I stepped back out into the chaotic roar of the Merchant's plaza, the "spare" magun heavy in my holster, my old, prized pistols gone. The first thing I did when I was clear of the cafe's doorway was draw the weapon, just to feel it.
It was heavier than my old maguns. More solid. The design was blocky, functional, and completely devoid of any aesthetic flair. It was a tool, nothing more. I channeled a small amount of my energy into it, and a low, stable hum resonated from its core, far more potent than the high-pitched whine my old guns produced. A small, blue energy light glowed at the back, steady and strong.
Lunet had called it a simple, standard-issue weapon. And it felt ten times more powerful than the rarest drop I had spent months grinding for. The bitter truth settled in: my most prized possessions, my connection to my old life, had been, in fact, trash.
The second thing I noticed was the glares. They hadn't stopped. In fact, they were worse. I had walked into a private, empty cafe with Lunet in a bikini and walked out again half an hour later. The collective imagination of the plaza was no doubt running wild, and the conclusions they were drawing were all being directed at me in the form of pure, unfiltered hatred. I felt like the city's most-hated man.
But I wasn't Lunet's "darling," and I wasn't a public spectacle. I was Krauss's scout. And I had a job to do.
I pulled the new black-and-gold cloak tighter around my shoulders, a silent shield against the stares. I forced myself to ignore the whispers, the pointed fingers, and the burning jealousy. I reactivated my data-slate and got back to work.
It took another hour to finish my survey of Sector Gamma. The place was a structural nightmare, but not in a way that threatened collapse. It was a chaotic mess of unauthorized additions, stalls built on top of other stalls, banners and signs hung from load-bearing beams, and mysterious, bubbling stains from alchemical spills that seemed to be slowly corroding the mortar between the stones. It was a district that was alive, and it was slowly eating itself. I logged dozens of minor infractions and potential hazards that would probably make Fen's eye twitch for a week.
With Sector Gamma finally completed, I stood at a crossroads, my map in hand. Three sectors down. Three sectors that, for all their differences, felt like part of a cohesive whole.
Now, only one remained.
My gaze turned west, toward the final, unnamed spoke of the city's wheel. 'Neutral Sector.' My mind was still reeling from Lunet's revelations—Krauss's secret request, the other Founders' distrust, the fact that my old weapons were toys. I felt like a pawn in a game I couldn't see, and my curiosity, a new, sharp-edged tool I was beginning to embrace, was pulling me toward the one place on the map that didn't make sense.
The walk itself was a transition. As I left the manic, colorful energy of the Merchant district, the city's architecture began to... devolve. The grand, white stone of the Admin sector was gone. The rugged, fortified look of the Adventurers was nowhere to be seen. The buildings here became simpler, more functional, and then, slowly, more desperate.
I reached the "border," though there was no gate. It was just an archway where the well-maintained stone road ended and a new, more fractured kind of street began. The difference was night and day.
The buildings in the Neutral Sector were not designed. They were assembled. They were a haphazard collection of mismatched parts—sheets of corrugated metal, salvaged stone from ruins, planks of unpainted, splintered wood. It was a patchwork city, a scar on the otherwise perfect face of Krauss's creation. It wasn't a slum in the traditional sense; there was no filth or garbage in the streets. Like all of the Builder's city, it was clean. But it was poor. A deep, structural poverty that was evident in every mismatched roof and every unpainted door.
The people were the same. The bustling crowds were gone. Here, people lingered. They sat in doorways, huddled in small, quiet groups, their clothes patched and faded. The cheerful, lively energy of the rest of the city was absent, replaced by a dull, weary stillness.
And the moment I stepped past the archway, I felt it. The stares.
These weren't the hot, jealous glares of the merchants. These were cold. These were hollow. These were the unwelcoming, suspicious stares of a people who had been forgotten. My new, fine cloak felt obscenely loud here. My Gold-rank ID card, hidden in my pocket, suddenly felt like a mark of shame. I was an outsider, a "faction man," a representative of the pristine, wealthy city that had clearly left them behind.
My gut, the same instinct that had screamed at me in the wasteland, was telling me to turn around. This place felt like a tinderbox, and I was a walking spark.
But I had a job to do.
I pushed the feeling down, pulling out my data-slate and trying to look as professional and non-threatening as possible. 'Inspect the city. Report on structural integrity.' My mission was clear.
I began to walk, my footsteps echoing too loudly on the uneven, cracked pavement. I passed a building whose entire second floor was sagging, the main support beam visibly splintered. I made a note. I passed a rusted water main that was leaking a slow, steady stream onto the street. I made another note. The problems here weren't minor. They were critical. This entire sector was being neglected, left to slowly fall apart.
Why? Why was it called "Neutral"? Did it mean no faction held dominion here? No Administrator collected taxes, no Adventurer patrolled the streets, no Merchant set up shop? Was this where the people who didn't fit into the system ended up?
I was so lost in my thoughts, so focused on the profound, unsettling mystery of this forgotten district, that I almost missed it.
It wasn't a loud noise. It was a scuffle. A small, terrified yelp from a narrow alleyway up ahead, followed by a low, guttural laugh.
I stopped. My hand, now resting on the unfamiliar, solid grip of the spare magun, tightened. I moved toward the mouth of the alley, my new role as a non-threatening inspector vanishing, replaced by the older, harder instincts I had learned in the wasteland.
I looked inside.
My blood ran cold. A little girl, no older than seven or eight, her clothes ragged, was pressed back against a wall of rusted corrugated metal. Cornering her were three large, rough-looking men. Their expressions were not just unfriendly; they were predatory. They hadn't seen me yet, their attention entirely focused on their terrified, helpless prey.