The chanting still echoed when they dragged me out of the pit.
Chains crackled against my skin, burning new welts into old scars, but I barely felt them. My chest still glowed faintly, the Core beating louder than my heart. The neon blood of my enemies clung to me, steaming in the tunnel's damp air.
The guards moved in silence, their helmets cracked, their visors flickering. I caught one of them staring at me through his fractured mask. Not with disgust. Not even with fear. Something else. Reverence, maybe. Or envy. He quickly looked away.
The roar of the arena faded behind us, but the word followed me like a curse. Exile. Exile. Exile. The crowd had turned my massacre into a prophecy.
The deeper we went, the darker it grew. Rusted pipes leaked, graffiti glowed, rats scurried with metal tails that sparked in the shadows. The guards' boots echoed like gunshots in the tunnels, until suddenly—
"Enough."
The voice came smooth, controlled, but heavy with authority.
The guards froze. From the side corridor, a figure stepped into the light. She didn't wear gang armor or corporate insignia. No, her weapon was sharper: elegance.
A woman, tall, hair black as oil and cut sharp, eyes glowing faint silver from cybernetic implants. Her coat was too clean for the underhive, lined with holo-thread that shimmered as she moved. A pistol hung at her side, compact but expensive, the kind you didn't buy—you inherited.
"Release him," she said.
The guards shifted. "Ma'am—"
She raised a single hand, and their words died. Reluctantly, they unlocked the chains. Sparks crackled one last time as the restraints fell away. My muscles ached, but freedom burned sweeter than pain.
The woman looked me over, her gaze slow, dissecting me like a machine might. Not fear, not disgust—calculation.
"So," she said, voice like glass. "The Vault Monster breathes. The Crimson Exile."
I didn't answer. My throat was raw, my body heavy. But my eyes locked on hers, and something inside me hissed that she was more dangerous than any thug I'd killed.
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile meant to disarm but sharpened like a blade.
"My name is Helena Veyra. Broker. Advocate. Survivor." Her words flowed smooth, practiced. "And unlike the cheering vermin in those stands, I don't see a beast. I see leverage."
Her silver eyes flickered, data streaming across them. "Do you know what year it is, Elias Drexler?"
The silence stretched. My lips parted, cracked. "…No."
"Two centuries since you went under," she said. "The world you knew is ash. Nations are fossils. Corporations are gods. This city—Prague Underhive—is their altar, and blood is its prayer."
Two centuries. The number hit harder than any chain. My stomach lurched, my mind clawing for something familiar, but there was nothing left to hold.
Helena stepped closer, her voice low, intimate. "You don't belong here. You're an error, a glitch. And the moment Aegis Europa decides you're a threat, VoidNet will erase you. No trial. No record. Just…gone."
The guards glanced at each other nervously, as if even saying the name VoidNet risked punishment.
I clenched my jaw. "Then why not let them try?"
That made her smile widen, but not warmly. Like a cat who'd just found a wounded bird.
"Because, Elias," she whispered, "errors can be profitable. And monsters can be kings—if they learn to play the game."
Her words coiled in my mind, half warning, half temptation.
Behind her, the flicker of a holo-screen caught my eye. It showed the arena feed, replaying my massacre. The odds beside my name had collapsed to zero. Across the screen, one word burned in crimson glitch-text: EXILE.
I didn't know if it was a curse or a crown. But I knew this: the world had seen me now.
And it would never look away.
The streets smelled of rain and rot.
They always did down here—where the water that fell from the towers above carried poison in its veins. It hissed as it struck the neon signs, eating holes in old metal. The underhive was a graveyard painted in glowing colors, a carnival of decay.
And tonight, my name was on every tongue.
"Exile."
I heard it whispered in alleys where broken lamps flickered. Sprayed across walls in fresh glow-paint, letters dripping like blood. Echoed in the drunken chants of scavengers who had streamed out of the arena, still drunk on the massacre they had witnessed.
Some said it like a prayer.
Some said it like a curse.
All of them said it like it belonged to me.
I walked through it, chains still dangling from my wrists, cloak of shadows clinging to me. Helena hadn't followed me out; she didn't need to. Her words were still in my head, coiling like smoke. Monsters can be kings.
But I wasn't sure I wanted a crown.
The first gang found me three blocks from the arena. Iron Syndicate colors, their armor patched with plates of stolen mech-scrap. They blocked the street with their bulk, neon tattoos crawling like snakes across their arms.
"You," their leader spat, voice half-synth. "Vault freak. The crowd might love you, but you bled our champion. That makes you meat."
His men revved their augments—sawblades unfolding from wrists, pistons pumping in steel thighs. The hiss of cheap hydraulics filled the air.
I should've run. But the Core inside me hummed, hot and restless, and my blade unfolded with a sound like tearing bone.
The fight was fast, brutal. Too fast. Their blades cut air; mine cut flesh. Neon blood painted the street, glowing in puddles. I felt their power the moment they died—augment parts clicking inside me, like my body was hungry, devouring scraps of them. It hurt, gods, it hurt, but when the pain subsided, I moved sharper, stronger.
When their leader fell, his jaw crushed beneath my blade, the rest didn't fight. They dropped their weapons. Some fled. The youngest of them knelt, eyes wide, whispering the word the crowd had given me:
"Exile."
I didn't tell him to rise.
By the time I left the street, more had gathered—scavengers, addicts, children with metal eyes too large for their faces. They followed at a distance, whispering, watching. Like rats chasing the shadow of a wolf.
One of them dared to step closer. A boy no older than sixteen, ribs showing through his torn jacket, a crude implant buzzing at his temple. His voice cracked, but it carried weight.
"You're… real." He licked dry lips. "You're the one from the arena. The one who broke them."
I stared at him. His hands shook, but his eyes didn't. Behind him, others leaned forward, desperate, hungry, waiting for something from me. A word. A command. A sign.
I gave them nothing. Only silence.
But silence was enough.
They scattered into the dark, and not long after, fresh graffiti appeared across the underhive walls. My symbol—an eye cracked with crimson light—drawn in trembling strokes. Beside it, the words:
Exile Lives.
I didn't paint it. I didn't need to.
The city was already doing it for me.
Far above, I saw drones flitting between towers, their red sensors sweeping. A holographic billboard glitched, and my distorted face appeared for a flicker of a second before the feed was cut. VoidNet had noticed me.
And somewhere in the crowd's whispers, in the alley's prayers, in the walls painted with my curse, I realized something.
I hadn't chosen to lead.
But they were already following.