Date: January 1, 2018 | Time: 9:02 PM
Location: Sylvaris – The Lower District (The Under-Spire)
Perspective: Kaiser
The night air in Sylvaris had a bite to it, a sharp, cold that turned my breath into plumes of silver mist.
Despite the freeze, the city didn't feel dead. Beneath the cobblestones, the ancient brass piping system hissed with thermal energy, a marvel of magical engineering that kept the main thoroughfares from icing over.
I walked past a group of soot-stained golems-smiths closing up shop, their mechanical joints clicking in the silence. Further down, weary mages in moth-eaten robes headed toward the tavern row, their staves glowing with dim, flickering light
It was a beautiful, gritty tapestry of a world that didn't stop for anyone.
Elfie is gone. I know this. I saw the light leave her eyes.
It's a fixed point in my memory, an unchangeable fact. But that girl… she was the only person I've ever seen with that specific shade of pink hair and those piercing pink eyes. The moment our eyes locked, she didn't just look surprised; she looked terrified. She bolted into the crowd.
In that split second, my mind simply stopped thinking, and I left Celia behind without a word. I'll have to deal with the fallout of that later—apologize, take her out, or whatever it takes to calm her possessive streak.
But right now, this ghost takes priority.
I realized I had crossed the invisible boundary. The architecture began to shift. The polished white stone of the Upper District gave way to damp, moss-covered brick and timber. The light from the mana-lamps grew dimmer, replaced by the flickering orange of chemical torches.
I was in the Lower District.
Sylvaris is a masterpiece of class-based segregation.
The Upper District is Sylvia's playground—orderly, noble, and governed by the Guild's iron-clad laws. But down here? Authority is an urban legend.
The nobles don't care what happens in the shadows as long as the tax revenue keeps flowing upward. It's the city's digestive tract: dark, messy, and where all the illegal businesses are processed.
I kept my hood up, my eyes scanning the narrow alleys. The scent of ozone and cheap tobacco filled the air. This was the hub of the "unfiltered" economy.
I walked past a heavily barred storefront where a group of shackled demi-humans sat in silence—a slave-trading hub operating in broad daylight. I didn't stop. I couldn't save everyone.
My eyes drifted to the other 'businesses' thriving in the rot:
Forbidden Alchemical Distilleries, churning out unregulated combat stimulants.
Underground Mana-Core Laundering, where stolen artifacts were stripped of their magical signatures.
Black Market Relic Modification, for those who wanted their weapons to do things the Guild wouldn't approve of.
Chemical-Essence Trafficking, a dangerous trade in substances that could rot a man's soul for a high.
Illegal Beast-Part Poaching, crates of monster organs waiting for the highest bidder.
Clandestine Information Brokering, where secrets were worth more than gold.
I turned into a particularly narrow corridor, I reached for my perception, trying to filter out the noise of the district, when three figures stepped out from the darkness ahead of me.
They weren't common thugs. They moved with a synchronized discipline that suggested military training—or at least, high-level mercenary work.
The one in the center, a man with a jagged scar running across his throat, stepped into the light of a flickering torch.
"You're a long way from the Gilded Row, pretty boy," he rasped, his hand resting on the hilt of a notched shortsword.
"The Boss wants a word. Follow us, and maybe you'll leave this district with all your limbs attached."
I stopped, my hands sliding into my pockets.
I really don't have time for the 'local thugs.'
I looked up, letting my eyes catch the torchlight. My aura shifted, turning the air around us heavy and stagnant, like the moment before a lightning strike.
"I'll give you three seconds to reconsider your choices,"
"One.."
"Two..." My fingers twitching inside my pockets.
The one on the left—a skinny rat of a man with a twitchy nose—
"AHAHAHHA…. Two? Ooh, I'm shivering! Look at this guy, Jax. He's got his hands in his pockets like he's hiding a secret weapon, but we all know the truth. He doesn't even have a coin pouch. Probably keeping his hands in there to make sure his fingers don't fall off from poverty."
