Chapter 75: The Underground Black Market, Daniels’ Acquaintance

Daniels tugged on his hood.

A sour, fishy stench drilled straight into his nose.

Lemon Port, eroded by the parasitic plague and with no one left to clean the streets, was completely rotten through.

Garbage piled up everywhere, swarming with flies.

Daniels moved swiftly along the shadow by the wall, dirty water splashing under his leather boots.

In the near distance stood the lord’s castle.

But his steps did not falter.

After all, only an idiot would run there now.

Even the city gate guards had traitors among them.

The castle was likely filled with spies as well.

And since the enemy already knew he intended to contact Baroness Erica, they would surely be on guard.

Going there rashly would be nothing but walking straight into a tiger’s mouth.

More importantly—Colin was still in those bastards’ hands!

What could Daniels even say if he went empty-handed to Baroness Erica?

“Your territory is crawling with heart-eating parasites? And traitors colluding with the Undead?”

Even though Erica had a fairly good reputation among the nobility, without a bit of cunning, she would have been eaten clean long ago!

So without concrete evidence in hand, he feared he would be branded a heretic who incited unrest and be thrown straight into a dungeon.

Daniels turned into a narrow alley, sewage running across the path.

From the shabby huts on both sides came muffled groans.

“Rathead…”

Daniels muttered the name under his breath.

His direction was clear.

Deep in the slums.

There was a man there who knew more rumors than there were rat holes—and that man was his only hope right now.

The smell of rotting vegetables from the market mixed with the stench of fish entrails, making his head ache.

Daniels stepped over a pile of foul oyster shells and slipped into the gap between two crooked shacks.

At the end stood a broken wooden wall—it looked like a dead end.

Just as he raised his hand to press on an inconspicuous patch of mold, three figures stepped out of the shadows.

“Yo, a stranger?”

The leader had yellow teeth and dark circles under his eyes—looked half-dead from the plague.

He clutched a chipped dagger, waving it about with false bravado.

“This ain’t a place for you. But since you came, you’d better pay a little to buy your life~”

Daniels said nothing.

Under the hood, a thick surge of battle aura suddenly exploded!

The air itself seemed to freeze.

The dagger in Yellow Teeth’s hand clattered into the sewage, while his two lackeys went weak in the knees and dropped straight down.

The pressure of a Third-tier Knight—crushing them would be no harder than crushing bugs.

When the aura withdrew, Daniels didn’t even glance at them.

He pressed a finger beside the moldy spot.

Click. A panel of wood slid inward.

A pitch-black hole appeared.

He crouched down and slipped inside.

The door closed behind him, cutting off what little daylight remained.

Daniels narrowed his eyes.

The once-crowded underground black market—where people jostled and goods piled high—was now gone without a trace.

It was as quiet as a graveyard.

A few scattered vendors huddled under the dim glow of oil lamps, their eyes vacant.

On the shelves lay a few scattered herbs of unclear color and dubious strips of dried meat.

The air carried the stink of sweat, mildew, and decay.

Daniels had only walked a few steps in when—

a withered hand suddenly grabbed his arm, yanking him into a nearby shack covered with a torn leather curtain.

“Old Dan! You’ve got some nerve walking in here all open like that! Got a death wish?”

A sharp-faced man with a pair of ridiculous mustache curls hissed under his breath.

It was Daniels’ acquaintance—Rathead.

His eye sockets were sunken, cheekbones jutting out.

His face was covered in an unhealthy gray pallor, and even his breathing sounded raspy.

Daniels shook off his hand, the hood sliding down.

His weathered face was revealed.

“How did you recognize me?”

“Are you kidding?”

Rathead rolled his eyes and slumped onto an upside-down barrel, his back hunched.

“The way you walk—shoulders broad enough to carry a city gate, back straight like a spear.”

“There ain’t another like you in all the sewers of Lemon Port!”

“Besides, with the plague this bad, the only one still strutting around like that would be you, ‘The Rock’!”

Daniels ignored the man’s teasing.

Instead, he frowned and asked, “You’re infected with the parasite too?”

Rathead had just taken two breaths.

Upon hearing that, his eyes instantly turned sharp.

“You just said… parasite?”

“You damn well know what this cursed sickness is?”

Rathead pounded his chest like a madman, his voice hoarse. “Damn it all! My body’s got no strength left at all.”

“No matter how much I eat, I can’t fill my stomach—it’s like something inside me is sucking the marrow from my bones!”

“But those useless bastards under those fat pigs can’t find a damn thing!”

“Tell me, Old Dan—whatever you know, tell me everything!”

Daniels locked eyes with him and said word by word, “My daughter’s illness was cured.”

Rathead’s pupils shrank. “Little Amy?! She—she was infected too…”

“She’s completely cured.”

Daniels repeated, his tone low but firm.

“I went to Holy Light Town. A priest named Colin used the power granted by an angel to drive that damned thing out of her heart.”

The shack fell into dead silence.

The oil lamp flickered with a faint crackle.

It cast shifting light over Rathead’s ashen face.

His mouth opened, then closed again, his throat bobbing—choked by the weight of that revelation.

“Old Dan…”

Rathead’s voice was dry. “We’ve known each other for years. I’ve seen every scam and lie you can name in this black market.”

“But you… if you’re playing me with some holy nonsense like that—”

“I swear on my life!”

Daniels roared, “Little Amy’s alive and well now!”

“And that parasite—it’s gray-black, the size of a fingernail, clinging to the heart, sucking the body’s nutrients!”

“Priest Colin used a Divine Art to drive it out and burned it to ashes on the spot!”

He spoke quickly, recounting everything—from escorting the refugees, to the blockade at the city gate, to the assassins’ ambush, and Colin’s abduction.

“…Now Colin’s been captured, and the ones behind this definitely know he can cure the sickness!”

“We have to rescue him—he’s our only hope of turning this around!”

“But as for Baroness Erica, I’ve got no proof! I can’t even get through the castle gates!”

“Even if I did—how could I make her believe?”

“How could we act without alerting those parasites and dooming everyone in the city?”

After listening, Rathead slumped on the barrel like his bones had been pulled out, only his eyes darting rapidly.

Believe it? Ridiculous!

But… this was Daniels.

The same Rock Knight who had risked his life for total strangers, for mere refugees.

He had no reason—nor any need—to weave such an outrageous lie to deceive a black market rat like him.

After a long silence,

Rathead suddenly spat hard, a fierce glint flashing in his murky eyes.

“Damn their ancestors! This rotten life of mine’s almost sucked dry by that cursed bug anyway!”

“If it were anyone else spewing nonsense about angels and Holy Light, I’d have cut his manhood off and fed it to the dogs!”

“But you, Old Dan…”

He gasped, “I don’t believe it—but I have to! I’ll gamble on it!”

Rathead struggled to his feet.

His hunched back seemed to straighten a little.

“Helping you is helping myself too. But…”

He gave a bitter laugh, pointing toward the dead-silent market outside.

“You’ve seen it yourself—since the plague hit, everyone’s either dead, fled, or waiting to die.”

“My pitiful intel network’s more hole-ridden than a fishing net! I’ve no idea how much use it’ll be.”

Rathead walked to the corner of the shack,

moved aside a pile of fish-smelling burlap sacks, revealing a pitch-black hole.

“Follow me first—this place is still clean for now.”

“Catch your breath, and then we’ll figure out how to save your precious priest—”

“—and all the poor souls in this city who are being drained dry.”

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