Pierce gave no further thought to the triad of thugs he had dealt with; to him, such mundane provocations were merely insignificant dust kicked up along his journey.

  Navigating through two dim, winding alleys, he soon stood before an unassuming pub. Its exterior was weathered and dilapidated, with a sign reading "The Iron Hilt & Oak" creaking rhythmically in the biting wind.

  Two burly men stood at the entrance, their bare skin covered in coarse totems and their silhouettes radiating the pressurized aura of Peak Trainee Knights. The moment Pierce approached, their half-closed eyes snapped open, sweeping over him like whetted blades.

  "What is your business here?"

  "Trade," Pierce replied succinctly, his voice filtered through the mask to sound low and metallic.

  The guard on the left remained silent, instead retrieving a curious eye-like object encased in shriveled organic tissue. This was a low-tier Arcane detection device. As he aimed it at Pierce, the uncanny orb flared with a deep, violet-blue luminescence.

  "A practitioner."

  The guard’s expression shifted instantly. The previous arrogance vanished, replaced by a subtle bow. "My lord, according to the rules of this establishment—"

  Pierce had no intention of wasting words. With a casual flick of his finger, a gold coin arced through the air with a melodious ring, landing precisely in the guard’s palm.

  "Entry fee, 1 Gold. Is there a problem?"

  "As you wish, my lord."

  The guard rapped upon the heavy iron door. After a few seconds of silence, the gate ground open, revealing a narrow corridor lined with rusted weaponry. Maintaining his aloof demeanor, Pierce stepped into the shadows.

  Surprisingly, the interior of the pub was not the den of noise one might expect. Aside from a bartender preoccupied with a glass and a few scantily-clad waitresses, the tables were nearly empty. Pierce did not linger, moving directly through a concealed door behind the bar and descending a damp, slanting ramp.

  As he stepped out from the tunnel, a grand yet oppressive subterranean space unfolded before him.

  This underground market was vast, spanning the area of a standard football stadium. Dense graystone lamps were fixed to the vaulted ceiling and walls, emitting a hazy, jaundice-like glow that smelled faintly of burnt minerals. Far from offering warmth, the light bathed the cavern in an ominous, netherworld mystery.

  Thousands of figures shrouded in cloaks and masks scurried through the space. The air was a thick mixture of sweat, cheap tobacco, and the complex scents of expensive supernatural materials. Rows of stalls spanned the floor—some laden with grotesque severed limbs and blackened scrolls, others standing empty save for a crude sign reading "Seeking High-Rank Potions."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  This was the primary shadow hub of Aurora City’s Outer City.

  Pierce scanned the crowd through the slits of his mask, locking onto a cloaked figure hurrying nearby.

  "Omniscience, analyze."

  "Analyzing target individual. Spirit cost: 0.1. Proceed?"

  "Proceed."

  Spirit: 2.12

  Physique: 9.65

  Status: Healthy. Carrying faint traces of a curse reaction.

  Pierce then shifted his gaze to a stout stall owner engaged in low-voiced haggling.

  "Analyzing target. Spirit cost: 0.4."

  A flash of understanding crossed his mind, and he severed the thought of further testing. Through these days of experimentation, he had decoded the system’s hidden logic: the Spirit cost for analysis was a direct quantification of the target’s power.

  A Junior Knight-level target cost a mere 0.1 units; a Peak Knight required 0.4 to 0.5; and once a High Knight was involved, the cost surged past 1 unit. As for Arcanists, due to the natural interference of their spiritual radiation fields, even an initiate of his own rank cost 3 units to analyze, while a Rank $3$ Initiate required a staggering 10 units.

  This meant that henceforth, by simply reading the system’s "price," he could instantly and accurately judge the danger level of any foe.

  Pierce paid a steep rental fee of 2 Gold at the market’s administrative desk, securing a relatively prominent stall. With steady hands, he retrieved his 52 vials, arranging them on the counter according to their clarity and hue.

  In the underworld, Brute Strength Potions were practically a hard currency. For knights prowling the edges of the wilderness, ready to gamble their lives against ferocious beasts, such a potion was their second life.

  Less than three minutes passed before a group of "predators," drawn by the vibrant hue of the potions, gathered at his stall.

  "How much for these?"

  Pierce pointed a gloved finger at the wooden price list beside him, inscribed with clear Arcane script:

  Basic: 82 Gold.

  Standard: 91 Gold.

  Superior: 109 Gold.

  Exquisite: 135 Gold.

  The prices were roughly ten percent lower than official shops. In a fraudulent market without guarantees, such a discount was the only lure for rapid liquidation.

  "The price is steep. Can you do better?" a cloaked figure asked tentatively.

  Pierce remained motionless, his aura as a Rank 2 Initiate causing the surrounding air to drop several degrees. He said nothing, yet the message was clear: take it or leave it. The pressure forced the man to recoil slightly.

  Nodding in resignation, the man inspected two Standard vials and paid promptly.

  As the first transaction concluded, word spread through the market within ten minutes. Pierce’s potions were of such extraordinary purity—including two "Exquisite" vials of near-perfect color—that they drew a crowd.

  "Exquisite purity? This doesn't look like the clumsy work of an apprentice. Is an Alchemist offloading scraps?"

  "Nonsense. A full Alchemist wouldn't bother with Brute Strength Potions."

  "Stop talking! If you don't grab them now, they'll be gone!"

  In less than half an hour, all $52$ vials were sold out.

  Ultimately, a cloaked figure radiating the heavy pressure of a High Knight purchased the final three Exquisite vials. After paying in heavy gold, he stared at Pierce’s featureless mask and asked in a low, gravelly voice:

  "Friend... this quality. Do you have more?"

  "Not currently," Pierce replied coldly.

  "When will you have more stock?" The man was clearly unwilling to let go.

  "Uncertain."

  Pierce offered no promises. In this place, excessive helpfulness was often an invitation to death; maintaining an air of mystery was the ultimate form of self-preservation.

  The High Knight gave Pierce a long look, said no more, and vanished into the hazy glow of the lamps.