Angar approached the bazaar, the air shifting from cool and clean sterility to a warm, chaotic mess of scents, sounds, and bright, flashing lights.

The bazaar stretched across a vast concourse, a maze of narrow alleys and open plazas where stalls and booths jostled for space, their canvas awnings and rusted frames sagging under the weight of goods and the press of bodies.

The air was chock-full of mingled aromas – roasting meat, pungent spices, body odor, and a slight trace of machine oil from nearby workshops.

The crowd was a tide of Lay citizens, Terrans mostly, but peppered with the occasional Pleiadean or Reptiloid, their alien features standing out starkly among the human throng.

Peasants in patched tunics and worn cloaks haggled with vendors, their voices rising in a rhythmic din of offers and counteroffers, punctuated by the clatter of goods and the chinks of credit registers.

Even at this hour, children darted between legs, clutching cheap trinkets or stolen scraps of flatbread, while grizzled and filthy laborers hauled sacks of goods on their shoulders, their faces etched with weariness and hunger.

Above it all, a massive Trey hung from the central plaza's archway, dangling down low. The upward facing triangle with an Eye of Providence in its center etched in dark iron, the edges worn smooth and its luster lost by the touches and prayers of countless oily hands.

Luminary orbs cast a soft, uneven light, their glow catching on the rough textures of the market's offerings.

Angar, his ragged clothing and bandaged jaw and eye drawing curious glances from some, while others bowed or offered him a blessing, moved through the crowd with a Crusader's purposeful stride, his maul held in his hand.

The bazaar was alive with the commerce of daily life, its stalls brimming with goods for the commoner's modest needs.

Most vendors had signs proclaiming slashed prices, limited-time sales, and huge discounts.

One booth, its canvas awning stitched and ragged, displayed heaps of vibrant spices, from crimson saffron and ground turmeric, to pungent black cloves, piled in woven baskets, their scents sharp enough to cut through all the body odor.

The vendor, a wiry woman with a heavily weathered face, barked prices to a cluster of hagglers, her hands deftly scooping measures into cloth sacks.

Nearby, a larger stall offered stacks of coarse linen tunics and trousers, along with woolen cloaks dyed in muted greens and browns.

A young boy perched on a crate, waving a pair of patched gloves at passersby, his voice hoarse from shouting.

Further along, a furniture vendor's booth sprawled across a corner, its wares a mix of practical and makeshift. Low tables of salvaged materials, their surfaces dented but polished, stood beside rickety chairs woven from synthetic fibers.

A massive, hand-carved wooden bench, its back etched with a crude depiction of the blessed Mother, drew a small crowd of admiring peasants, though few seemed able to afford its price.

The vendor, a burly man with a bionic eye that whirred open and closed as he spoke, demonstrated the bench's sturdiness by thumping it with a meaty fist, his sales pitch half-prayer, half-boast.

Another stall, smaller and tucked into an alley, had rows of sturdy boots with reinforced soles for laborers, alongside simpler sandals and cloth slippers for children and the elderly.

The bazaar's energy was relentless, but there was a grim undercurrent to the vibrancy. Hawkers' voices carried a hint of desperation, their eyes scanning for customers with actual credits.

Though rare, vigiles and personal guards watched on from ends of rows or stalls, sweeping the crowd for thieves and troublemakers.

Angar paused at a small plaza, where a stone shrine to the Holy Trinity had a cluster of peasants kneeling before it, muttering prayers.

As he moved deeper into the bazaar, the crowd parted before him, his size making his estate obvious as they aside and offering blessings. The stalls grew denser, their goods more varied but still grounded in the peasantry's needs.

Then the crowd's composition shifted, the tide giving way to a rougher, more militant sort.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Here, in a grittier corner of the marketplace, the air buzzed with a different energy, one sharper, more predatory. The stalls were sturdier, with reinforced metal frames, adorned with faded sacred sigils.

The crowd was more diverse, with grizzled military in patched outfits mingling alongside more Reptiloids and Pleiadeans than usual. A few well-dressed figures, maybe merchants or minor nobles, stood out in their embroidered tunics.

The first booth Angar approached was a cluttered arsenal of weaponry, its wares spread across a counter scarred by years of abuse.

Junk pistols and blasters, their brands obscure and likely illegally manufactured, lay in haphazard piles, many new, many used, their barrels scratched, and their grips wrapped in fraying tape.

Imperial Law, Angar knew, was relaxed on military stations like this one, where the strict regulations on licensed mods, cybernetics, and weaponry were often overlooked.

The Imperial Military were equipped with high-quality gear, but options for modding that gear, supplementary weaponry, or cybernetic enhancements were scarce or not provided.

