The path to the furnace never changes, but it never gets any less suffocating.
On one side, thick pipes carry boiling steam. On the other, tangled cables drip black oil, staining the worn‑out floor.
The heat rises with every corner, and I'm not even close to the combustion sector yet.
Joon's waiting for me, leaning against the rail, a cheap cigarette between his fingers.
"Late again, Haesol?" he asks, smoke slipping from the corner of his mouth.
"Only if you're counting in wasted lives," I shoot back, tilting my head.
He laughs, a raspy sound that ends in a nasty cough.
Guy should've been dead ages ago, but he keeps showing up every day. Maybe it's stubbornness. Maybe it's too much anger to die.
On the way, we're joined by a couple more.
Amir—the usual Indian with dark circles under his eyes, probably from another sleepless night trying to get his daughter to rest.
And Wei, a skinny Chinese guy who always has a new story. Usually exaggerated. But it helps distract us from the hell waiting inside.
"You hear the news?" Wei starts, adjusting the sweaty bandana on his forehead. "They say some guy in Kageshiro ranked up to A in less than a month."
"Oh, sure," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Next thing you'll say, people hit S‑Rank just for breathing."
"I'm serious!" Wei insists. "Word is he took down an Executioner all by himself."
"And I say that's Seraphim propaganda to sell more Halos," I reply, grabbing the shovel by the furnace door. "They love filling our heads with fake hope."
Amir shakes his head, no humor in his eyes.
"It's not hope. It's bait. Keeps us chasing after a prize that was never meant for us."
We step inside.
The heat slams into me like a punch.
The air feels like a wall of fire. My skin screams before the work even starts.
The furnace towers above us, spitting out bluish flames. The roar is deafening, swallowing every word.
We begin feeding the fire.
Shovel after shovel, coal mixed with sacred ash crashes into the blaze, and every time we do, a wave of heat threatens to melt our bones.
Sweat drips. Clothes stick to skin.
No breaks.
Up above, on a suspended platform, the Hakudama supervisors watch.
Immaculate white cloaks, spotless.
One of them holds a clipboard. Another taps a silver cane against the railing every minute, a grating reminder we're being measured.
"Faster, Impures!" one of them shouts. "This city won't sustain itself!"
The voice drips with contempt, echoing across the sector.
The shovel slips in my sweaty grip.
I swallow the rage, forcing a deep breath.
I want to snap back. I want to spit in his smug face.
But I know better. I saw Joon nearly lose a hand once for talking back.
So I just grit my teeth and keep moving.
Our so‑called break—ten miserable minutes—finds us slumped by a cold pipe.
Amir pulls out a dented canteen, offering it to me. The water tastes like metal, but it's better than nothing.
"One day, my daughter won't need this," he says, staring at nothing. "One day, I'll give her a life up there."
I almost laugh, but I hold it in. Amir believes.
And I won't crush the one thing keeping him standing.
Wei, though, just sighs.
"And when you make it, Amir, you'll forget us. Just like the rest. You'll become another Hero, looking down and pretending you never breathed this smoke."
"Don't say that," Joon cuts in, his tone sharp. "He's not like that."
I stay silent. Because deep down, I know Wei's right.
Heroes of Liberation.
The name makes me sick.
Not because I don't believe they exist.
But because to get there, you've gotta sell your soul.
Climbing the System? Sounds easy on a pamphlet.
In reality, Halos cost more than we could ever dream of saving.
And when a Kegaremono shows up with one, it's because someone paid the price for him—and always collects afterward.
And if, by some miracle, one of us climbs without a sponsor?
They never come back. Never look down.
First lesson they learn: forget they were ever like us.
That betrayal—that's the part that burns the most.
"Hey, Haesol," Wei nudges my shoulder. "You ever think of buying a Halo?"
I let out a short laugh.
"With what? Five Hokens and a bag of rice?"
He presses.
"C'mon. What if one day—"
"What if one day?" I cut him off, sharp. "Wei, by the time I wait for that day, Ukishiro'll already be falling out of the sky—and dragging me with it."
He lowers his head.
The taste in my mouth goes bitter, but I don't take it back.
The shift drags on.
More shovels. More sweat. More barking orders from above.
One of the Hakudama points right at me.
"You there, Kegaremono! Faster!"
I throw the coal in hard, a smirk tugging at my lips.
Not because I want to.
Because nothing pisses off their kind more than an Impure smiling.
When the final whistle blows, my legs are jelly.
Amir rushes off—says he needs to see his daughter.
Joon lights another cigarette, coughing like his soul's escaping with the smoke.
Wei just stares at his filthy hands, silent.
Twelve Hokens.
That's my pay.
Half's gone tomorrow, straight to Takemura, for rice and soup that'll keep me breathing.
Nothing left. There's never anything left.
On the way back, I pass Alaric's mural again.
That same golden smile beams down, fake as ever.
"Thanks for the peace, huh, Hero?" I mutter, spitting on the ground.
Peace.
This is peace?
Breaking our backs while a handful above sip imported wine and preach about morality?
If being a Hero means living a lie, maybe I'm better off rotting down here.
Or maybe I'm just lying to myself.
I spot Takemura closing his shop, still counting coins, that same look of disgust carved into his face.
I pause, watching him.
The Hokens in my pocket jingle—
lighter than they should feel.
And for the first time, I think:
What if I just took what's his?