Eon tossed his bag over his shoulder, double-checked the notes and coins tucked into his coat, and opened the door to a wind-brushed morning. The sun had climbed higher now, soft golden light spilling across the overgrown path leading down the slope.
His sister leaned against the doorframe, wet hair falling over her shoulders, drying under the sunlight. She watched him with folded arms and a faint frown on her lips—the kind only siblings could wear.
"Don't forget to come back with all your teeth," she said.
"I'll trade one for a sack of rice," he jested.
She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Seriously. Be careful, Brother. No picking fights. No chasing lunatics. And no selling coconuts disguised as eggs of something."
"No promises."
"Eon."
He raised his hand in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm just looking for another job. No scams. No fights. Just… looking."
Her expression softened, though her worry didn't vanish. "Then walk safe."
He nodded once and walked down the path. The rustle of leaves, the creak of branches, and the faint sound of birdsong followed behind him as he left the shelter of their home.
The path to the market was long. It took Eon through the maze-like sprawl of the city's lower decks, where cobbled streets melted into dirt, and the air grew thick with salt, smoke, and gazes.
He passed through narrow alleys where strangers avoided eye contact, past old shrines filled with dust and wax, and into the stomach of the city—a place not marked on maps, where names were exchanged for silence.
The Underground Market wasn't truly underground, but it might as well have been. Built beneath the decaying structure of a collapsed bridge, it was hidden by powerful and influential people, scavenger tents, and the natural blindness of the authorities.
Eon ducked beneath hanging charms and curtain-like ropes made of bones, slipping into a crowd that pulsed like a living thing. The noise hit him first—voices low and clipped, languages half-dead, deals being made in dark—things he didn't believe before. Relics. Potions. Forbidden books. Cursed object. Even life. Anything could be bought here, except mercy.
He kept his head down and his ears open.
His hand brushed the inner pocket of his coat, where the formula was folded neatly. Burned into his memory now, its symbols plagued the edge of his thoughts.
But the man who had destroyed the ruins and tried to fight the Liyang-Tala hadn't left instructions. No contact, no mark, nothing at all.
"Bastard," Eon muttered under his breath.
He'd expected some kind of sign. A next step. A recruiter. An agent of something. But he was alone in this.
He paused by a stall selling old books and talismans. Most were for show, tourist bait. He spotted one carved with the same but half-assed crescent-mark as the ruins, but it was fake—he could feel it.
Still, he leaned against the corner, scanning the crowd. Watching.
There had to be something. A rumor or trace is enough.
He's looking for something to lead him back to that man.
The memory of those frost-chained gauntlets and that calm, devastating power still repeated in his memories. The man hadn't needed to explain who he was—his presence did that. He wielded a Dalan Ti that was mentioned by his teacher, who would have thought that teacher was sane.
He couldn't go back to just surviving after that. Not while his sister was still slowly fading away.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, adjusting his coat as he stepped deeper into the underground market's inner circles.
Eon remained near a stall cloaked in worn canvas and incense smoke. Shelves of yellowing scrolls and cracked bone talismans lined its frame, most of them harmless fakes. He pretended to inspect a rusted fake relic as two voices came out from the other side.
"…I'm telling you, it was them," said a gravel-edged voice, silent but strained with excitement. "Only they have the power to clean out a waybound smuggler nest that deep in Guttershade and not even bother to leave bodies behind."
A second voice—lighter, almost bored—clicked their tongue. "You mean that group run by the Lawbound? What's great about them? They just had all 4 formulas of most Dalan Ti, for sure they are just as weak as us."
"You think they're a strong cause of the gap? Those people are merciless to the core. They will unexpectedly strike you if you are on their list. No warning. No mercy."
Waybound.
That word made Eon's shoulders stiffen.
He had seen one in action before—once, on the edge of that ruin, with the man who appeared out of nowhere, and the appearance of the Liyang-tala. Back way before, the term had slipped past him. Just another fantasy label. Another myth-for-hire.
"Lawbound?" another person asked. "That's just another self-inserted name for those freaks. I have to guess half of them are criminals playing hero. No better than the ones they kill."
"No, this one's different. This group, they're… authorized. The government started an organization due to the increasing number of waybound criminals and myth-living."
Eon's hand touched the edge of his coat where the formula rested, like a silent heartbeat against his chest.
The men drifted to a new topic—black-blood roots and the rising cost of dream-ink—but Eon was no longer listening. His thoughts swirled.
An organization. Run by the government, a gathering of law-abiding waybound. Concealed, armed.
He's one of them, Eon know it, his pulse quickening. That man with the frost-bound gauntlets, the way he spoke about the church and the law.
He moved on, walking without purpose, thoughts sharp and looping. That word—Waybound—was everywhere now, echoing in the click of boots, the glare of warded shop signs, the wary eyes of merchants who'd seen too much.
Halfway between incense smoke and shouted from an alley dice game, he caught another voice, rough and close, coming from a bunch of men speaking too openly for their surroundings.
"…I heard that another purge mission will occur, same spot. They're always around that place lately."
"Which one?" someone else asked.
"That part of Cragvel—the south edge. Basically, the lawless area. Smugglers, rogue waybound, dark markets, you name it. Perfect hunting ground for their kind."
Eon slowed.
Cragvel.
He knew the place. Everyone in the underground did. Not officially marked on maps anymore, but its darkness spreads far across the city. It was the kind of place where people disappeared and no one asked why.
A town. It's like a rotten tooth in the city's jaw. And if the organization really had missions in that place, then maybe—just maybe—he'd see him again.
He didn't hesitate.
Eon turned, adjusted the collar of his coat, and made his way toward the transportation posts that led to the border of Cragveil. The market's chatter faded behind him like a dying song as he walked out.
He might not get another chance.
If he could find them, he might have a chance to save his sister—he started to believe that his sister might be suffering from something since doctors had no way to know it.
He exhaled—long and quiet—and walked straight.