Under the blazing sun a colossal steampunk ship sailed across the vast sea. Deep within its hold, hidden among towering stacks of cargo, a group of migrants huddled together in the shadows. An elderly man carefully sliced a loaf of bread, distributing the meager shares to the weary travelers. Among those eating were two young men in their early twenties.
One of them, a heavyset man with unruly black hair and a rough, weather-beaten face, leaned in. "So you're saying your own brothers tried to kill you?" he asked, his tone laced with disbelief. "And the servant tasked with disposing of your corpse just dumped you here when he figured out you were still breathing?"
The second man let out a heavy breath. He had stark red hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a stark white cloth wrapped tightly around his head as a bandage. "That seems to be the case," he replied, his voice strained. "At least, judging by my blurry memory."
"Hah! They really fucked up your head, didn't they?" the heavyset guy mocked, a cruel smirk crossing his face. "So, do you at least remember your name?"
The red-haired man met his gaze squarely. "Alfeo. Alfeo Senza."
At the mere mention of the name "Senza," a suffocating silence fell over the cargo hold. Every gaze locked onto him. The heavyset man's smirk vanished, and he slowly, deliberately distanced himself.
Most of these migrants were desperately trying to escape Noralli, a region choked by the iron grip of underworld mafias and syndicates where even government officials were nothing more than puppets. Whether these people were fleeing from threats, crippling debt, lost jobs, or simply fighting for survival, the root of their misery always traced back to the underworld. The Senzas were one of the most prominent, ruthless families in Eastern Noralli, and their dark influence stretched into the major cities of Larone. If the Senzas wanted someone dead, simply being near that person brought lethal trouble.
For the next three days, Alfeo existed in utter isolation. No one dared to come near him. Only the elderly man occasionally tossed him a hard piece of bread from a safe distance. However, Alfeo couldn't bring himself to care. Strangely, he felt no fear over surviving a near-death experience, nor did he panic at being the enemy of a major mafia family. Instead, his mind was utterly consumed by a single, maddening confusion: how he had ended up here.
The truth was, he wasn't Alfeo in the first place.
He was Christopher Jackson, a renowned fight choreographer in Hollywood, famous for his incredible martial arts style and vast combat knowledge. His last coherent memory of Earth was acting as a stunt double for the lead in a mafia movie set in a steampunk universe. During a high-stakes rooftop scene, his safety lock had snapped, and he plummeted forty stories to the unforgiving ground below. When he finally opened his eyes, he was greeted by a skull-splitting headache and the chaotic, agonizing sensation of two lives fusing together. When the pain subsided, he was already Alfeo.
As these fragmented thoughts raced through his mind, the steamship's massive horns suddenly blared, releasing a deafening blast loud enough to leave a ringing in his ears. It meant one thing: they were nearing their destination.
Alfeo pushed himself up and peered at the approaching land in the distance. Colossal metallic skyscrapers pierced the heavens, reaching as high as the clouds. Thick plumes of steam and dark smoke billowed continuously into the sky. Above the towering structures, massive airships and propeller-powered planes navigated the airspace, while other colossal steamships sailed away from the sprawling port below.
The city itself was a staggering architectural marvel, built entirely in stacked floors that brutally dictated the societal class system. The Ground Floor, eternally deprived of sunlight, housed the slums, prisons, black markets, and slave trades, where criminals lurked in every shadow. The First Floor served as the massive industrial district where deafening factories, mills, and sprawling warehouses operated. The Second Floor contained the residential facilities; this was where the majority of the working-class lived, and it served as the primary battleground where mafias and syndicates fought for territory.
The Third Floor acted as the economic zone, a vibrant, bustling entertainment district bridging the upper and lower classes, saturated with blinding lights and neon signboards. The Fourth Floor was a pristine haven of clean, luxurious living reserved exclusively for the rich and powerful. Finally, the Fifth and highest floor was a domain where even boundless wealth couldn't buy entry; it was inhabited solely by the ruling class, high authorities, and officials of pure noble bloodlines.
Likewise, these floors were strictly divided into Inner and Outer zones. The physical radius of the city shrank with each ascending level. Therefore, starting from the First Floor, the exposed perimeter that received natural sunlight was designated as the Outer Zone, while the area trapped beneath the shadow of the floor directly above it was known as the Inner Zone.
"What the hell..." Alfeo muttered under his breath, his eyes wide. "Did I fall into the world of Blood Steam?"
The broken fragments of his memories finally snapped into place, solving the mystery of his surroundings. This was the world of Blood Steam—a steampunk reality set in the 1940s, yet technologically far more advanced than Earth.
