Take now, for instance—Lord Roderick's mere outing came with such pomp that ordinary folks who couldn't get out of the way fast enough had their legs broken by his guards. Those too poor to afford treatment often ended up crippled for life, and such cases were far from rare.
To a level 3 divine sorcerer, commoners were like ants—utterly insignificant.
"When will I ever become that powerful…"
Oliver couldn't help but wonder.
Right now, he was a False Believer (2/10), far stronger than an average level 1 divine sorcerer, but still a long way from a level 2, let alone a level 3.
Leaving the commotion behind, Oliver headed toward the legendary black market.
Sister Marta's silver staff, with its hidden dagger and ability to amplify divine spells, was a C-grade divine item. He wondered how much it could fetch.
The stench of rotten fish and coal ash gave way to sulfur at the sewer's bend, where Oliver's boots sank into some kind of gelatinous muck.
Just getting intel on how to enter the black market had cost Oliver ten silver coins.
That was money he used to earn in a week of labor.
Following a tattered handmade map, Oliver pressed forward. Before passing the third iron gate, a one-eyed guard's candlestick illuminated wriggling blood vines on the wall—living alarm systems of the church, now doused with powder ground from infant teeth, frozen in an unnatural stiffness.
"New face?" The guard sneered, staring at Oliver, who calmly pulled a reagent vial from his black robe and handed it over.
"Fresh clergy brain matter… You pass."
The guard gave Oliver another look, nodding with a flicker of awe and confusion in his eyes. To him, Oliver seemed like an ordinary guy—lacking even The Divine Circuit—so how had he managed to kill a clergy member?
Glensorne City's black market was a gathering place for anti-church rebels!
Everyone who entered had to prove they'd been persecuted by the Seven Gods Church or had a deeply strained relationship with them.
Oliver presented Sister Marta's fresh brain matter, so he passed the test.
Beyond the iron gate stretched a long, narrow rat tunnel—low, filthy, like a sewage drain.
After trudging through the eighteen-meter-long sewer outlet, Oliver finally entered the black market proper.
The black market wasn't large, hosting just seven small stalls. Three were shuttered, while the four in operation sold and bought food, weapons, armor, and divine items of dubious origin.
The stalls for weapons and food drew the biggest crowds.
In front of the blacksmith's stall, a massive cast-iron furnace roared, molten silverware bubbling in crucibles.
One-armed smiths were forging rare steels into weapons, infusing them with traces of magic. Each time one was finished, people scrambled to buy it.
This one-armed smith, it was said, had the strength of a level 2 divine sorcerer and held a lofty status even in the black market!
Oliver approached the blacksmith's stall, where an apprentice gave him a glance and said coldly, "New face? Wait over there!"
Meanwhile, a level 1 divine sorcerer arriving with Oliver was immediately offered a seat.
The Divine Circuit on a sorcerer's body made them stand out like stars in the night sky among the crowd, earning them decent treatment and respect.
For an ordinary person like Oliver, being dismissed was only natural.
"Nowadays, good stuff from the Solen Mines is getting rarer, and lone clergy are even harder to come by. I haven't had anything valuable in half a month. Last time I got a D-grade mithril stone, I was thrilled for ages…"
"Be grateful. I haven't had a haul in nearly half a year—just been scraping by on church relief."
"Ha? You're an anti-church guy, and you're taking church relief?"
"Most people in the church are bastards, but Archbishop Saint Claude is different. I'm taking the relief he hands out."
Archbishop Saint Claude was one of the three level 3 divine sorcerers in the Glensorne Church, and it was said he was on the cusp of advancing to level 4.
Moreover, this archbishop—known to the people as the Silver-Crowned Saint—was a philanthropist.
Born into a fallen noble family, he'd donated his entire fortune twenty years ago to rebuild a slum church. His "Dawn Mass" could briefly let the crippled walk and give the terminally ill a final burst of life…
He wore a silver mask year-round, claiming "his face had been offered to the divine."
As Oliver listened to their chatter, he watched the transactions at the blacksmith's stall. Most of the items people bought and sold were E-grade, or even F-grade common goods.
The rare appearance of a D-grade item would spark a wave of gasps.
But the silver staff Oliver held, Marta's, was C-grade—a huge step above what these people had.
Even among level 1 divine sorcerers, Sister Marta seemed far wealthier than those in the black market.
That made sense, though—Marta was backed by the Seven Gods Church, with far more ways to rake in cash than a rogue sorcerer. How could she possibly be poor?
By comparison, the anti-church level 1 sorcerers here didn't live as well as Sister Marta.
And at that moment, when Oliver pulled out the silver staff, the crowd fell briefly silent.
"A D-grade silver staff, and in perfect condition. Kid, you sure you want to sell it?"
Even the blacksmith boss looked up at Oliver, taking notice instead of leaving it to his apprentices.
Clearly, this was a deal worth paying attention to.
"Of course. This staff is dirty goods. I'd like it handled properly."
Everyone here was anti-church, so Oliver wasn't afraid to reveal its tainted nature—but even so, he kept his face hidden under his hood.