"You're more broke than the beggars huddling by the sewer grates, kid."
The giant to his right, a man who looked like he'd been built out of spare parts, stepped forward, his shadow swallowing me whole. "No sword. No dagger. Not even a blunt stick. You're making threats while unarmed in a three-on-one? That's not 'courage,' pretty boy."
The leader, Jax—the one with the scarred throat—shook his head with mock pity.
"3 seconds? You didn't even get to three before Pip and Boris here started feeling sorry for you. You're a long way from home, and your 'threat' just told me you've watched too many stage plays."
Are these guys thugs or did the local circus have a fire sale? I didn't realize the Under-Spire came with complimentary stand-up comedians.
Pip, Boris, and Jax. A rat, a brick, and a scar. I could dismantle their nervous systems before Pip finishes his next wheeze, but... if their 'Boss' sent them, they might be the shortcut I need to find that pink-haired ghost.
I let my shoulders slump, my eyes widening with a sudden, frantic gloss of terror. I even let my knees knock together a bit for the aesthetic.
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!" I stammered, my voice high pitched.
"I—I was just... that was a joke! I saw it in a book once! Please don't hurt me!"
Jax blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden 180-degree shift in my personality.
"What the hell? Where'd that tough talk go?"
"I have a condition!" I cried out, throwing my hands up in the air. "I act out when I'm nervous! It's a defense mechanism! My friends call it 'Aggressive Delusion'!"
Boris snorted, grabbing me by the shoulder and hauling me forward. "Delusional is right. Keep moving, kid. The Boss wants to see if your organs are worth more than your outfit. Though, looking at you, I doubt your liver is even worth a silver."
"My organs?!" I shrieked, leaning into the act so hard I almost felt bad for them.
"You can't sell those! I have diseases! Terrible, rare, magical diseases! My blood is basically swamp water! If you cut me open, the smell alone would devalue this entire district!"
Pip grinned, showing off a row of yellowed teeth. "Don't worry, Disease. We'll feed you some high-grade medicine first, let it marinate, and then we'll cut you. We like to provide a quality product."
"Disease?" I echoed, looking offended. "My name is... WinkleTwinkle! And I demand to be treated with respect and dignity!"
Boris stopped dead, staring at me with a look of utter disbelief.
"WinkleTwinkle? Are you serious? What kind of parent hates their kid enough to name them after a nursery rhyme and a skin condition?"
"It's a family name!" I snapped, looking like I was on the verge of tears.
"Ahahahah…"
Jax shoved me forward again, but as his hand landed on my shoulder, his grip tightened.
His eyes narrowed, the mockery in them flickering for a split second. He felt it. Beneath the expensive fabric of my coat and my pathetic "scared kid" act.
"Hey," Jax muttered, his voice dropping the playful tone. "Why the hell are your shoulders so muscular for a 'broke traveler'?"
Sharp. Too sharp for a common thug. If he keeps feeling around, he's going to realize my physique doesn't match my act.
"Construction!" I blurted out, wiping my nose with my sleeve.
"I spent 3 years hauling bricks for the new guild hall! It's all manual labor, no magic! I'm built for lifting heavy rocks, not fighting scary thugs!"
Jax stared at me for a long moment, his suspicion warring with the sheer stupidity of my "WinkleTwinkle" persona.
Finally, he scoffed, pushing me toward a dilapidated storefront at the end of the alley.
"Whatever. If you can haul bricks, you can haul crates for the Boss. Move."
The shop didn't have a sign. It didn't need one. The windows were boarded up with reinforced iron, and the door was a massive slab of dark oak etched with anti-perception runes. It looked less like a store and more like a bunker designed to survive an apocalypse. The scent of old parchment, cold iron, and something metallic—blood?—drifted through the cracks.
"We're here," Jax grunted, knocking a specific rhythm against the oak. "Welcome to the Boss's office, WinkleTwinkle. Try not to piss yourself on the rug."
