Savin made his way to his ticket to the Back Market. Yes, the Back Market—not the Black Market. It earned its name for a reason. Much like the backstage of a grand show, its dealings took place behind the curtain, hidden from public view. But instead of actors and props, it was filled with goods and trades no ordinary person ever laid eyes on. Secrets wrapped in transactions, whispers traded for fortunes.
Unlike the bustling open-air stalls of the city, the Back Market thrived in the shadows, operating in locked rooms and hushed corridors. Its items were not just valuable—they were priceless, rare, dangerous, or forbidden, but never illegal. And the tighter the secrecy, the higher the price.
For Savin, it was the only place to sell something as rare, priceless, and dangerous as a Golden Bell of Transcendence. But for someone like him—a nobody from the slums—it was a world far out of reach, where names like his didn't belong.
That's why he knew a guy.
Everyone trying to slip past the velvet ropes needed a connection, and Savin's was no different. In places like this, it wasn't money that got you in—it was knowing who to talk to, and what price they wanted in return.
***
The bell above the door chimed sharply as a young man stepped into Randall's Retails. He ran a hand through his unruly blonde hair as the strands fell messily over his forehead. Tugging on a black jacket—one that looked a little too fine and too polished for someone who clearly belonged to the slums—he scanned the dim store with a practiced calm. Though he couldn't have been more than a few years from adulthood, there was something about the way he carried himself. A certain sharpness, a weight in his gaze, like someone who'd long since outgrown the chaos of his surroundings.
The store looked old—at least ten, maybe twenty years since its opening. But Savin knew better. He'd heard the stories enough times to know Randall's Retails had been around far longer than that. The owner loved to brag, and being one of the only entrepreneurs in the wretched slums of K City, he rarely passed up the chance to remind anyone who'd listen just how long he'd been running this place. Especially Savin.
The shelves were crammed with electronics—half of them dusty, the other half patched up so many times they barely resembled their original models. But they worked. That's what mattered. Savin's eyes scanned the cluttered aisles, taking mental note of the battered devices. He had two goals today. First, sell the Bell of Transcendence. Second, pick up a new battery and maybe another life support part for his sister.
'Looks like I'm going hungry tonight, unless I can squeeze a discount,' Savin thought, running a hand through his hair and letting out a long, frustrated sigh.
He raised his voice, his tone light but edged with something sharper.
"Uncle Randall, how rude. You wouldn't even come out to greet your favorite customer?"
Almost immediately, A gruff voice answered from somewhere in the back, muffled behind the shelves.
"Don't bother me, kid."
Savin smirked. "What? No six-thousand-year-old stories today? Is your bag empty?"
"I said don't bother me," the voice snapped, rougher this time.
Savin stepped further in, his eyes glinting.
"Get out here." He said calmly "I've got business."
There was a pause, and then the man barked back, clearly annoyed now:
"I told you before, this ain't a place to sell nuts and bolts!"
"I don't think nuts and bolts can fetch me a thousand Ekrom, can they? A thousand? Pardon me—make that a hundred thousand."
There was a pause. Then heavy footsteps creaked the floorboards, and a large, burly figure emerged from behind one of the cluttered shelves. Though, Savin noted, the man's burly wasn't from muscle—far from it.
"Wow," Savin quipped, his lips curling into a smirk. "As fat as ever."
The man grunted, unfazed. "I'll let that slide. But this had better be worth my time."
He was wearing his usual sandy-brown overalls, one strap dangling loosely down his side, and beneath it, a stained white shirt—smudged with mustard, dust, and unidentifiable grime. His beard was as thick and wild as Savin remembered, almost like it had a life of its own. Once, when Savin was a kid, he used to yank on it and get away with it. Now?
'Yeah, no chance.' One tug and Randall might throw him out along with his precious Bell.
"Why are you in such a rush?" Savin asked,
"Speak, Savin." his voice muffled as he bent over one of the shelves, rummaging through various odds and ends. Savin couldn't help but smile at the sight of the overweight man bending and shifting around. There was something oddly comforting about seeing him struggle in such a laborious task—it felt like a piece of normalcy in the chaos of their world.
"Come on, I could help, you know."
Randall grunted, clearly irritated. "What a bothersome kid. The new season of the Back Market's starting in two days. I'm getting my most valuable stuff ready for the event."
Savin leaned against the counter with a mock pout. "Wow, my uncle is really hardworking. But I think I've got something more valuable than everything you own, your life included."
Randall didn't even glance up, his hands still busy in the clutter. He scoffed dismissively, which caused a cloud of dust to rise from the shelves. A tickle hit his throat, and he coughed hard for a few moments before straightening up. Finally, he laughed—a deep, throaty chuckle that rumbled in his chest—before asking:
"And what could you possibly own that's worth more than my life?" he asked, amusement dancing in his voice.
Savin didn't respond with words. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the Bell of Transcendence.
He gave it a soft, controlled ring.
The sound that followed was pure and resonant—so marvelous that it seemed to suspend time itself. It was the kind of sound that could enchant even the coldest of hearts, making it impossible to look away or dismiss. The gentle chime carried a weight to it, something that could pull the deepest of souls in, like an ancient lullaby.
