The Hunter Monarch

The path to the city's criminal underworld was not a physical one. It was a descent through layers of secrecy and paranoia. Jin-ho's search began not in a dark alley, but in the crowded, anonymous data streams of the Hunter net. He spent a day chasing whispers, trading slivers of low-level information for encrypted contact codes, following a breadcrumb trail of digital ghosts that led him deeper and deeper into the web's gray spaces.

Finally, a meeting was arranged. The location was a grimy, third-rate noodle shop in the industrial sector, a part of the city choked with the smell of metallic dust and chemical runoff. The shop was a "neutral zone," a place where desperate Hunters, information brokers, and guild enforcers could meet without immediately drawing blades.

Zhao Hu did not go himself. A man of his stature did not dirty his own hands with such matters. He sent Jin-ho, along with a pouch of high-purity gold ingots that felt heavy enough to anchor a man's soul to the abyss.

Jin-ho entered the shop, the steam and smell of cheap broth clinging to him instantly. He spotted his contact in a corner booth: a thin, twitchy man with restless eyes and a data-slate he never looked away from. The man went by the callsign "Magpie," a fitting name for someone who built a life out of collecting shiny, dangerous little secrets.

"You're looking for a ghost story," Magpie said without preamble, his eyes still glued to his screen. He didn't ask who Jin-ho was or who he worked for. In his line of business, such questions were not only rude, they were unprofessional. He only cared about the transaction.

"I was told you might know where to find one," Jin-ho replied, sliding into the booth.

Magpie's fingers danced across his slate. "The item you're referring to is classified as a 'Forbidden Artifact' by the Hunter's Association. Its possession is grounds for permanent license revocation and a long, unpleasant stay in the Sky-Prison of Aethel. Its use… well, that's murder. Untraceable murder, but murder nonetheless." He finally looked up, his small, dark eyes boring into Jin-ho. "The risk assessment for this inquiry is… astronomical. The price will reflect that."

Jin-ho slid the heavy pouch across the table. "My employer is prepared to be generous."

Magpie's eyes flickered to the pouch. He didn't touch it. A faint, greedy smile touched his lips before vanishing. "Generosity is a good start. Finding an item this rare requires… specific connections. The kind of people who deal in such things don't advertise. You have to go to the source."

He tapped a final sequence into his slate and pushed it across the table. A map appeared on the screen, a section of the city's under-levels, a place the public maps pretended didn't exist. A single location was marked with a pulsating red dot.

"The Midnight Market," Magpie whispered, his voice hushed. "It only opens when the city's main lights are on their lowest cycle. It moves every night. Tonight, it's in the old, decommissioned aqueduct system. No IDs, no Systems, no names. Just masks and money. Go to the stall with the sign of a broken hourglass. Ask for 'a key to a locked door.' He'll know what it means."

Magpie pulled the slate back. "This information has a price."

Jin-ho pushed the pouch of gold forward. Magpie's thin hand darted out like a snake and snatched it, making it disappear into the folds of his coat in a single fluid motion.

"A pleasure doing business with you," the broker said, his attention already back on his screen. The meeting was over.

...

Hours later, under the dim glow of the city's "sleep cycle," Zhao Hu stood cloaked and masked in the damp, echoing confines of the old aqueduct. The air was cold and smelled of stagnant water and rust. The so-called Midnight Market was a surreal sight: a silent, shifting crowd of hooded figures moving between makeshift stalls lit by chemical glow-sticks and captured bioluminescent fungi. The only sound was the drip of water and the quiet, tense murmur of bartered deals.

He found the stall easily. It was a simple, rickety table laden with cursed trinkets and strange, unsettling artifacts. The vendor was a hulking figure, his face hidden behind a cracked porcelain mask of a frowning demon. A crude, hand-painted sign of a broken hourglass hung from the front of the table.

Zhao Hu stepped forward, his voice disguised by a small modulator in his mask. "I'm looking for a key to a locked door."

The masked vendor didn't speak. He simply stared for a long, unnerving moment before reaching under his table. He produced a long, flat box made of dark, unidentifiable wood. He opened it.

Inside, resting on a bed of faded black velvet, was a scroll. It was made of a brittle, yellowed material that looked like tanned skin, not paper. It was covered in jagged, arcane symbols drawn in a dried, rust-colored ink that could only be blood. A palpable aura of malice and chaotic energy pulsed from it, a cold, prickling sensation that crawled over Zhao Hu's skin.

This was it. The Transit Hex.

The vendor finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rasp filtered through the mask. "A rare and potent key. It opens a door that can never be closed. A one-way journey." He named a price that was beyond exorbitant. It was a king's ransom, enough to fund a minor guild for a year.

Zhao Hu didn't flinch. This was the cost of absolute certainty. He produced a certified credit chit, loaded with an untraceable account, and slid it across the table. The vendor took it, his gaze lingering on Zhao Hu for a moment, as if trying to see past the mask, to understand the depth of hatred that would lead someone to seek out such an item.

The deal was done. The vendor handed him the wooden box. It felt cold to the touch, unnaturally so.

As Zhao Hu turned to leave, the vendor spoke one last time, his voice a chilling whisper that followed him into the darkness.

"Be warned, buyer. When you use a key like this… you stain your own soul. The lock you force may be on another's door, but the stain… the stain is yours to keep. Forever."

Zhao Hu walked away without a backward glance, the box held tightly in his hand. He didn't care about stains on his soul. He cared about results. And in his hand, he now held the perfect, untraceable instrument of Lin Yu final, pathetic demise.