The door groaned open, revealing an interior, racks of notched, jagged armor lined the walls, some still bearing the scorch marks of high-level fire magic. On the glass counters, artifacts pulsed with a sickly, light—cracked dragon scales, mana-conducting needles, and jars of preserved monster eyes that seemed to track my movement.
It's an impressive collection of evidence. I could probably get this guy 5 consecutive life sentences just based on the contraband in the front window. The architecture here is clever, though; the walls are reinforced with lead and mana-dampening mesh.
No wonder the Guild's detection spells never flag this place.
At the far end of the room, sitting behind a desk made of polished, blackened oak, was the Boss…
He looked to be in his mid-forties, with sleek black hair combed back and eyes the color of cold amber. He wore a tailored silk vest over a rough, blood-stained linen shirt, the outfit of a man who enjoyed the profits of violence but didn't want to get his hands dirty anymore.
He looked up, a sharp, predatory smirk cutting across his face.
"Boss," Jax said, shoving me forward so I stumbled over a pile of rusted chainmail.
"Found this small fry wandering the alleys. Claims his name is 'WinkleTwinkle' and he's a construction worker. He's got the muscle for it, but he's clearly lost his way. Thought we could put him to use."
The Boss leaned back, tapping a gold ring against the desk. "A construction worker with expensive tastes in coats? Good find, Jax. He looks like a high-quality victim. Or a very sturdy mule."
"Wait! Where am I?" I cried out. I clutched the lapels of my coat, looking around the room with wide, terrified eyes.
"What are you going to do to me? I just wanted to find a tavern! Is this a museum? Why are those eyes looking at me?!"
The Boss stood up, his presence filling the cramped space. He was tall, moving with the deceptive grace of a retired assassin.
"My name is Malakor, boy. And this 'museum' is the last place many people ever see. You have two choices:"
"1. Work under me and be granted a second, albeit miserable, chance at life, or.."
"2. Be sold piece by piece to the highest bidder in the pits. Which do you prefer?"
"Hihehehh…."
I let out a high-pitched, hysterical laugh, clutching my head. "Work? Sold? But... but this is illegal! You'll be caught! The Guild... the Knights of Celestine! They'll come here and—and they'll give you a very stern talking to! You can't just sell people! There are laws! Regulations! Taxes!"
I deserve an award for this. I really do. The 'stern talking to' line was a masterstroke of naive stupidity. Malakor looks like he's actually starting to lose brain cells just by listening to me.
Malakor's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes grew cold. "Laws are for the people in the Upper District who can afford the illusion of safety. Here, I am the law. I trade in human organs, trafficking, and labor. It doesn't matter if you're human, elf, or beast-kin; as long as you're workable, you have a price tag."
He gestured to the room around him. "This shop deals in rare materials, artifacts, and gear. I loan them to desperate adventurers and major foundations for a price they can never truly pay back. And if you're thinking about running..."
He leaned over the desk, his voice dropping to a low, intimidating rumble.
"Down beneath this floor, 8 more of my men are waiting. They're D-rank and higher—true killers who do my bidding and live a very comfortable life on the blood of others. They're currently playing a game of cards, and the loser usually gets to practice their 'interrogation' skills on whoever I send down."
He folded his arms, looking me up and down like a piece of livestock.
"So, what's your choice, Twink? Do you want to carry crates, or do you want to see how much your kidneys are worth on the black market?"
D-rank? Only 8?
My eyes drifted away from Malakor's amber gaze, scanning the chaotic hoard of the shop. I was looking for a weapon, a clue, anything—and then I saw it.
On a velvet-lined tray to my right, nestled among a dozen gaudy, worthless trinkets, sat a ring that made me breathless.
"Sea of the Heart…" I muttered.
It's hers.
There is no mistaking that craftsmanship. It's a Soulpack ring—Elfie's ring. The centerpiece is a shimmering Pink Heart, glowing with a soft, rhythmic light as if it were still beating. Encircling it, like a protective, turbulent tide, is a halo of Deep Cobalt Blue.
