Chapter 581 - 511: The Abandoned Mine Pit Black Market

Chapter 581: Chapter 511: The Abandoned Mine Pit Black Market

"Master, the abandoned mines are just ahead."

At Ogre’s hushed guidance, Roland narrowed his eyes and gazed ahead.

The night was deep. The silvery light of a near-full moon struggled to pierce the thin clouds, casting its glow upon a desolate, rugged landscape.

They stood at the edge of a gentle slope, overlooking an abandoned mining district that stretched out below them like a series of scars upon the earth.

The first thing that caught their eye were vast swaths of exposed, craggy rock formations—grayish-white, rust-red, and dismal black—the scars of years of excavation.

Enormous mine entrances, like the gaping, pitch-black maws of giant, greedy beasts, were scattered across the landscape. Most were half-buried by collapsed earth and rock, exuding a dead, ominous stillness.

Yet deep within this seemingly dead and desolate land, a few faint, unnatural lights flickered like Ghost Fire near the entrance to a larger mine, which was situated in a ravine between two low mountains.

As they cautiously drew closer, the "entrance" came into sharper focus.

It wasn’t a simple hole leading straight underground. Instead, a crooked "facade" had been crudely erected upon the original mine structure, cobbled together from rough logs, rusted iron plates, and all manner of scavenged materials.

Two torches, lit with some unknown grease and belching black smoke, were mounted on either side of the entrance. Their flickering light illuminated a twisted symbol sloppily painted above in some dark red pigment.

It appeared to be a common symbol for a black market.

At the entrance stood four figures, each distinct in appearance but all radiating an air of danger.

They stood or leaned about, clad in mismatched Armor with their weapons close at hand.

One, a brute of a man with dark gray skin and an unusually towering frame, coldly scanned everyone who approached. His eyes reflected a faint red glint in the firelight.

Another, a wiry figure squatting in the Shadow, idly toyed with several throwing knives that glinted coldly. His gaze was as sharp as a hawk’s.

Just inside the entrance, within the Shadow, a nearly invisible violet membrane seemed to shimmer, with faint Magic Runes occasionally flaring to life within it before vanishing.

This had to be the "magical screening" Ogre had mentioned.

On the narrow path that snaked through the rubble toward the entrance, figures were already appearing in twos and threes. ℯℯ𝑙.

Most had their faces concealed by hoods, scarves, or masks. They moved with light, wary steps, keeping a careful distance from one another.

The occasional sound of low conversation or scraping metal was quickly swallowed by the cold night wind and the faint, unidentifiable echoes reverberating from deep within the mines.

The air was thick with the smell of dust, rusted metal, cheap tobacco, and a strange, faint odor—a mix of blood, herbs, and some kind of animal musk.

The entire area was cloaked in a repressive atmosphere thick with suspicion and latent violence, like a massive, slowly breathing nest of Darkness that had silently opened its trap-laden, secret-filled maw.

"This godsforsaken place smells worse than a goblin’s sock that’s been fermenting for three months!"

Holland couldn’t help but mutter, pinching his nose.

Ogre shot him a look, the scar on his face looking even more sinister in the flickering torchlight. His tone was derisive.

"Find the smell too strong? Priest Holland, perhaps your noble, Holy Light-sniffing nose is better suited for the incense in the Divine Hall. This is an abandoned mine, not your choir’s backyard."

"You..."

Roland raised a hand, a simple gesture cutting off Holland’s retort.

He ignored their usual friction. His mind grew calm as he pushed his Shadow Veil to its limits.

Instantly, his entire presence seemed to be gently shrouded by an invisible veil.

It wasn’t invisibility. Rather, he became exceptionally "ordinary" and "unremarkable," like a silent stone on the roadside, naturally slipping past the notice of anyone on guard.

Even the rhythm of his breathing and the sound of his footfalls seemed to meld into the night wind and the distant, faint echoes.

Confirming that the effect was stable, Roland didn’t hesitate. He strode toward the flickering torchlight of the mine entrance.

Seeing him move, Holland and Ogre immediately ceased their bickering and fell in behind him, one on his left and one on his right, remaining vigilant.

As they neared the entrance, the oppressive presence of the four Guards became more palpable.

The leader, the tower-like brute with dark gray skin, swept his gaze over the approaching trio like a physical searchlight.

Ogre strode forward, blocking most of the brute’s line of sight. He plastered on a smile common among lowlifes—ingratiating, but not overly servile.

He said nothing, simply pulling a crude token from his tunic. It was half the size of his palm, with irregular edges, and appeared to be fashioned from some kind of animal bone. He handed it over.

The token’s surface was carved with a twisted symbol similar to the one above the entrance, only more complex.

The brute took the token, rubbed it between his thick fingers, then brought it to his nose and sniffed.

The action made Holland’s eye twitch.

During this brief inspection, Roland’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly as he quickly assessed the strength of the Guards.

The leader, the brute, breathed long and deep, with a unique, subtle rhythm like the puffing of a forge’s bellows.

’That’s the Knight’s Breathing Technique... and he’s practically mastered it. And... he’s even formed a Source Core...’