The Lawless City was not a place so much as a wound. It had grown from the cracks of collapsing nations, built where law could no longer root itself. On the surface it resembled a sprawling metropolis of neon lights, smog-stained towers, and markets that never closed. But its real structure was cultural, a lattice of unwritten rules and hidden customs that kept chaos from spilling into absolute anarchy.
People whispered about the untold rules as if they were holy scripture. To break them was to vanish.
First rule: Don't stare at collars. Slavery was rampant, but drawing attention to it marked you as naïve, sentimental, or worse—an easy target. Second: Don't cross guild paint. Every faction tagged walls, doors, and street corners with layered sigils or sprayed logos. Stepping inside a marked territory without permission was an invitation for knives. Third: Don't speak names above a whisper. Some names carried weight: gang lords, arena champions, syndicate bosses. To speak them casually was a challenge. Fourth: Never draw blood in a neutral bar. Violence elsewhere was expected—celebrated even—but certain establishments acted as lungs for the city. Cut one of those veins and everyone bled.
Money had three faces: sovereign credits, blood coins, and favors. Credits came from the outside world, a sterile currency most locals despised. Blood coins were minted by the ghouls, literally pressed with clot and soulprint residue. Favors were the true lifeblood: promises written, spoken, or carved into flesh. The entire city pulsed on the tension of debts.
Markets looked alive but carried undertones of ritual. You could buy food, weapons, drugs, or talismans—but there was etiquette. Haggling too hard suggested weakness; paying too fast implied ignorance. The proper rhythm was a slow dance of mockery, laughter, and veiled insults until both sides felt equally cheated. Only then was the transaction safe.
Entertainment revolved around cruelty. The Arena wasn't the only draw. Back-alley theaters staged mock trials where the audience served as judge, jury, and executioner. Gambling dens didn't bet on outcomes—they bet on how long someone would scream. Even music had a darker thread; musicians played knowing the wrong note could trigger a fight. Some of them sharpened strings into garrotes just in case.
And yet, despite the rot, there was a strange sense of order. The city's culture worked like a hive. Everyone carried their scars like credentials. Everyone played their part in the ritual of survival. Outsiders called it madness, but those who lived there knew it as balance. Every taboo was a tether; every unwritten law a compromise that allowed the city to keep breathing.
Above it all, the Azura Tower loomed—an unfinished skyscraper turned living myth. Nobody admitted to controlling it. Nobody admitted to entering it. Yet it cast its shadow across every deal struck and every throat cut. The closer one walked to it, the stranger the rules became. Words bent, promises snapped, and people vanished. Some claimed the tower ate them. Others said it offered a higher kind of slavery: chains invisible, yet absolute.
The Lawless City was a paradox. It killed weakness but demanded cooperation. It punished innocence but rewarded restraint. The culture wasn't crafted—it had evolved, a natural selection of cruelty and necessity. Every alley, every rule, every taboo was the city whispering the same truth: survive, or be consumed.
The street clattered with chains. Wooden wagons rolled slowly through the market lane, their iron-rimmed wheels squealing like animals in pain. Inside them, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, were men, women, and children—barefoot, gaunt, and silent. Their throats bore steel collars engraved with glowing resonance seals. The collars pulsed faintly, binding body and soul in unbreakable servitude.
Vendors barely looked up. Some muttered prayers. Others called out their wares louder to drown the sound of dragging chains. The wagons were common enough that the city treated them like weather. Nothing unusual, nothing to protest—just another current in the Lawless City's tide.
A boy caught Kai's eye. His face was bruised, lip split, collar too large for his neck. He clutched a chipped toy carved from bone, holding it with more care than his own body. The boy didn't blink. He only stared, blank and endless, as if daring someone to remember he existed.
Kai's chest tightened. He looked away. He couldn't stop the wagons. Couldn't stop the collars from digging into raw skin. Couldn't stop the traders from cracking their whips against the cages to make the slaves sit straighter. All he could do was step aside, shoes scraping against the stones, letting the procession pass.
The smell lingered long after—rust, sweat, and resignation. The crowd shifted back into motion, murmurs and bartering rising again as if nothing had happened. The wagons disappeared around a corner, swallowed by the city's endless appetite. Kai tightened his fists, but kept walking. Looking back was worse than looking away.
The alley was narrow, its walls slick with rain and smoke. Kai didn't notice the footsteps until the grip closed around his throat. A man twice his size slammed him against the cobblestones, knuckles like iron tightening around his neck. The world narrowed to choking black, the stench of unwashed skin, and the scrape of boots pinning him down.
Kai's hands clawed uselessly at the man's wrists. Spots danced in his vision. Breath refused him. Panic surged hot in his chest. The man grinned, teeth yellow, eyes lit with the thrill of dominance. His weight pressed harder. Kai felt his pulse flutter like a cornered animal.
His fingers brushed something cold at his belt—the bone knife. Instinct moved faster than thought. He yanked it free and, with a desperate thrust, drove it upward. The blade sank into flesh with a wet, cracking resistance, sliding between tendon and artery at the neck. Hot blood sprayed across his arm.
The man's grip loosened instantly. Shock widened his eyes, breath hissing through the wound as he staggered back, clutching at his throat. Kai rolled aside, gasping, coughing air into raw lungs. His whole body shook as he pressed his hands over the wound he had made, as if he could undo it.
"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, words tripping over themselves, frantic and broken. "I didn't—please—"
The man gargled, blood bubbling between his fingers. His knees gave way, collapsing against the bricks. Kai's apology tumbled uselessly into the alley's damp air, swallowed by the man's ragged choking.
He pushed the body back, pressing down harder, trying to stem the tide with trembling palms. His heart raced, guilt gnawing through the adrenaline. It hadn't been a choice—it had been survival. But that didn't silence the echo of his own words, the desperate apology spilling out again and again.
The alley was silent except for the man's slowing breaths. Kai sat frozen, knife still slick in his hand, breath sharp and uneven. The Lawless City didn't forgive mistakes, but it demanded survival. Tonight, it had demanded blood. And Kai, despite himself, had given it.