Chapter 3: Whispers of the Black Market

The key bit into the lock, and the energy under Zayd's fingertips snapped taut, like a goldfish trapped in metal, lashing against his palm. The vibration wasn't a heartbeat; it was a magnetic pull, trying to drag his consciousness into the cold brass core. Zayd didn't turn it yet. He paused, tilting his head to listen.

The hammering behind the door stopped abruptly. The scraping of iron chains fell silent, and the entire old quarter of Dubai felt as if a giant, invisible hand had slammed down on it, pinning it in place. Even the air turned to thick, sticky resin.

Only the distant jingle of brass bells, the shouts of merchants, and the bitter, burnt aroma of coffee beans roasting over coals reached him through the thick stone walls. They sounded far away and hazy, like they were coming from a parallel timeline. He twisted the key. The lock made no sound. The mechanical click was so smooth it was actually eerie.

The black door slid inward. Dim red light bled along the seam onto the tips of his shoes, like the shadow cast by a beast lying in wait.

The short man grabbed Zayd's cuff. His palm was soaked in cold sweat, wet and clammy like a rag just pulled out of ice water. "Once you're in, don't touch anything."

Zayd looked down at the hand, his fingertips nearly touching the other man's trembling fingers. "You said earlier: once you go in, you don't come out."

"I was stating a fact."

"Facts usually don't need reminding."

He pulled his arm free. The rip of fabric was sharp in the silence. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, a wave of damp chill hit him, carrying the specific rot of the deep underground. There was no Crucible, no workshop piled with iron, not even the underground hall he'd imagined.

Instead, a stone slope sloped downward. The surface was paved with old bricks, blackened by years of oil smoke, the gaps clogged with grime that had been there for decades. Narrow red glass lamps were embedded in the walls. The flames flickered behind the shades, casting a light that looked like congealed blood. It highlighted the fine salt frost in the stone cracks, those white crystals glowing with an uncanny sheen under the red light.

The air didn't smell of iron filings. It reeked of wet sand, diesel, aged wood, and some kind of stale spice—the scent of time rotting. The heavy thuds coming from deeper down weren't metal being struck. They were the echo of something heavy hitting water, one after another, slowly rising from the underground dampness. It felt like the city’s pulse was beating deeply below.

The short man didn't follow him in. He just stood outside the door, his figure looking thin and frail in the dim light. His voice was pitched low, trembling in a way he couldn't quite hide. "Fatima giving you the key doesn't mean she can keep you safe."

Zayd turned back, his gaze cutting through the red haze. "Then why did you bring me here?"

"Because you're already on Omar's radar. Stay up there, and you won't make it past tonight."

"You'll make it if you come in?"

The short man looked down the dark red stone slope. A flicker of despair crossed his eyes. "At least you'll die slower."

As he finished speaking, the black door slid shut on its own. With a dull *thud*, the sounds of the market outside were cut off completely, as if the entire world had been locked on the other side, leaving only a suffocating silence. Zayd didn't look back. He raised his hand. His palm felt warm in the red light, the burning sensation spreading up his arm to his shoulder blade.

Golden Gaze activated. The stone slope, the wall bricks, the lamp bases—all the dead, silent objects suddenly revealed thin lines of energy, dark gold in color, winding downward. The lines looked like living veins, pulsing in the dark. The energy wasn't gathering toward a Crucible. Instead, it punched through the stone wall, merging into a deeper arc.

That arc was a moist, blue-black, like an underground river, pointing toward a direction far from the old city, leading to the port. Every time the heavy rumble sounded, the blue-dark current trembled. The red lamps on the wall flickered and went out, darkness swallowing the view for a split second.

He had just stepped down seven stairs when the brick surface under his feet grew smoother. The scuff of his soles echoed in the hollow stone slope. Ahead, around the corner, he heard the scuffing of shoes. Quick, but controlled. Two figures in dark coats emerged from the shadows. Their faces were mostly hidden by scarves, revealing only their eyes, which were calm and cold in the red light, like two still stones.

The man on the left didn't draw a weapon. He just held a metal tag between his fingers. It was stamped with the Istanbul Auction House emblem. The metal surface reflected a cold light. Zayd's eyes dropped to the tag. Energy lines, thin as hair, formed on its surface, but there was a gap of wear on the edge.

A genuine tag, worn down by long use. But the person holding it didn't have the grime under the fingernails typical of an antique dealer. His fingers were long, slender, and clean—hands that had never done heavy labor.

The man spoke, his voice muffled by the scarf, sounding dull and detached. "You're Zayd?"

"Looking at how you walk, it seems like you came to confirm, not to ask."

"Sara wants to see you."

"Sara is in Istanbul. If she really wanted to see me, she wouldn't have two strangers hiding underground, moving silently like ghosts."

The man on the right cut in, his voice cold. The corner of his mouth beneath the scarf seemed to curl into a look of disdain. "She just wants to know what the key you took from Dubai's antique street can actually open."

