Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 17: The Graveyard of Relics

​I walk through the alleys of the Commercial District, deliberately ignoring the illuminated windows of Guild Avenue.

​Up there, shops like "Flash Get Armory" sell "Meta" gear—standardized items with known stats and inflated prices for rich rookies. Tempered steel swords, Drake leather armor. Safe things.

​I don’t need safety. I need an edge. Mystic and Magic.

​Most see trash, I think, stepping over a puddle of oil. I see what was forgotten.

​I have 3,101 Scales in my inventory and a curiosity burning in my chest. Ever since I saw the [Link] skill in my Status, my hands have been itching.

[​Link (Passive): Detects and recognizes the true soul of an item, revealing hidden statuses. Requires assimilation.]

​It’s time to test if my vision is as good as the System claims.

​I stop in front of a structure that looks more like a landslide than a shop. The rotten wooden sign creaks in the wind: "The Dead End."

​I push the door. The bell above doesn’t ring; it makes a dull thud, like bone hitting stone.

​The interior smells of dust, mold, and dead dreams. Piles of twisted metal, broken weapons, and barnacle-encrusted artifacts reach the ceiling. It’s a labyrinth of scrap.

​Behind a counter made of stacked crates sits the owner.

​He is a Resident. I can tell by the gray skin, the texture of old parchment that only centuries without sunlight can give. He wears a monocle with multiple cracked lenses and a vest overflowing with pockets.

​He looks up. His eyes are milky but sharp. He scans me—sees the rookie rags, the skin still flushed from Earth’s sun.

​"Drowned," he spits the word like phlegm. "The nursery is in District 1. This place is for those with calluses, not weekend tourists."

​The disdain is palpable. Residents hate the Drowned. We are visitors in their hell. We have a return ticket; they are the furniture.

​I ignore the insult.

​"I’m buying," I say, my voice dry.

​"Doubt it," he grunts, going back to polishing a rusted gear with a filthy rag. "You break it, you pay. You bleed on my merchandise, you pay double."

​I start walking through the narrow aisles. My eyes scan the shelves.

​There’s a lot of garbage. Common iron swords that would shatter on the first impact with a carapace. Rotted wooden shields.

​But there are strange things, too.

​I pick up a dagger with a hilt encrusted with fake gems. It’s flashy, shiny, made to impress idiots.

​I hold it. I try to mentally trigger Link.

​Nothing. Just the cold sensation of cheap metal.

​"How much?" I ask, lifting the dagger.

​The old man doesn’t even look properly.

​"Four hundred Scales." 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

​I almost laugh. That piece of junk isn’t worth fifty.

​I drop the dagger and pick up a horned helmet, dented on one side.

​"And this?"

​"Six hundred. Belonged to a Sector 7 Berserker. Historical relic."

​Lie. It’s stamped brass.

​He is inflating the prices by 500% or more. He wants me to leave, or he hopes I’m the kind of dumb rookie the Deepwardens send down here with pockets full of daddy’s money.

​"Expensive," I comment, emotionless.

​"Quality costs, tourist," he sneers, showing yellow teeth. "If you don’t have Scales, the door is free. I charge for the air."

​I smile internally. He is a bitter scammer.

​Perfect. Bitter scammers are the easiest to rob because they think they are the smartest person in the room.

​I drop the helmet and keep walking toward the back of the shop, where the dust is thicker. That’s where the treasures hide.

​Time to use Link for real, I hope.

​I dig through a mountain of rusted greaves and cracked breastplates until my fingers brush against wood.

​It’s not on a shelf. It’s shoved into the gap between a support beam and a pile of scrap, hidden by layers of dust and thick, gray cobwebs. A small, unassuming wooden case.

​Behind me, I hear a dry wheeze. The shopkeeper is watching.

​"Digging for gold in a shit pile?" he cackles, a sound like grinding gears. "That trash has been there since the First Expansion. Leave it be."

​I ignore him. I pull the box out. It’s heavy. Heavier than wood should be.

​My passive skill, [Memory of Lightwaves], doesn’t just buzz. It slams against my palms. A vibration travels up my arms, rattling my very bones. It feels like touching a live wire buried in the ocean floor.

​This isn’t normal, I think, my heart hammering against my ribs. This isn’t just an item. It’s a grave.

​I wipe the dust off the lid and flip the latch. It opens with a reluctant creak.

​Inside, resting on rotting black velvet, is a hilt.

​Just a hilt.

​It’s magnificent and terrifying. The guard is jagged, forged from some blackened, abyssal metal that seems to absorb the dim light of the shop. The handle is wrapped in rough, gray ray skin, stained by centuries of sweat and salt.

​But there is no blade. Just a jagged, broken stump where the steel should be.

​"See?"

The shopkeeper sneers from the counter. He jams a pinky finger deep into his ear, twisting it with a wet squelch, completely uninterested in the artifact.

"Broken. Useless."

