The streets of Zone 937 smelled of blood, rust, and smoke.
Chen Mo walked slowly, his hands in the pockets of his torn clothes, his crimson eyes shifting warily across faces that didn't bother to look back. The air was thick with filth—both the kind you could see and the kind you could feel.
People passed him like he was invisible.
Some glanced his way, then turned their heads in disgust. Others avoided eye contact altogether, moving around him as if he carried disease. The few who did meet his gaze looked down on him with unspoken contempt.
Not a single one of them offered a word.
He was too poor.
Too weak.
Too irrelevant.
Chen Mo had no name here. He had no reputation, no backing, no power. In this place, those were the only currencies that mattered. Everything else—morals, kindness, humanity—was worthless.
This district is rotten down to the bone, he thought as he continued walking.
Garbage piled in alleys. Thieves loitered near every corner. The broken remains of once-functional lamp posts cast long shadows. Screams echoed now and then—some short, some drawn out.
But no one reacted.
It was the rhythm of life here.
He moved through it silently, a shadow among shadows. Though he had no destination in mind, his feet carried him deeper into the Dark District's veins, where its true nature was laid bare.
It didn't take long before he began to see it.
Power.
It lingered in the way the streets were arranged. In how people acted. In who stood and who bowed. The rules weren't written on signs—but they were everywhere.
Those with strength walked with confidence. Others stepped aside quickly, not daring to meet their eyes. Some vendors bowed deeply when certain figures passed by, while sneering at those with tattered clothes.
Power made the rules here.
Nothing else mattered.
"Even laws don't exist here unless someone strong says they do," Chen Mo thought grimly.
He turned down a narrower alley. The crowd thinned. The buildings changed.
Here, the air carried a different weight—darker, heavier.
And then he saw it.
Three massive, heavily guarded buildings, each shrouded in mystery and dread. None of them bore names, but his borrowed memories stirred with recognition.
The Slavery House.
The Black Market Vault.
The Underground Auction Hall.
Chen Mo instinctively stopped at the corner of the street, just close enough to see, far enough not to draw attention.
The Slavery House had iron gates and shackled statues outside its front steps. Inside, he could barely make out chained figures through the window—men, women, even children. All expressionless. All broken.
He bit his lip hard.
It wasn't fiction. It wasn't an old tale. It was real. Right in front of him.
Slavery was not only present—it was normalized here. A business. A pillar of the local economy.
Next, he looked toward the Black Market Vault. Towering walls of reinforced steel surrounded it. No signs. No slogans. Just armed guards in black armor who radiated killing intent.
That place was silent. Too silent. It was the kind of silence that screamed danger. You didn't walk into the Vault. You were invited—or you died trying.
Chen Mo didn't need to go closer to understand what was inside: illegal goods, rare weapons, stolen world cores, forbidden potions, and more. All things banned by the empire's laws… assuming those laws even applied here.
Lastly, his eyes turned to the most bizarre building—an amphitheater-like structure, shaped like a sunken dome carved into the ground.
The Underground Auction Hall.
He could hear music drifting faintly through the outer wall. Laughter. Conversation. The scent of wine and perfume.
This was a place of the elite.
Wealthy criminals, black-robe merchants, rogue cultivators, and noble defectors. All those who couldn't or wouldn't participate in the official economy came here.
And they bid on everything.
From slaves and weapons to information, secrets, and even people's futures.
He wanted to enter.
He wanted to know.
But a single glance at the entrance told him everything: two guards in blood-red robes stood motionless, each wearing silver serpent masks and holding spears tipped with what looked like enchanted bone.
The air around them shimmered faintly with killing intent.
No entry.
Not for someone like him.
Chen Mo stepped back into the crowd, his heart heavy.
He continued walking, weaving through the bazaar-like strip nearby. The market buzzed with energy and chaos, but beneath it all was a tension he couldn't ignore.
Vendors shouted over one another, selling things he had no names for.
"Twin-fanged daggers! Poisoned and enchanted!"
"Mystic rings! Forge-bound! One cut seals the soul!"
"Grade-3 World Core, fresh from Zone 831!"
"Memory lockboxes! Want to forget a sin? Only copper coins!"
"Crimsonheart Potion! Revives you once after death!"
Weapons, artifacts, glowing orbs, mutated skulls, floating spellbooks, rings of cursed light, potions that screamed when opened—everything was for sale.
Power wasn't just visible here.
It was bought and sold.
Chen Mo felt like a child standing before a wall of ancient tomes. Every word, every product, every shouted offer was beyond him. He had to learn—fast—or he'd stay useless forever.
He turned a corner, leaving the noise of the stalls behind, his mind spinning with everything he had just witnessed.
And then—he stopped.
His eyes landed on something.