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The neon signs of the Old Market didn’t just flicker; they buzzed like dying insects. Elias pulled his collar up, shielding his face from the oily mist that passed for rain in the Lower Sector. He wasn’t here for the synthetic meats or the pirated neuro-chips. He was here for the "Ghost Grain."

"The gold-grade," Elias said, sliding a credit-chip across the damp wood. "Pure Himalayan extraction. No lab-grown fillers." buy cordyceps

He found the stall tucked between a scrap metal dealer and a silent fortune teller. It was unmarked, save for a small, hand-drawn symbol of a sprouting stalk. "You have the Cordyceps?" Elias whispered. The neon signs of the Old Market didn’t