He pulls his finger out, inspects a ball of yellow wax, and flicks it casually onto the floor.

"Just a fancy handle for a sword that doesn’t exist. I’ll sell it to you for 400 Scales just because the box is pretty."

​I stare at the hilt. He sees a broken toy. I see a winning lottery ticket.

​I focus.

​[Link Activated.]

​The System text blooms in my vision, violent and red.

​[Name: Eventide]

[Rank: D - Coral (Capped/Sealed)]

[Type: Aether-Wakizashi]

[Durability: N/A]

​[LORE]: "They say light dies when the sun sets. But at the bottom of the abyss, light doesn’t die; it drowns. Swallowed by the liquid vastness, it gains the weight of oblivion, leaving only the ghost of hope that burns with the light of its own existence."

​[Hidden Lore Fragments - ERROR - Insufficient Rank]

​[Hidden Passive: The Evening Toll]

Description: As a Growth Relic, Eventide is the solitude of the deep, the ghost of the ocean. Its kills register traces that are permanently absorbed into the weapon’s core.

​[Effect 1: Spectral Sharpness]

For every life harvested, the blade becomes more unstable and dense, increasing cutting damage and reducing luminosity (becoming darker). Consumes OXI per second.

​[Effect 2: Critical Threshold]

Upon reaching certain death milestones, the weapon unlocks "Combat Memories" of its past wielders, allowing the user to mimic sword styles lost to Thirstfall’s history, alongside an increase in overall Rank.

​I hold my breath.

​A Growth Relic.

​I’ve never seen one. In my past life, they were myths whispered by the leviathans of the S-Rank Guilds. Weapons that evolve. Weapons that learn.

​And this one... mimics lost sword styles?

​"Well?" the shopkeeper barks, impatient. "Are you buying or drooling? 400 Scales."

​I snap the box shut, hiding the relic. I force my face into a mask of bored disappointment.

​"It’s a paperweight," I say, tossing the box lightly in my hand. "No blade. No enchantments. Just old iron."

​"It’s an antique!"

​"It’s trash," I counter, placing it on a nearby crate as if I’m about to walk away. "But I like the wood of the box. Reminds me of home. I’ll give you 100 Scales. One Shard. Take it or leave it."

​The shopkeeper scoffs, offended. "One Shard? You insult me, Drowned. 200. Or get out of my store."

​I pause. Pretending to calculate.

​"Two Shards for a broken handle..." I mutter, shaking my head. "Fine. You win."

​I reach into my inventory and flick two shimmering blue Shards onto the counter. They spin and settle with a crisp chime.

[Scales: 3101 -> 2901]

​The old man snatches them up instantly, checking their purity against the light. A greedy grin splits his face.

​"Sold!" he laughs, pocketing the money. "All Drowned are the same. Idiots with more money than sense. Buying broken junk..."

​I pick up the box again. This time, I don’t treat it casually.

​"Tell me, old man," I ask, my voice dropping an octave. "Did a blacksmith ever Appraise this?"

​"Appraise it?" he wheezes, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Why would I pay a smith 50 Scales to look at a hilt with no blade? The System status clearly says ’Capped’. It’s dead metal, boy. I just fleeced you."

​He doesn’t know. He saw "Capped" and thought it meant "Maxed out at a low level." He couldn’t see the Growth tag. He couldn’t see the Soul.

​I smile. It’s a sharp, predatory expression that makes the old man stop laughing.

​"You didn’t fleece me," I say softly. "You just made the worst deal of your life."

​I open the box. I grip the handle of Eventide.

​I don’t swing it. I feed it.

​I push my Spirit into the grip. The ray-skin handle bites into my palm, hungry.

​*VROOOM.*

​The sound isn’t metallic. It’s a low, bass-heavy vibration that shakes the dust off the nearby shelves like a wind blowing. It sounds like an intake of breath before a scream.

​From the broken stump of the guard, darkness erupts.

​It doesn’t form a beam of light. It forms a blade of absolute, unstable shadow. A jagged, flickering tongue of black aura that distorts the air around it. It hums with a murderous intent, an invitation to death.

​The shopkeeper’s eyes bulge. He stumbles back, tripping over his own stool and falling hard onto his ass.

​"W-What..." he stammers, pointing a trembling finger. "Where is the metal? What is that?"

​[System Warning: Eventide Active.]

[OXI Drain: -30/sec]

​My HUD flickers red. Minus thirty per second.

​Expensive, I think, feeling my life force being siphoned into the void of the blade. This thing eats time like a starving shark.

​But the power... the power is intoxicating.

​I deactivate the blade. The shadow vanishes instantly, leaving only the harmless hilt in my hand.

​I look down at the terrified merchant, huddled on the floor of his own shop.

​"You charged me for the item," I say, my voice cold and echoing in the sudden silence. "But you should have charged me for the appraisal."

​I turn and walk out into the street, clutching my fortune, leaving him sitting in the dust of his own ignorance.