A soldier's or sailor's pay couldn't afford the licensed alternatives, so the authorities turned a blind eye to markets like this. That was, unless defective, harmful, or outright Heretical goods surfaced, in which case the hammer of judgment fell swiftly and harshly.

As a Crusader, Angar had access to items forbidden to other estates, even the wealthiest men or mightiest noble. Arms and armor forged from rare galvornium steel, a metal revered for its durable properties, were reserved for his kind, though the rich and powerful often got their hands on it easily enough.

He wove through the militant section, pausing at five booths, each more cluttered than the last. The fifth stall, tucked beneath a sagging canopy, sold mostly unlicensed mods, but sparked an idea.

Angar's eyes locked onto a peculiar pistol, its grip shaped like a hilt, tilted at a shallow angle so the barrel and grip formed a soft L, nearly a straight line.

It was a cheap piece of junk, its casing pitted and its alloy brittle, but it was designed for an energy-blade mod, allowing the pistol to double as a sword in close quarters.

Ever since Frieden had wielded his energy-sword to fell the Neuronaut, Angar had wanted a similar weapon, maybe a dagger or something. He also needed a pistol for a sidearm.

This pistol-blade hybrid was a perfect compromise as he'd rarely need anything other than his maul, so having both available in a small sidearm was ideal.

The next booth held implants. Having bought a cybernetic prosthetic himself, he compared prices to gauge the market.

Most were low-quality, constructed from cheap alloys that'd break in rough battle, but their prices were surprisingly low. Or relatively low.

A basic cybernetic hand, devoid of mod slots, cost 299 credits, more than a soldier's yearly wage, or half a laborer's yearly earnings. A hand with a single mod slot ran 399 credits.

But that was before haggling, a skill as vital as combat in these markets.

Angar moved on, lingering at stalls selling melee weapons, their tables laden with an array of interesting arms.

Some were ornate, with intricate engravings or spiked flourishes. All the really interesting and exotic designs seemed impractical for battle, and their junk alloys were no good.

He didn't want to leave the bazaar empty-handed, making those of his estate seem miserly or snobbish. He scanned for something he'd get some use out of, a purchase that wouldn't be a complete waste of credits.

His gaze kept drifting, almost against his will, to a dimly lit booth wedged and set back between two larger stalls.

Its wares were illicit images of beautiful women in seductive poses, wearing very inappropriate attire. These images were either on paper, or crude holo-tablets that flickered in the shadows.

Angar's heart quickened, a shameful curiosity tugging at him, but he hesitated, circling the booth and timing his passes for when the crowd thinned, hoping to glimpse the images without drawing attention.

On his last pass, the vendor approached him, a lean man in his early thirties with an angular face, a scruff of dark stubble, and eyes that shone with a hustler's cunning.

"Hey, Sir Knight," he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, a smirk splitting his lips. "If you're interested in our goods but require privacy, go two booths up on the left, take the alley between, then another left. That leads to the private section of the shop. You can browse our most popular items unobserved. Items we can't display out here, if you know what I mean."

Angar pursed his lips, his bandaged jaw aching as he nodded curtly, avoiding the vendor's gaze. He didn't want to be seen talking to the man.

Still, curiosity and forbidden excitement drove him to follow the directions. He slipped through the narrow alley, the walls scrawled with graffiti. A second turn led to a curtain-covered entrance, where the scent of incense and perfume spilled out.

He stepped into the private section, a cramped chamber lit by a single dim orb, the walls draped in tattered fabric to muffle sound.

He was alone, and his heart raced at seeing the grossly inappropriate images adorning the walls, excitement blooming in his chest despite the shame gnawing at his conscience.

Then his eyes scanned the tables, falling on a large holo-tablet on one nearby, and his blood turned to ice.

The blessed Mother, the revered Messiah, stared back at him, her form desecrated, scantily clad in flimsy lingerie showing nearly everything, her face painted with heavy makeup, standing in a very seductive pose with lips parted, her eyes filled with desire.

Rage replaced the excitement in Angar's chest, disgust at such blasphemy, such disrespect for the sacred, the Holy, the pure.

That whole table was filled with foul and wicked images of the blessed Mother, some unimaginably so. His stomach turned, bile rising in his throat seeing the revolting desecration.

As the curtain to the front of the shop parted, and the vendor stepped inside, his smirk still in place, Angar raised his hammer, preparing for righteous slaughter.

Time froze, and Spirit's form shimmered into existence, her ethereal presence radiant, her sanctity so out of place in this chamber of evil.

"Don't you dare!" she yelled, her face twisted in fury.

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