Nyxander's gaze lingered on Lumina's fading figure as she disappeared into the shadowed alleyway, her silhouette swallowed by the murky depths of the marketplace. For a brief moment, he stood motionless, as if caught in the gravity of something unspoken, something elusive. But then, the spell was broken.

A voice cut through the chattering crowd like a blade through silk. "Boss!"

Nyxander's head turned toward the sound, his sharp gaze locking onto the approaching figure. Karl. His right-hand man was striding toward him, flanked by the triplet sisters. But as they neared the heart of the crowd, the sisters hesitated, choosing to hang back while Karl alone pressed forward.

A small, knowing smirk curled at the corner of Nyxander's lips.

"Karl, when did you arrive?" he asked, his tone carrying a trace of amusement, the expression of a leader pleased to see his subordinates.

"The moment the sword shattered against your arm," Karl replied without missing a beat.

"Ah, I see." Nyxander's gaze flickered past Karl for a split second, landing on the triplets lingering at a distance before smoothly returning to his subordinate. His smirk widened ever so slightly.

"You must be having fun with your ladies," he remarked, his voice laced with playful teasing.

At once, Karl's cheeks turned a shade darker, his usual composure faltering. His left hand shot up, rubbing the back of his head, a telltale sign of embarrassment.

"N-not at all! We were just looking for some new weapons," Karl stammered, his voice straddling the fine line between shyness and discomfort.

Almost as if willing himself back to composure, Karl's face quickly returned to normal, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. "Boss, do you need something from the black market?" he asked, his tone back to business.

Nyxander exhaled lightly, his amusement ebbing into something more casual. "Just some weapons. No particular kind," he said.

Karl's lips stretched into a confident grin, his right thumb tapping against his chest as if making a silent vow. "Then you're in luck. I know someone who'll meet your expectations." Nyxander chuckled. "Alright, lead the way."

Karl turned, ready to guide them, but before moving, Nyxander shifted his attention to his left where Beorn stood. "Let's go," he said, and with that, they followed Karl's lead.

As Nyxander strode past Kal, he moved with the unhurried grace of a man who knew he held the upper hand. Without breaking stride, he placed his right hand on Kal's shoulder in a gesture so deceptively light, yet laced with something unmistakably firm.

His gaze didn't settle on Kal, but instead swept over the latter's followers, faces that had once been smug, confident, but now wore the unmistakable mask of shame.

"After spending that much on a piece of scrap metal, there's really nothing to be done," Nyxander mused aloud, his tone carrying the weight of casual indifference. "After all, the rules don't allow refunds."

He clicked his tongue three times, slow and deliberate. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. What a pity." He nodded, shaking his head as if mourning some great loss.

Kal's teeth ground together audibly, his fists clenching so tight that his knuckles whitened. The disgrace clung to him like a heavy cloak, suffocating, inescapable. His once-proud subordinates, who had stood tall with bright, self-assured smiles, were now reduced to trembling figures, their faces damp with sweat and painted with humiliation.

Around them, the crowd had begun to thin, but not before some of them cast one final, lingering glance at Kal and his group. Their pitying nods, their murmured words, their smirks that barely concealed amusement, it all chipped away at what little dignity Kal had left.

The old merchant, now sensing that his moment had passed, had swiftly packed up his wares and slipped away into the depths of the market, leaving behind only the faint scent of aged parchment and deception.

Then, a familiar voice called out from ahead. "Boss, we should be going. There's no time to waste," Karl urged, waving his right hand, standing near the triplet sisters, who were patiently waiting for them.

Nyxander barely spared Kal another glance as he walked away. Instead, he let his final words carry into the cool night air. "Enjoy the beautiful night scenery," he said, his voice carrying the subtle melody of farewell, mocking, yet poetic.

With that, Nyxander and Beorn moved to join Karl and the triplets, their figures melting into the currents of the bustling marketplace, leaving Kal and his teammates stranded in the center of the chattering crowd, exposed, humiliated, and utterly defeated.

Karl and the triplet sisters led the way, their movements fluid and assured, as if they had walked these paths a hundred times before. Behind them, Nyxander and Beorn followed at a steady pace, the dim glow of lanterns casting flickering shadows across the winding marketplace streets.