And the towering, stratified metropolis looming before him was the city of "New Angles " the capital of "Larone "
The massive steamship finally docked, and heavy, foldable steel steps rolled down with a metallic clank to allow the crew to disembark. Christopher instinctively moved to follow them out the main exit, but the elderly man suddenly grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.
"Hey, what are you trying to do?" the old man hissed, his eyes narrowing into a fierce glare. "Going out the main exit just to reveal there are illegal immigrants on board? If you don't want to be packed in a crate and shipped right back to Noralli, you follow us."
The colossal size of the ship meant it had to dock at the sprawling industrial district of the First Floor. Due to a violent, ongoing war over in Airopa, an uncontrollable wave of migrants was flooding into the continent of Laronia. To counter the influx, the country of Larone had heavily stationed guards at every port to catch these "rats" slipping through the cracks.
With no other choice, Christopher followed the old man toward the rear of the towering vessel. He watched in disbelief as the other migrants simply hurled themselves off the edge, plummeting into the dark sea below. Lacking any better options or knowledge of the world, Christopher took a breath, followed the old man's lead, and jumped. It was a staggering, terrifying drop of nearly a thousand feet.
They hit the water and swam frantically for a few minutes until they washed ashore, dragging themselves into the mouth of a dark, dripping sewer tunnel. Deep within the intersecting tunnels, a massive man stood waiting for them, casually resting a heavy mechanical shotgun against his shoulder.
"Are you the group from Noralli?" the big man grunted, his voice echoing in the damp space.
"We are," the old man said, stepping forward. He reached into his soaked coat and pulled out a small, pristine wooden box.
The big man took it and flipped the lid open. Inside sat six perfectly preserved bottles of pure Noralli wine.
"As per our deal, I fulfilled my condition," the old man stated firmly.
"Fine," the big man said, snapping the box shut and turning on his heel. "I'll take you around and give you a way to start. After that, it's all on you."
The soaked migrants followed him through the twisting sewers until they arrived at a crumbled, broken section of the tunnel wall.
"Squeeze through. We're here," the big man instructed. He shot a brief, amused look at the heavyset young man. "Aside from the fat guy, none of you should have trouble."
Christopher followed, wedging his shoulders through the narrow gap in the stone. When he stepped out onto the other side, his mind was blown all over again.
Before him stretched a never-ending sprawl of slums and shabby structures, broken up by clusters of tall buildings. On Earth, these would easily be considered skyscrapers, but in this world, they were just ordinary high-rises. True skyscrapers here literally pierced the heavens. Down on the Ground Level, there was no sky at all to pierce—only a massive, oppressive metal ceiling, which was the underside of the First Floor's industrial sector.
"This is the East Canal Market," the big man announced, gesturing to the sprawling underground city as he led them through the streets. "Here, you can find quite a few jobs if you are lucky and smart."
They stopped in front of a massive structure that resembled a sprawling shopping complex. A middle-aged man wearing intricate, mechanical lenses over his eyes stepped out to greet them.
"Big Jimmy, I'm only doing this favor for you," the bespectacled man sighed. "We only have vacancies in the accounts section. Do any of you know advanced mathematics and finance?"
Two men standing right behind the old man immediately raised their hands.
"Thanks, buddy," Big Jimmy grinned, patting his shotgun. "I got some good wine imported from Noralli. I'll treat you to a drink later."
Big Jimmy led the rest of the group onward. As they walked, Christopher took in the wide roads, the endless variety of shops, and the sleek, steam-powered cars drifting around street corners. Is this place really the lowest part of the city? he thought to himself, bewildered. Even the slums are made of tightly packed, solid stone buildings. Slowly, as they moved from business to business, everyone managed to secure some kind of work—even the old man and the fat guy. But Christopher didn't. He failed to meet a single requirement. A normal man from Earth with average knowledge simply couldn't keep up with the citizens of this world, where education had been radically revolutionized and was treated as an absolute necessity for survival.
Eventually, Big Jimmy stopped and looked Christopher up and down.
"Little guy, seems like you're completely uneducated," the big man said bluntly. "Guys like you really can't survive in a place like this. You can only try your luck with the gangs deep in the slums, where raw strength is valued. You seem quite well-built, at least. See you later... if you survive. That's it."
Without another word, Big Jimmy turned and walked away, leaving Christopher behind.
Now completely alone in an unfamiliar, unforgiving world, Christopher stood frozen, having no idea what to do next. Remembering the big man's passing advice, he decided his only option was to head toward the real slums. Finding them was simple enough: he just had to walk in the opposite direction of the tall, decent buildings.
For two grueling hours, he walked, watching the architecture degrade and the shadows lengthen, until he finally exited the neat, organized zone and stepped into the true, rotting heart of the slums.