Randall froze. His eyes widened as he turned toward the source of the sound, unable to tear his gaze away from the Bell.
"I- Is- Is that what I think it is?" Randall stammered, his eyes glued to the Bell of Transcendence, disbelief etched across his face.
Savin raised an eyebrow and smirked. "So, are you going to move me to the back or what?"
Without another word, Randall rushed to the door, his movements quick and almost frantic. He flipped the LED sign to 'CLOSED' with a snap of his fingers, his gaze never leaving the bell. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to contain something much larger than himself.
"Wait for me at the back," he muttered.
Savin's smirk deepened as he nodded, the corner of his lips twitching in satisfaction. He turned, heading toward the back of the shop where his uncle had just emerged from. That reaction—at least—was expected. Randall wasn't one to hide his surprise or fear, especially when it came to something of that magnitude.
***
"This- This thing is legit," Randall muttered, pulling the lens of his appraisal specs away from his eyes. He looked up at Savin, an odd mix of awe and caution in his gaze. He didn't need to ask where Savin got it—he knew. He was the one who rang it after all. The question that lingered, however, was something else entirely.
"You want to sell this?"
Savin didn't hesitate, his voice clear and determined. "Yes, I want to sell it. This should fetch me two to three hundred thousand Ekrom, and I'll never be poor again."
Randall doubted him before but now mention of Ekrom made his mind shift, and Savin could see it in the way his uncle's eyes narrowed. Currency was a big deal around here, and Ekrom was the name of the game. If someone was talking in Ekrom, you didn't just brush them off. It was virtual, rare, and dangerous to even possess, let alone offer for sale. Only a small percentage of the population, the highest and high middle class, had access to it. That was why it held the highest value.
Here, in the slums of K City, the common currencies were Cadiro and Jeddi. The difference between the three wasn't just a matter of value; it was a matter of class, of who you were and what you could do. Jeddi, the lowest of the three, was coin money, cheap and easily available. After all, metal was abundant in this futuristic world. Cadiro, on the other hand, was made from paper, and paper came from trees. Trees were scarce, and Cadiro was as valuable as it was rare.
One Cadiro cost thirty-seven Jeddi, and most slum-dwellers could barely dream of making that much in a day, unless they had a stable business or a rare stroke of luck. To make up to twenty Cadiro a day? That was a fantasy, any slum bastard who randomly just thought they could do it was simply swimming in an ocean of delusions. That was one of the reasons Randall stood out from most slum dwellers. He was one of the few who could make up to fifty Cadiro a day.
As for the Ekrom, it stood on an entirely different level. The very mention of it made everything else seem insignificant. No amount of Cadiro could ever buy even one Ekrom—figuratively speaking, of course. It wasn't just currency; it was power encapsulated in a digital form. A rarefied world where transactions weren't made through hands or voices, but through thought alone. It was a world only the fortunate few could even dream of entering.
Savin was very confident about it when he said that the Bell would sell for at least two hundred thousand. To find a Bell like that wasn't just a stroke of luck; it was called fate. And fate, Savin knew, was not something to be taken lightly.
To possess the fate of another, to hold that kind of power in your hands, it wasn't something you earned without a cost.
Fate, Savin mused, was a double-edged sword. It could raise you to the heavens—or destroy you if you weren't prepared for it. But the Bell was worth the risk. After all, what was the price of fate, if not everything you had?
"Savin, this is a Bell. And not just any Bell—a Golden Bell of Transcendence."
"I know. What about it?"
"How many times have you rung it?" Randall asked, eyes sharp.
"Don't worry. I rang it the first time by accident, and the second was just now."
Savin's eyes drifted to the Bell resting in Randall's grasp. The clapper and chain were gone, so he was sure.
"But if you rang it, then that means—"
"I know. But I'd rather die than listen to that thing anymore," Savin said flatly. "I found it yesterday and it's still not in my head. As of now, I'm fine." He turned, stuffing his hands in his pockets, ready to leave. "By the way, I need a new battery for Robin's life support."
"Then go upstairs and get one. You know what to do."
"You're not charging me?"
"Don't worry. I'll collect my money after your Bell is sold." Randall's focus was glued to the Bell, paying no mind to anything else.
Savin smirked and made his way up the narrow stairs leading to the actual shop. The lower room was cramped with small shelves, the ceiling low enough that he felt like ducking. Besides holding the pricier goods, Savin knew this place served another purpose, but that was a story for another day.
He approached one of the shelves and grabbed a well-sized battery. Tossing it lightly into the air a few times, he caught it, weighing it in his palm. Its heft told him size didn't matter.
Satisfied, he stepped outside.
A sudden gust of wind swept past, flipping strands of his long hair into his face. He was about to walk off when something horrendous shattered his mood and toppled his world.
He was sure no one else heard it—there wasn't a reaction, not even from one person in the crowd. But for the second time in that minute that felt like an eternity, Savin heard the loud, unmistakable ringing of a bell.