The activation of their new fortress, their "Asylum," was a profound, earth-shaking moment.

The Unchained, a scattered, terrified mob of fugitives just days before, now stood in the heart of their own mobile mountain. A testament to their survival.

A symbol of their defiance. The system's warning, the declaration that they were now at war with the very god of their world, was not a threat. It was a badge of honor.

Edward stood on the command dais in the golem's massive head-cavity. His mangled hands were already beginning to knit themselves back together.

His monstrous vitality was slowly overcoming the grievous wounds. He could feel the fortress as if it were an extension of his own body. The Dungeon Core in its chest was a second, chaotic, mechanical heart. It beat in time with his own. He could feel the thrum of its power. The latent strength in its colossal, metallic limbs.

But a fortress was only as strong as the army that garrisoned it. He looked at his people. A motley, ragged crew of survivors. Their gear was a mismatched collection of scavenged parts and broken heirlooms. They had courage. They had loyalty. But they were desperately and dangerously underequipped for the war they had just declared.

He knew what he had to do. He had to arm them. He had to turn his rag-tag militia into a true fighting force.

He stood before the gathered members of The Unchained. In the golem's vast, cavernous main hangar. "We have a home now," he said. His voice was quiet.

But it carried to every corner. "But a home is not just a place to hide. It is a place to grow stronger. From this day forward, our strength will not be a matter of luck or scavenging. It will be a matter of merit."

He opened his own private access to the Hades Market. The familiar, black, star-strewn void appeared only in his vision. But he did something new. Using the nascent, system-altering abilities he had gained from the Architect's core, he was able to project a limited, read-only version of the Market. A large, holographic display for all to see.

The Unchained gasped. A collective sound of awe and disbelief. The Hades Market, a private, personal affair for every hunter, was now laid bare before them. A grand, communal armory.

"The old world's system is a cruel one," Edward explained. His voice was cold and steady. "It rewards the privileged and starves the desperate. Our system will be different. It will be fair."

He laid out his plan. From now on, all Soul Points gained by any member of The Unchained would be deposited into a central, communal faction bank. Which he alone would control. SP would become their currency. Their salary. Their measure of contribution.

In return, he, as their leader and their sole conduit to the Market, would act as their quartermaster. Any member could submit a request for gear. For a skill scroll. For an artifact. He would review the request. If it was deemed worthy and beneficial to the guild, he would purchase the item for them. Using the guild's collective funds.

It was a revolutionary, socialist system. A pocket of fairness in a world of brutal, capitalistic survival. A system built not on individual greed, but on communal strength.

It rewarded teamwork. It encouraged strategic thinking. And most importantly, it built a profound, unshakable sense of loyalty. Their survival was now intrinsically linked.

The implementation was immediate. The spoils from the Sunken Vault raid, the thousands of SP, were their starting capital.

The first requests came flooding in.

Fenris, who had shattered her own gauntlets in the final assault, was the first to be outfitted. Edward found them in the Rare section. A pair of custom-forged, reinforced gauntlets. Made of a dark, heavy metal called adamantite.

Designed not for holding a weapon, but for being a weapon. Their knuckles were studded with blunt, armor-piercing knobs. He purchased them. They materialized in his hands. He presented them to the massive wolf-girl.

She took them with a reverence he had never seen from her. She slid them on. A perfect fit. She clenched her fists. A low, joyful, and utterly terrifying growl rumbled in her chest. "Good," she grunted. Her highest form of praise. "More… punchy."

For Selene and her small, elite squad of assassins, he purchased a set of "Shadow-Weave Boots." They had the passive ability to muffle the sound of the wearer's footsteps. When they put them on, their already-silent movements became utterly nonexistent. They could now walk across a floor of broken glass without making a sound.

For the mages of the Conclave of Whispers, their chaotic, forbidden magic now an invaluable asset, he purchased a series of focusing crystals. Energy-channeling robes. Items that would help them control their volatile powers. Reducing the risk of catastrophic backfires.

And for himself, his beloved Shadowfang Dagger was no longer enough. He needed something to complement it. A weapon for his other hand. He purchased a new, faster shortsword. A blade called "Viper's Kiss." Its edge was coated in a magical, paralytic venom.

He now had a weapon for crippling and a weapon for killing. A perfect, dual-wielding synthesis of his predatory nature.

He spent days in this process. A one-man logistics department. A king who personally armed every one of his soldiers. He learned their strengths. Their weaknesses. Their fighting styles. He was not just a commander who gave orders from a distance. He was a provider. A strategist. A leader who was intimately invested in the growth of his people.

This act, more than any battle he had won, was his true rebellion. He was not just fighting the system. He was creating a better one. A small, defiant bubble of fairness and community in a world that had none.

One evening, after a long day of outfitting his new army, he was browsing the Market for a defensive artifact for Sarah. She was their only true non-combatant. A fragile, invaluable piece of their collective soul that had to be protected.

As he was scrolling through the endless lists of enchanted trinkets, his gaze snagged on a new tab. At the very bottom of the Market's interface. A tab that had not been there before. It was a dark, ominous, blood-red color. It seemed to pulse with a faint, malevolent, and deeply tempting light.

The text on the tab was simple. And it made his blood run cold with a mixture of fear and an irresistible, forbidden curiosity.

[The Abyssal Bazaar]

Beneath the name, in a smaller, sharper script, was the entry requirement. A key to a door he hadn't even known existed.

[Entry Requirement: 50% Soul Corruption.]

He immediately checked his own status. He had been so focused on his people, on their new fortress, he hadn't been paying attention to the slow, creeping toll of his own power. The assimilation of the Clockwork King. The constant, low-level use of his corrupted abilities. The lingering shard of Lord Alaric's soul. It had all added up.

[Soul Corruption: 35%]

He was closer than he thought. Far too close. The Abyssal Bazaar. A new, more exclusive, and undoubtedly more dangerous market. A place for the truly, deeply damned. A place that promised powers that were likely beyond his wildest, most terrifying imaginings.

The temptation was immediate. Overwhelming. Utterly profound. It was a siren song. A whisper of a power that could ensure the survival of his people. That could give him the strength to face the Inquisition. To face Daniel. To face the Core itself.

He knew, with a chilling certainty, that to reach the 50% threshold would be to sacrifice another, significant piece of his own humanity.

But as he looked out from his command dais, at the sight of his people, The Unchained, training with their new gear, their faces filled with a new, fierce, and hopeful resolve, he had to ask himself a terrible, pragmatic question.

What was a piece of his soul worth, when weighed against the survival of them all?

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