The commercial district of Zenith Academy was usually a place of leisurely spending where high-ranking students bought imported teas and custom mana-weaves. Today it was a riot.
The announcement of the Duo-Intervention Protocol had turned the orderly avenues into a panic-stricken bazaar. Students from every track were scrambling to liquidate their credits for survival gear. The alchemy shops were stripped bare of healing potions. The armory queues stretched around the block.
Vane walked through the chaos with a list in his head.
He did not look for high-grade mana crystals or flashy enchantments. He looked for the boring things. The things that kept you alive when the magic failed.
He entered a small, dusty supply shop near the edge of the district. It was called The Iron Satchel. It catered to the Vanguard logistics corps, not the students.
"I need twenty filters," Vane told the clerk. "Grade 4. Rated for necrotic particulates."