My color. The blue swirls and flows, a living sea guarding the heart at its center, while the pink core provides the energy that keeps the sea moving. It's the physical manifestation of the promise.
Malakor's eyebrows shot up, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. "Sea of the Heart? That's a damn fine name for it, Twink. I've been calling it 'The Pink Swirl,' but yours has a bit more… royalty to it. A rare find, truly."
I looked up at him, my eyes wide and watery. "Where… where did you get something so beautiful? I've never seen a stone move like that! Is it magic? Please, sir, tell me!"
Malakor laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Why the sudden interest in jewelry? Thinking of proposing to a rock? But fine, I'll indulge you since you seem so captivated by the shiny things."
He glanced over at Jax. "Jax here secured it for a fair loan of 10 silvers. Quite the negotiator, isn't he?"
I turned to Jax, clasping my hands together as if I were praising a saint. "Oh, Jax! You have such an eye for beauty! Ten silvers? That's… that's practically a gift! You must be a hero of the people!"
Boris let out a loud, mocking snort. "Look at him, Pip. The construction worker is a jewelry fan. What's next, Winkle? You gonna ask for a matching necklace? You're weirder than goblins."
"Leave him be," Pip chuckled, leaning against a rack of cursed daggers. "He's just admiring the perks of the trade. Maybe if you're a good boy, the Boss will let you polish it once a week."
"I'll be the best boy!" I chirped, then looked back at Malakor with a desperate intensity.
"I promise! I'll give my whole life to you, Boss! I'll haul crates, I'll clean the floors, I'll even eat the scraps! Just… please, tell me more about it. My curiosity is the only thing keeping me from fainting right now!"
Malakor smirked, clearly enjoying the sight of a grown man groveling. "Indulge him, Jax. Tell WinkleTwinkle about the loan."
Jax crossed his arms, leaning back with a smug grin. "Wasn't much of a story. I was doing a sweep in the Upper District this afternoon. Ran into this pink-haired girl—called herself 'Eve' or something. She was a mess. Panicked, begging people for silvers. Said it was an emergency, that someone's life was at stake. She was even offering to 'volunteer' herself for labor just to get the coin."
An emergency? Someone's life? Who was she trying to save? My grip on the counter tightened, the wood groaning almost imperceptibly under my palm.
"She was wearing that ring," Jax continued, his voice dripping with arrogance.
"I told her I'd give her the 10 silvers, but I wanted the ring as collateral. She looked like I'd asked for her literal heart. Hesitated for nearly 10 minutes, crying about how it was 'all she had left.' But in the end, the 'emergency' won out."
"So she'd rather give her life and her body than a piece of metal?" Boris laughed, shaking his head.
"Women are mental. What's so special about a ring that doesn't even have a mana-buff?"
"She said she'd pay it back," Jax added, checking his notched sword.
"Claimed it was a loan and she'd come by today to reclaim it. Well, it's 9 PM. If she can't find this hole in the wall, the ring is ours. 10 silvers for a stone like that? I'm a genius."
I looked at Jax.
"Did you touch her?" I asked. My voice was still high, still 'scared,' but there was a razor-thin edge.
Jax stared back at me, his eyes roaming over my face with a disgusting, predatory glint.
"She was very pretty, I can't lie. Skin like porcelain, eyes like those flowers in the plaza. I didn't touch her then… but if she shows up here tonight with no money?"
"Maybe I should. A girl that desperate is usually very… accommodating."
You shouldn't have said that.You shouldn't have even thought it. Now, the only choice left for you is whether you want to be buried or chopped into pieces.
Just then, the heavy oak door creaked open. The cold night air rushed in, and my eyes snapped toward the entrance.
Pink hair.
Pink eyes, wide with exhaustion and fear.
Eve stepped into the den of thieves, her gaze landing on the ring on the table, and then, finally, on me.