He staggered down the market path, clutching his pouch close, as these coins were needed for him to survive.
Lanterns were casting shadows that danced like demonic puppets on the uneven stone ceiling. Every stall he passed by whispered temptation—memories of forbidden lust, dark assassinations, heavenly cultivation arts, childhood joys, ancient languages.
'Heavenly cultivation arts? Such things exist outside books…' But he ignored them all, as his mind was still feeling the aftereffects of the dagger coin.
"Ah… fuck…" he muttered under his breath, massaging his temple. His body felt shaky, as if someone had poured molten iron into his veins.
He stumbled toward an empty corner between two closed stalls and collapsed against the cold wall. Sweat soaked his ragged robe as he took trembling, deep breaths.
His stomach growled again. He chuckled bitterly as he placed his hand on his stomach.
'Ah… I need something to eat. Great… get stabbed by memories and starve to death. Truly… the perfect life.'
He tilted his head back and stared at the rocky ceiling hidden in darkness. Flickering lanterns barely pushed back the shadows. He felt hollow inside his head, yet beneath that emptiness, he felt as if something was hidden deep inside him.
"Survive." He spoke instinctively, felt as if his inner voice was instructing him to survive.
Then the image of the little girl with her stale bread returned.
'Even stale bread would work now…'
His legs trembled as he stood up and started walking back to her stall, ignoring the curious looks of nearby people.
She was still there, chewing the same piece of stale bread, her distant lifeless eyes, same as before. She raised an eyebrow as she saw him approaching. "Still alive?" she asked blandly.
He snorted softly. "Barely".
She pointed at the coins and asked, "Want another?"
"Not now," he said. "I need… food. Where can I buy some?"
She tilted her head in confusion, then pointed further down the market path. "Follow the lanterns until you smell piss and onions. Food stalls are there."
'Wow… what a great sense of direction.'
"Thanks," he muttered and turned to leave.
"Wait," she spoke.
He stopped, but she just stared at him for a moment, then narrowed her dull eyes slightly."You… don't remember anything, do you?"
'Fuck… Am I that obvious? Even a little girl can guess? Is she with Memory Hunter? What should I do?..', His chest tightened and his heart started racing, but he calmed himself down a little and decided to tell the truth.
"No... Nothing," he whispered.
She stared at him again for a while, then tore off a chunk of her stale bread and held it out to him. "Here."
He blinked in surprise. Slowly, he reached out and took it. Their fingers brushed, and for a brief moment, her gaze softened before hardening again like stone.
"Don't die before you buy more from me," she said, turning her eyes away.
He chuckled hoarsely and stuffed the bread into his mouth. It tasted like dirt and ashes, but it filled the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He bowed his head slightly to her before walking away, chewing slowly.
As he walked, he noticed buyers staring at him with curiosity and contempt. Some whispered under their breath.
"Another amnesiac stray…"
"Poor bastard probably woke up with coins but no memories. Easy prey."
"Think he'll sell his trauma coin to the brokers?"
He clenched his jaw and thought, 'They can all go fuck themselves.'
Following the lanterns, the smell hit him long before the sight—onions frying in rotten oil, overlaid with piss, wet stone, and rotting wood. He reached a cluster of shabby stalls lined with cracked clay pots and rusted pans.
A fat man stirred something brown and bubbling in a pot.
"Oi, you buying or just staring?" the cook snapped.
'Buy? More like paying to survive.'
He pulled out a tarnished bronze coin with a faded rune.
The man squinted. "Huh. Low-grade emotional fragment. Fine. Sit down."
He sat down on a bench nailed into the stone floor. Within moments, a chipped wooden bowl was slapped down in front of him. It steamed with a thin onion broth floating with soggy bread chunks.
"Eat quick. No loitering." He ignored the man's scowl and picked up the bowl, sipping cautiously. It was bland, barely salted, but the warmth spread through his frozen bones, easing the tremors in his hands.
As he ate, he scanned the food stalls. Buyers and sellers bartered with urgency. A teenage boy wearing a worn-out robe handed over a bright silver coin and received a hunk of roasted rat meat skewered on an iron spike. A hunched old woman exchanged a golden trauma coin for a basket of black mushrooms and a bundle of tattered blankets.
Memories for food. Trauma for shelter. Skills for weapons.A dark world built upon devouring the past.
He finished the last soggy bread chunk, set the bowl down, and stood. The fat cook snatched it away without a word, moving on to the next customer.
He stepped back into the market's main path, the smells of fried rat and human desperation clinging to his skin. For a moment, he felt like vomiting it all out—this twisted market, this nightmare world, this hollow shell of his mind.
But he clenched his fists. His pulse carried a quiet, seething resolve.
'No. I will not die here. Whoever I was… why I sold all my memories… I will find out everything. Even if I have to buy back every memory with blood.'
He looked at his pouch again, but before he could decide his next move, a voice called out to him.
"You there. New stray."
He turned sharply. A man stood leaning against a stone pillar. Tall, draped in a dark blue cloak. His hood shadowed most of his face, but his mouth curled into an amused smirk.
"You look lost," the man said softly. His voice was smooth, almost… elegant. "Care to earn some quick credits?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Doing what?"
The man chuckled. "Nothing too illegal. Just… dangerous."
His chest tightened. A thousand warning bells rang in his head, but alongside them burned a raw, savage curiosity.
"Dangerous how?"
The man pushed off the pillar and leaned close to him, then slipped back his hood slightly, revealing sharp grey eyes that gleamed with predatory intelligence and spoke with a smirk "Memory hunting."
"Memory… hunting?"
The man's smirk widened. "Come. I'll show you how to turn forgotten nightmares into gold."
And without waiting for an answer, he turned and disappeared into the bustling market crowd, leaving him standing frozen, trembling with dread and anticipation.
'Memory hunting… huh…' He thought grabbed the pouch firmly. The coins inside jingled softly—dozens of forgotten lives waiting to be bought, sold… or stolen.
He took a deep breath and starting following the man cautiously from behind.
He didn't know his name.
He didn't know his past.
But he knew one thing, If he wanted to survive in this world of devoured memories…he'd have to become a hunter.