The streets of the Upper District were cleaner than the slums, but they were just as oppressive.
Here, the smog didn't smell like sewage; it smelled like ozone and burning mana. Patrols of Iron Golems marched in perfect synchronisation, their heavy metal feet clanking against the brass-plated roads.
Hephaestus led them through the shadows of the massive ventilation ducts, moving with a familiarity that spoke of a childhood spent sneaking out of the palace.
Suddenly, the Prince stopped.
He turned around, his grease-stained face illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby mana lamp.
He held a heavy wrench in his hand, gripping it tight.
"Stop," Hephaestus said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was hard.
Damien paused, his new Will Armament humming silently under his skin. "We don't have time for sightseeing, Prince."
"I'm not sightseeing," Hephaestus took a step forward, looking up at the much taller human.
"I am clarifying something."
