The night pressed down on the vaulted ceiling of the underground city like slag dumped on a corpse—heavy, suffocating, and impossible to ignore.
Far above, on the city's highest tier, a counterfeit sky glittered between towers—ten thousand crystal lamps burning with sterile brilliance, a parody of stars for those who'd never seen the real thing. Outside the elven consortium halls, lacquered carriages and levitating palanquins slid past in perfect order, their gilded sigils catching light like predators flashing their teeth.
Inside, perfume drowned out air itself, expensive flowers fighting with incense, goblets clinked in an endless rhythm beneath shrill laughter and hollow toasts. On the massive screen dominating the central square, the broadcast rolled in a voice smooth enough to grease gears:
"The exchange climbs for the seventh consecutive day. Rockcrown Real Estate rises another twelve percent. The 'Eternal Prosperity Fund' opens a new subscription round…"
The words slithered into ears like opium smoke, promising eternity, promising paradise. A paradise, of course, reserved for the bastards drinking upstairs.
Two levels down, the glow curdled into industrial haze. In the dwarven worksites, hammer and piston screamed without pause, each strike a reminder that metal could suffer too. Sulfur and hot ore stung the throat until every breath felt like licking rust. Beyond rust-streaked fences, orcs queued for day labor, sweat gleaming on their backs, their eyes hollowed out until nothing human—or orcish—remained.
And further down, deeper still, where the air grew sour and the lamps sputtered yellow, lay the Warrens. The true city. The one built on rot. Rust, sour liquor, spoiled meat, and counterfeit perfume blended into a smell thick enough to chew. Gas lamps guttered, their shadows crawling like vermin across damp walls.
This was Lingya's level.
Half-human, half-orc, entirely unwelcome. He leaned against a cracked wall, chewing on a stalk of drain-grass bitter enough to numb his tongue. The acrid taste was cheap medicine against hunger. His eyes, half-lidded, scanned the street—part boredom, part suspicion, all calculation.
And here came the show. A goblin counting coppers with all the paranoia of a banker with an ulcer. A frail human vendor shoved into the muck by two orcs built like barrels.
"The toll. Same as always," one growled.
Coins shook from the man's trembling hand, only to be slapped into the mud with contempt.
The stalk snapped between Lingya's teeth.
He stepped forward, quiet as smoke, scooped up the coins, pressed them back into the man's hand, and looked at the orcs. A flat look. Nothing fancy. Just flat enough to remind them that flat things can cut too.
Recognition sparked. One sneered, "The half-breed mongrel. What? You his keeper now?"
Lingya's smile was thin, sharp. "Leave."
His foot shifted, a blade whispered, and a copper coin pinned itself halfway into a wooden post, quivering.
The orcs blinked, realized bravery was overrated, and backed away cursing under their breath.
The vendor stammered gratitude. Lingya waved it off. Gratitude bought nothing down here but another kick in the teeth.
At the street's end, a cracked screen coughed to life. A banquet. An elven councilor raising a flute, lips wet with smugness. Laughter and applause trickled down from speakers, grotesque in its cheer.
"The market is sound! Confidence is all that is required! Fortune rewards the brave!"
The crowd's reply was bitter laughter. "Rewards your kind, you mean!" "I can't afford bread, you bastard!"
Lingya smirked. His father had swallowed that same lie. Confidence. Bubble. Boom. Grave. He'd seen it before.
A wet cough dragged his attention.
A bundle of rags tugged at his trouser leg. Inside the grime, a hand. Inside the hand, a badge—pitted copper, a dead cat's-eye stone at its heart.
"Yours," the beggar rasped. Voice like gravel in a tin bucket.
Lingya should've walked. He wanted to. But the man's eyes burned too bright for a corpse. Against his better judgment, Lingya took it.
The badge seared his palm. His vision flickered. Words bled across the air:
[Underground City Management Log: District Security Rating – 27 (Deteriorating)]
He snapped his head up. The beggar was gone. No footprints. No sound. Just gone.
"Great," Lingya muttered. "Now I'm hallucinating bureaucracy."
He shoved the thing into his coat and kept walking. The black market pulsed ahead—neon stuttering half-words, colors without meaning. Drunks howled. Prostitutes beckoned. Contraband passed hand to hand like communion.
He spat the shredded stalk aside as city guards marched past in mismatched armor buffed to a cheap shine. The dwarf officer's pipe jutted from his teeth, his orc subordinates clinking spears as they squeezed a shopkeeper.
"Fee. Council jurisdiction. No coin, no protection."
"I paid last week—"
Crack. The pipe split against his skull. Blood. Silence.
The crowd flinched in unison—cowards in chorus.
Lingya's mouth tightened. This wasn't law. Just another gang. The only difference was the receipts.
The broadcast screen sparked again. Elven banker, marble floors gleaming. "A golden age of wealth is upon us!"
Golden age. Lingya barked a humorless laugh. His father had believed that. Golden age. Wooden coffin. Same sentence.
A child's cry cut through. A girl crouched beside a smashed stall, clutching a rag doll. Fruit lay pulped under two elves' polished boots. Drunk, arrogant, silk cloaks brushing filth.
