The marketplace of Greyshade Town—calling it a "marketplace" was generous—was nothing more than a patch of waterlogged mud in the town center, cluttered with a few dozen ramshackle stalls thrown together without order. What drifted overhead wasn't mist, but a yellowish haze, as if someone had scattered furnace ash across the sky. When the wind blew, the stench drove straight into the nose—a foul blend of mutton musk, the tang of dried fish, the sour rot of cabbage leaves, and the reek of some unknown beast's dung—all mixed into something that made people frown instinctively.
Eleres stepped onto the slick mud, each footfall clinging to his boots until he had to pull free with a wet "pop." His black cloak had long since faded, its edges frayed and curling; when the wind lifted it, it revealed a shirt so worn it had turned pale. Compared to the townsfolk in rough-spun linen and straw-wrapped feet, his clothes weren't the worst, but the posture—shaped by years of fine tailoring—was impossible to disguise. In this border town, he stood out like a torch in the dark.
[Black Seal System Notice]: Current silver coins: 0. Copper coins: 21.The cold mechanical voice echoed in his mind, as if exposing his poverty to the world. Twenty-one copper coins—enough to feed a family of three for a single day here; if spent on himself with better meals, perhaps three days at most.
He wandered between the stalls for a while before spotting an old man with hair like a bird's nest, sitting on a broken wooden crate. On his stall lay rock-hard black bread, coarse salt, and a scattering of rusted iron scraps. His cloudy eyes still gleamed with cunning. When he saw Eleres approach, he squinted and grinned. "Not from around here, are you? What're you looking for? I sell more than goods—I sell information. Just a small courtesy fee will do."
Eleres thought for a moment, then fished two copper coins from his pocket and handed them over. "I want to know—how does one sign up for the Black Knight Academy?"
The old man slid the two copper coins into his sleeve with a flick of his fingers, as if hiding some priceless treasure. He lowered his voice, drawing out each word like he was savoring the suspense. "The Academy… it's been lively these days. Normally, they don't start recruiting until after the autumn harvest. But this year? They're grabbing people in spring—too many dead on the front lines, the shortage's bad. The requirements… much looser than before."
Eleres raised a brow. "How loose are we talking?"
"Before, you had to know at least some swordsmanship, be able to ride, and have a written recommendation. Now? You don't even need to know how to fight—just pass three basic tests." The old man lifted three crooked fingers, ticking them off one by one." First, strength—you have to lift an anvil to shoulder height. Men, one hundred and twenty pounds; women, eighty. Second, speed—run one full lap of the training ground in full armor, faster than the standard time. Third, endurance—ten miles in chainmail, without stopping even once."
He let his eyes roam up and down Eleres, like weighing livestock. "If you're healthy, the first two won't be an issue. Endurance… well, that depends on whether you've ever worked yourself raw."
"The entry fee?" Eleres asked.
"Ten silver coins." The old man raised a calloused hand, showing the number. "But once you're in, the Academy feeds and houses you for years. You can take jobs for extra pay. If you make it to full knight, you'll never go hungry anywhere you go."
Several nearby stall owners overheard and couldn't help chiming in.One sighed, "If my family didn't keep me tied down, I'd have gone long ago."Another snorted, "Ten silvers? You'd have to strip your house bare first."A young man shook his head. "You're just walking to your death. TBut the Academy's name meant more than food and shelter. It meant a legal identity. It meant entry into the annual tournament. It meant the chance to leap into higher, more prestigious academies… and only then could he get close to the people who owed him blood.
He lowered his gaze to his hand. The skin across his knuckles was unnaturally pale, as if something had eaten away at it from within. Thin, darkened veins—like threads of congealed blood—twined beneath the surface, glinting faintly with a sinister hue.In the cold morning light, the marks stood out like runes carved into flesh and bone.They were the brand left behind when necromantic magic had stitched his body back together. If anyone who knew the craft saw them… the consequences would be dire.
[Black Seal System Prompt]:Recommendation: Conceal the anomaly immediately. Gloves or bracers available for purchase in local markets.The voice was cold and mechanical, echoing through the back of his mind.
Eleres followed the uneven, muddy path along the edge of the market until he stopped at a shabby little leather stall. A few crooked poles held up a sagging canvas, and from it hung several pairs of rough leather gloves.Some had stitching so crooked it looked like a centipede had crawled across them; some were wrinkled and stiff as bark; a few even had dark, dried blood clinging to the edges, as if no one had bothered to clean them.He went through them one by one, from the first pair to the last, but none were worth taking—too worn, too stiff, or just too filthy to even touch.
Just as he was debating whether to try another stall, a voice came from behind, cheerful but with a strange edge to it."Looking for gloves, friend? Planning on doing some work… or something else?"
Eleres slowly turned his head.
Behind him stood a big man, half a head taller, shoulders broad enough to fit two people across. He wore a greasy leather vest with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms thick with veins, his skin tanned a deep brown from years in the sun. His nose was crooked—clearly broken once in a fight—and the tip of his left ear was missing, as if sliced clean off by a blade.
The man grinned, stubble along his jaw bristling like rough wire, and between his teeth was a stubborn bit of green leaf. He might have been smiling, but his eyes were cold as ice, sharp and calculating, the kind that measured a person like weighing meat on a scale.
In his hand was a cloth sack, its mouth bulging with something unseen. His stance was planted firmly, like he could spring forward at any moment. The noise of the market seemed to dull around them, and in the air hung a faint, unmistakable sense that something wasn't right.