Zayd's fingers tightened. The key pressed against his palm bone. A faint glow of energy floated up, pulsing like a heartbeat in the dim environment. He deliberately didn't hide it; in fact, he pushed the energy fluctuation to its peak. "A door. There's a path through the door."

The man on the left stared at his hand, pupils shrinking slightly. "Where does the path lead?"

"Wherever the person holding the key wants to go."

"Do you know this is a clue to the Pharaoh's Relics?"

"I only know that a true artifact doesn't write the answer on the door. It just leads you into deeper fog."

The two exchanged a look. It was brief, but it was enough for Zayd to see their split: the left one was responsible for probing, his eyes sharp and quick; the right one was responsible for cutting off retreat, his body leaning forward slightly, weight low. The left one had a comm earpiece hidden in his sleeve; the right one had wet black mud on his heel, indicating they had just come up from a lower section.

The underground Black Market connected to the port. It went much deeper than it appeared. Even more troublesome was the blue-dark current behind the wall. It was rapidly approaching. It felt like some large machine was moving along the waterway. The sound of water striking the stone walls was getting louder.

The man on the left reached out. His movement was elegant, but it carried an undercurrent of unyielding force. "Hand over the key. Sara will offer you a legitimate antique dealer contract. Plus enough dinars to pay for the rest of your life."

Zayd smiled. In the red light, the smile looked pale and desolate. "When did Sara's generosity start including guarantees from strangers?"

"You don't have the right to pick and choose terms."

"Then you wouldn't be standing here talking. You'd just have attacked us already."

The man on the right took half a step forward. His heel creaked softly against the wet brick. Suddenly, another set of footsteps came from the end of the stone slope. Heavy, fast, and in time. Not one or two people, but a squad of pursuers following Omar's tactics. The sound rolled in like thunder before a storm, pressing in with heavy pressure.

Zayd saw the energy flow behind the wall split. One thin line turned the corner, running along the stone wall to the left. The other shot straight forward, as if being forcefully pushed aside by some heavy object.

In the dark current, a brief historical afterimage flickered: a long box wrapped in linen sinking into black water. The surface of the box was carved with a broken sun symbol. Several hands reached for it from the water's surface, but none actually touched it. The scene, like shattered glass, instantly dissolved in the humid air.

The two scouts clearly heard the pursuers too. The man on the left turned to look back at the way they came. For the first time, his gaze lost its composure, even showing a hint of panic. "Are those your people?"

"I don't have that many friends. Especially not at a time like this."

"Omar's men. Did you lead them here?"

"If I had the skill to arrange a welcome party like this, I wouldn't have let you talk first. We're all waiting to die, right?"

The sound of the pursuers got closer, mixed with sharp, brief Arabic commands. The tone was as cold as a blade. Zayd didn't explain. Suddenly, he raised his palm and pressed it against the left wall bricks. Golden Gaze pierced the mortar joints. The dark gold patterns spread like a spiderweb, making the blue-dark current behind the wall clearer.

It wasn't a solid stone wall. It was a maintenance passage covered by old wooden planks. Below, there was shallow water, being pulled by the tide from the port, making a gentle rustling sound. In the center of the wall bricks, a copper knob was hidden. Its surface was covered in oil and grime, but there were fresh fingerprints next to it. The pattern of those prints almost matched his own palm.

He turned the copper knob. The wall sank inward half an inch, emitting a metallic grinding sound that made his teeth ache. The left scout abruptly raised his hand, finger stiffly pointing at the spot. "Don't move!"

Zayd whipped his hand back and jammed the key into the brick seam. Using the energy vibration, he twisted it hard. The hidden door didn't open. Instead, a dull thud came from behind the wall. Shallow water broke through the planks, spurting out with a cloud of wet, cold mist that instantly enveloped the space. The red lamps went out in succession. The stone slope plunged into total darkness, only the blue energy lines flickering in his vision.

The pursuers crashed into them at the corner. Footsteps, shouts, and the sound of rushing water mixed into a chaotic mess. Zayd seized this moment of confusion. Following the brightest dark line in Golden Gaze, he sidestepped into the wall. Someone lunged from behind. Fingertips brushed his shoulder. Fabric tore open. The smell of blood mixed with the damp, cold air.

At the same time, the rumble from the deep underground suddenly grew louder. It was like a sleeping sea beast at the end of the port rolling over. The earth seemed to tremble slightly.

He fell into cold water, ankle-deep. The icy current quickly soaked his shoes and socks, spreading up his legs to his thighs. Ahead was just a narrow path swallowed by mist. Visibility was extremely low. Ancient sun symbols remained on the walls, appearing and disappearing in the water ripples. Fine gold sand floated on the surface, flashing faintly in the dim light, like the eye of the dead.

Far away, a rumble came, longer and heavier than before. It felt like something was answering his arrival. Zayd gripped the key tight. His knuckles turned white from the force. He walked toward the port mist that had no visible end.

Every step was accompanied by the sound of water. Deep in the mist, something massive seemed to be slowly waking up from the bottom of the sea, watching this intruder.