Polyluminescent Undulating Infusion (Black) glows in the palm like a captured night sky, a small glass capsule wrapped in a lacquered, obsidian casing. Inside, a ribbon of color coils and uncoils with a quiet, living rhythm, shifting from emerald to violet to cobalt as if a liquid aurora is bottled just for the wearer. The surface is cool and smooth, cool enough that it feels almost mineral, yet it hums with a soft pulse that you can trace with your fingertip. It’s the kind of thing you might cradle in a quiet moment, listening to the tiny whisper of runes etched around the cap, listening to the colors move as if they are listening back. Lore has it that the Black version carries a fragment of a long-dead eclipse, a relic torn from a blackened star and tempered by a guild of night-woven smiths. Those who handled it tell stories of corridors where light answers a call, and armor coated with this infusion seems to breathe, a shimmer that flares whenever danger threads through the air. It is not simply a trinket for the shelf; it’s a hinge between memory and moment, a tangible reminder that even the most ordinary armor can carry a remembered storm. In practical terms, the infusion slots into a piece of armor, waking up a modest, persistent utility that players learn to rely on when the road grows lonely and the fight stretches long. The Black Polyluminescent Undulating Infusion is valued for the aura it lends—an ever-shifting glow that mirrors your pace and posture in combat, a subtle indicator of timing and rhythm. When you dodge, the colors brighten and ripple along the seam of your breastplate; when you stand firm, the light steadies, as if steadiness itself has learned to glow. It’s not merely cosmetic—though it is certainly that—because in the right hands the infusion seems to nudge your awareness, turning the space around you a fraction more perceptive to the whispers of shield and blade. The market remembers those whispers, too. There are days when a carrier with a weathered grin will unfold a map, tracing routes between towns, whispering that a Black Polyluminescent Undulating Infusion (Black) has moved in the latest shipment. It’s not just rarity; it’s story and utility stitched together. Traders speak softly of demand cycling with festival crowds and treasuries rebuilding after long climbs through fractals. Prices drift like a measured tide, sometimes resting in the grasp of a patient buyer, other times sparking a flurry of bids as new legends are told about the glow. Saddlebag Exchange—that name you hear in the back stalls of markets and in the narrow lanes where couriers linger—appears as a quiet chorus in the narrative. It’s where a dealer might confirm the current going rate, where a collector might compare the Black version against other polychrome kin, where someone might decide to trade a tale for a shard of light. In the end, the infusion remains more than metal and glass; it’s a passage, a small beacon that threads through a life spent chasing dusk and dawn, a reminder that color—even in black—can still insist on meaning.