The evening sky over Thural had turned a deep, smoky gray.
Cold air and thin fog cloaked the narrow alleys that separated the upper world—the one of light and law—from the underworld whispered in code and false names.
Jainal walked toward the Lower Market, a place even the city's maps dared not chart.
He passed through the back alleys behind the scrap market, descending an old stone staircase hidden behind an abandoned warehouse.
The smell of rusted metal, cheap wine, and stale magic filled his lungs.
> "Mark of Wounds," he murmured.
"People who know things... because they've lost something."
---
The Lower Market wasn't crowded.
But every step Jainal took drew wary eyes.
Beneath flickering hanging crystal lights, the merchants sat in silence.
None offered goods.
Some sold machine fragments, others simply stared at candle flames—wordless and hollow.
He approached a small stall selling old threads and scraps of tattered robes.
Behind the cloth sat a woman, around forty, her arms hidden beneath a black wrap.
> "I seek those who wear their wounds—not for pity, but for truth."
The phrase was spoken flatly—exactly as Rykel had whispered it before they parted ways.
The woman stared sharply at him.
Then, wordlessly, she lifted the edge of her merchandise cloth, revealing her left arm.
It was disfigured—burned by a failed magic rune, forming a symbol that resembled an inverted Ψ.
> "Mark of Wounds," she whispered.
"What are you searching for beneath the ashes of war, Adventurer?"
---
They moved to a backroom through a narrow hallway lined with hand-written notes and blurred drawings of children.
Some with glowing eyes.
Some with symbols etched into their skin.
All... broken.
All victims.
> "We were once part of a relief program," the woman said—introducing herself as Sira.
"We believed the experiments were meant to heal. But they... planted wounds and called them power."
She handed Jainal a small scroll of documents:
An outline of the 'Δ-Lambda' experiment,
A list of missing test subjects,
And a blurred photo of a dark-eyed, messy-haired boy—strikingly similar to the child now under Jainal's protection.
Jainal clenched the papers tightly.
> "This is it..."
---
But Sira stopped him.
> "There's something you must understand.
Those who survived the experiments... aren't just victims.
They changed.
Some… broke from the inside.
Their souls shattered, releasing uncontrollable energy."
She looked Jainal straight in the eye.
> "If the child shows signs… you must be ready to choose."
> "I won't choose between saving or killing," Jainal replied.
"I'll find a third path."
Sira bowed her head—not in submission, but in respect.
> "Then you're different from us. But be careful...
Those who call themselves 'Wolves' came here too.
Three weeks ago.
They were asking about surviving children."
---
Before Jainal left, Sira gave him one final object: a small metal medallion marked with the number 03 and a λ symbol at the center.
>"If you truly want to know where this all began… that medallion is the key to a door that was buried."
"A door to where?"
"To a place darker than war itself.
Where they forged weapons... from souls."