Suddenly, Nyxander's expression shifted, his gaze snapped upward, scanning the rooftops with sharp intensity. For a fraction of a second, something, someone, had been there. His instincts screamed at him, but when his eyes settled on the spot where Hildred, the Astro Lord, and Hung, his right hand man had once stood, there was nothing. Only the silent night, vast and indifferent.

Beorn, ever perceptive, caught the subtle change in Nyxander's demeanor. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low, steady. Nyxander's gaze lingered for a breath longer before he dismissed the thought with a casual shrug.

"Nothing. Just some casual looking around," he replied, his tone effortlessly smooth, though the flicker of vigilance in his eyes remained.

They pressed forward, weaving deeper into the market. Each turn led them through labyrinthine alleys, where dim lanterns flickered against rows of makeshift stalls. Nyxander's gaze flickered from side to side, absorbing every detail, the hawkers peddling their wares with honeyed tongues, the wary glances of merchants sizing up potential buyers, the shimmer of well-crafted weapons alongside heaps of rusted junk yet masterfully crafted wares displayed on wooden counters and woven mats.

Finally, Karl and the triplet sisters began to slow their pace, their steps guiding them toward a lone figure seated on the ground.

Unlike other merchants, who manned their stalls with eager, almost desperate enthusiasm, this young man sat cross-legged on a deep blue fabric, laid out upon the solid stone walkway. His posture was relaxed, yet his presence carried an air of quiet confidence, as if he was as immovable as the very ground beneath him. Across from him, neatly arranged on the same cloth, lay a collection of weapons, each forged with deliberate craftsmanship, gleaming under the soft market lights.

As Karl and the triplets came to a halt before him, the seated youth lifted his head. His sharp yet approachable features illuminated with recognition.

"Karl, you're back again," he remarked, his voice carrying the ease of familiarity. His gaze swept over Karl, assessing, measuring. "I hope there isn't an issue with the weapons I sold to you."

"Not at all," Karl assured with a grin. "I'm truly satisfied with mine." Then, with a subtle shift to his right, he revealed the two figures approaching from behind.

"I actually brought someone who needs a proper weapon," Karl continued, stepping aside to allow Nyxander and Beorn to close the distance.

Turning slightly, Karl gestured toward the young weaponsmith with an open palm. "Boss, this is the place I was talking about." His voice carried the enthusiasm of someone proud to make an introduction.

Then, with a sweeping motion, Karl presented the seated youth. "This is Tristan, from the Solaryn region. He's also a disciple at the Weapon Forge Temple, the very temple that holds jurisdiction over our town."

Nyxander's gaze flickered with interest as he took in the young craftsman before him. There was something about Tristan, an unshaken composure, a quiet strength beneath the surface.

Karl then turned to Tristan, his grin widening. "And this," he said, his voice dropping slightly, as if to emphasize the weight of the name, "is Zion, our boss. The one you might've heard rumors about from my subordinates."

At those words, something flickered across Tristan's expression, curiosity, intrigue, perhaps even mild surprise. He smoothly rose to his feet, his movements measured, and extended a hand across the array of weapons before him.

"Nice to meet you," he said, his voice warm but tinged with a hint of appraisal. "I heard about you just minutes ago, how strong you are, but I wasn't expecting to meet you like this." His lips curled into a smile, easy yet respectful. "Forgive me if my service seems lacking."

Nyxander regarded him for a moment before extending his own hand, clasping Tristan's in a firm handshake.

"Not at all," he replied, his own smile mirroring Tristan's in its effortless ease. "It's my subordinates who don't always know when to speak or when to keep quiet. If they've made you feel that way, then I apologize on their behalf."

Their hands parted, and Tristan gestured toward the weapons laid out before them, his confidence subtly returning. "Please, take a closer look. You might find something that suits you."

Nyxander's gaze dropped to the displayed weapons, his keen eyes scanning the craftsmanship before him. The air between them carried an unspoken understanding, the meeting of two individuals who, in their own ways, understood power, skill, and the weight of a well-forged blade.

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