"Filth should know better than to block the street," one sneered, kicking fruit juice onto her dress.
Lingya moved. Kneeling, he gathered what fruit could be saved, pressed them into her arms. Her eyes, wet and wide, clung to him.
"Half-blood bastard," one elf spat. "Know your place. Move."
Lingya's gaze lifted. Quiet. Razor quiet. An apple cracked against the elf's nose with a wet crunch. The second reached for his jeweled dagger. Too late. Lingya twisted his wrist, and the elf's own blade kissed his throat.
The crowd froze.
"Elf blood," Lingya whispered, pressing steel just enough to nick skin, "turns the same color when it hits the gutter. Spoiler: red."
The sneers died. Coins hit the ground. The elves scrambled.
The girl's voice was a whisper. "Thank you, brother…"
Lingya ruffled her hair, pressed the coins into her hand. "Don't thank me. Grow teeth."
Around him, whispers. Admiration, doom, both. "That one's got guts." "That one's got a death wish."
The badge burned. Words flared again:
[Event Recorded: Civilian Aid – Security Rating +3. Current Rating: 30]
Lingya stiffened. Not a hallucination. The damn thing was keeping score.
He spat, muttered, "Fantastic. Now the city's running on ledgers too."
Later, the Bronze-Scale Casino stank of sweat and cheap luck. Lingya leaned in the shadows, chewing stalk, hired muscle for Pi Lu—the portly owner whose rings outnumbered his principles.
The doors slammed open. Batu—Mad Dog—scarred, smiling like a broken knife. His orc pack swaggered in, stinking of violence. Dice clattered to the floor.
"New tax. Pay up."
Pi Lu's grin was a nervous tic. "Batu, we have an arrangement—"
"Had." Batu's eyes crawled to the young barmaid, a half-elf frozen in terror. His hand reached.
Lingya's stalk snapped.
He crossed the room, clamped down on Batu's wrist. "The hand. Off."
Batu barked a laugh. "The mongrel thinks he's a hero."
Lingya's voice was low, dangerous. "Hero? No. I just hate watching dogs piss indoors." He twisted. Bone cracked. The girl fled.
"Kill him!" Batu roared.
Chaos. Lingya thrived in chaos. He became smoke—slipping between blows, breaking noses, using chairs, bottles, fists. He was stone—unyielding when it mattered.
Batu came with an iron bar. The clash numbed Lingya's arm, but he gave ground, luring him back. A sharp wrench. Steam screamed from pipes, scalding half the room. Thugs shrieked, flesh blistering.
Lingya surged forward, boot slamming Batu through a table. Splinters flew. Blade at his throat, Lingya's voice cut deeper than steel: "This street isn't yours. Remember that."
For the first time, fear cracked Batu's eyes. He spat curses, staggering back. "You're dead, mongrel! Dead!" And then he was gone, dragging his pack like beaten dogs.
The silence after was deafening.
Pi Lu mopped sweat. "Lingya… gods, they'll be back."
Lingya spat stalk onto the floor. "Then sharpen your knives or buy more steam. I'm not running a daycare."
Back outside, the badge pulsed, carving new words into his skull:
[Event Recorded: Hostile Repelled. Notoriety Increased. New Adversary: Mad Dog Gang]
Lingya groaned. "Wonderful. A fan club."
The street was dead. Coins scattered in mud, no one stooping to claim them. Steam and blood hung thick in the air.
A shuffle in the dark. Knife in hand, Lingya tensed.
The beggar again, staggering from the shadows, eyes unnervingly clear.
"It sees you," he rasped.
Lingya sneered. "I'm flattered. Who doesn't want a stalker?"
"Not me. The city." A skeletal finger jabbed his chest. "It knows you. And it will use you."
Lingya pulled the badge free. It glowed faintly, like a parasite pleased with its host. Script burned across his vision:
[Mission Updated: Sustain Security ≥30. Reward Pending.]
Lingya drew deep on his cigarette, exhaled curses with the smoke. "Damn it all."
The beggar's grin split wide. "Damnation's the only place left worth fighting for." And then he was gone again, like rot swallowed by shadow.
Lingya stood alone, the badge burning in his hand. Heavy. Binding. Alive.
Posters on a wall peeled and rotted, still promising "Eternal Prosperity Fund—Your Fortune Awaits!" The elf model's smile mocked him from the ruin.
Prosperity. A hollow joke. The higher the tower of lies, the heavier it falls. Always on the ones already crushed beneath it.
Dwarven hammers pounded in the distance. Gamblers wailed. The city trembled, restless as a beast in chains.
Lingya leaned against the cold wall, whispered to the dark: "You called it righteousness, father. But in this city, it's just another way to die pretty."
He looked up. The crystal lights of the upper tiers burned untouched, smug in their perfection.
The badge throbbed. An answer. A warning. A chain.
He flicked his cigarette into the muck, where it died with a hiss, and let the shadows take him back.
Far above, the false stars glittered, blind and oblivious.
But deep below, the storm was already awake.