The Villain's explosive return.

As I passed through the narrow, dimly lit stalls of the black market, I caught sight of an unsuspecting mask lying loosely on a vendor's table.

The stall was cluttered with trinkets, oddities, and other neglected items.

The mask stood out, not because of its beauty, but because of how utterly unremarkable it looked. Its dull, weathered surface suggested it had been cast aside, forgotten amidst the other wares.

The vendor, a burly man with a thick mustache, was engrossed in an animated argument with another customer about the value of a cracked amulet.

My heart raced as I took a few hesitant steps toward the table.

This wasn't something I was used to. Stealing. I was a noble once, a Kaelith, taught to value integrity and honor.

But that life was long gone, and survival didn't care about principles.

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the mask, but a sudden noise—a shout from a nearby stall—made me jerk my hand back.

The vendor turned slightly, his eyes scanning the area, and I froze, pretending to examine a rusted dagger lying nearby.

After what felt like an eternity, he returned to his haggling.

I grabbed the mask on my second attempt, my movements clumsy but quick.

It wasn't elegant, and I nearly knocked over a wooden figurine in the process, but I managed to slip the mask into my bag and walk away with hurried, uneven steps.

"I'm sorry," I muttered under my breath, not daring to look back. "I'll repay you if I ever get the chance."

When I finally found a quiet corner away from the bustling crowd, I examined my stolen prize.

The mask was fox-shaped, though it had seen far better days. The once-vivid paint had faded to dull grays and reds, with patches of bare wood exposed where it had chipped away.

The eyeholes were uneven, giving it an unsettling, crooked appearance, and the nose had been crudely cut open, likely to make breathing easier for a previous wearer.

It reeked faintly of mildew, and the rough texture scratched against my fingers as I turned it over. Still, it would serve its purpose.

I slipped it over my face. The fit was tight, the inside slightly damp, but it concealed my identity, and that was all that mattered.

My next task was far less discreet—stealing clothes.

Navigating the market, I kept my head low and my movements deliberate. A shirt here, a pair of pants there—each item snatched when the vendors were distracted or dealing with other customers.

My technique was sloppy, and I nearly got caught twice. At one stall, I accidentally knocked over a rack of belts, drawing the vendor's attention.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barked, his sharp eyes locking onto me.

"Sorry!" I stammered, pretending to inspect one of the belts. "I was just looking for something sturdy. Didn't mean to make a mess."

He grumbled but seemed satisfied when I handed him a silver coin—one of the few I had left—and walked away.

I felt the sting of the loss but consoled myself with the pair of trousers I'd stuffed into my bag moments earlier.

By the end of the day, I had managed to piece together a mismatched outfit.

A patched-up shirt that smelled faintly of sweat, a pair of ill-fitting trousers, and shoes so worn that the soles were almost nonexistent.

As I donned my new attire, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a cracked mirror leaning against a stall.

Gone was the noble Venzel Kaelith, the boy raised in luxury.

In his place stood a nameless figure, hidden behind a fox mask and draped in the cast-offs of strangers.

I found a quiet corner amidst the bustling market and set up my makeshift stall.

The potions I laid out were my only real asset—glass vials filled with volatile, swirling liquids.

No healing tonics, no elixirs of strength or agility. Just raw, destructive power.

The first day was uneventful. Passersby glanced at my display but seemed uninterested. I could feel their skepticism—who would trust a masked stranger with explosives?

By the second day, however, my luck shifted.

A group of rugged men approached my stall in the late afternoon.

Their leader, a towering man with a massive axe slung over his back, had a commanding presence.

Scars crisscrossed his weathered face, and his piercing eyes scanned my wares with cold precision.

"What do we have here?" he rumbled, his deep voice cutting through the market noise.

"Explosive potions," I said, keeping my tone steady despite the unease his gaze stirred in me. "Powerful and reliable. Perfect for anyone looking to make an impact."

His wiry companion snorted, crossing his arms. "Reliable, huh? Sounds like a scam. What proof do we have these things even work?"

"You don't," I admitted, meeting his eyes. "But I'm still here, aren't I? If I were selling duds, I'd be dead by now."

The leader chuckled, a sound that was more threatening than amused. "Fair enough. How much?"

"10 gold coins per potion," I replied.

The wiry man scoffed. "That's robbery! These little vials ain't worth half that!"

"Then go ahead and buy 'half that' from someone else," I shot back, keeping my voice calm. "And when your 'explosives' fizzle out, don't come crying to me."

The leader's expression darkened, and he leaned in close. "Listen, kid. We're paying 5 per potion, and you'll take it. Or else."

My heart pounded, but I held my ground. "If you're serious about needing explosives, you'll pay for quality. These potions aren't toys; they're weapons. 10 per vial, or you can try your luck elsewhere."

There was a tense pause before he finally grinned. "You've got guts. Fine, 100 gold for ten potions."

I nodded, feeling a rush of relief.

As the leader handed over the coins, he ordered two of his men to stay behind while he tested the goods.

Minutes later, the group returned, their satisfaction evident.

"These work," the leader said, tossing another pouch onto my stall. "We'll take everything you've got."

By evening, my stock was cleared out, and my coin pouch was heavy.

I didn't ask what they planned to do with the potions. Maybe they'd slay monsters. Maybe they'd spill innocent blood.

Whatever the case, I convinced myself it wasn't my concern. Survival had no room for morality.

After the sale, I packed up my stall, the weight of the gold in my satchel a reassuring reminder of the day's success.

The black market buzzed around me, a cacophony of bartering, murmurs, and the occasional sharp bark of laughter.