Beneath the city—far deeper than sewers—spread an underground market carved into a cavern the size of a small district. Its layout was unnervingly precise. Straight stone corridors intersected at perfect right angles, forming a vast grid like a chessboard etched into the earth itself. Each square held a stall, a shop, or a shadowed den, all pressed tightly together.
A low ceiling arched overhead, rough and uneven, close enough that smoke and heat clung to it instead of rising. Lamps hung from iron chains, their glass darkened with soot. Torches burned along the walls, flames wavering as bodies brushed past them.
The illumination was weak and uneven, turning faces into half-lit masks. Light faded quickly here, swallowed by darkness only a few steps away.
'By the gods, I hate this place!'
The crowd was overwhelming.
People pressed together so tightly that walking became impossible in the usual sense. Movement happened only because the mass shifted forward. Boots scraped stone. Armor plates knocked together. Chains dragged and rattled. The air vibrated with sound and motion, a living current that carried everyone whether they wished it or not.
Mercenaries loitered beside weapon stalls, their gear scarred and mismatched, hands resting casually near hilts and triggers. Lawless wanderers argued loudly over contraband, relics that pulsed faintly with cursed energy, and items that should never have existed outside sealed vaults.
Slaves moved through the crowd in dull silence, collars of iron or rune-etched leather locked around their necks. Some were led openly by chains, yanked along without care. Others followed unseen commands, moving with unnatural obedience, their eyes empty and resigned, as though resistance had long since been beaten out of them.
Clenching his jaw, Tirandel moved forward.
One shop sold maps charting places erased from official records. Another displayed jars filled with living things that twitched and whispered. Surgeons worked openly on bloodstained tables, their tools laid bare, stitching flesh and replacing limbs without bothering to hide their trade.
The air was thick with sweat, oil, incense, and desperation.
Voices overlapped endlessly. Bargains were struck, threats were made, and laughter rang out without warmth. Every sound echoed against stone and ceiling, merging into a constant roar that drowned out thought itself.
As Elira approached the Revolutionary Front, Tirandel prepared himself to plunge himself into the ever-growing mass of the lawless black market, already feeling a dull headache forming behind his temples.
Nonetheless, he was already regretting every choice that had led him here.
"Why do I always end up drawing the short straw?" he mumbled to himself.
Tirandel couldn't care less about the mission itself. The Valcrest family was capable enough to erase the entire city in the span of a single day, making it seem as though a tsunami had engulfed the city overnight.
'As much as I pity the young girl for being caught up in this cesspool of a mess, she's just as likely to turn into one of them.'
This entire mission existed for a single purpose: to create a scenario that portrayed Leon as the hero he once was. That way, the political noose affixed around the Emperor's throat—for creating a monster like Leon—would loosen, if only slightly. While Tirandel found the thought deeply repulsive, he couldn't deny that it was an effective strategy.
As the Empire waged war against countless kingdoms and territories, it suffered losses just as numerous as its victories. Homes were engulfed in fire. Soldiers returned broken, never able to reclaim who they once were. Children were orphaned before they could even open their eyes properly. With every campaign, the pressure on the Empire only continued to build.
When Drosamir Eryndral usurped the throne and announced the end of the Great War, people believed, perhaps desperately, that things were finally going to change.
Only they didn't.
Why would kings and queens, who had been pressed relentlessly by the previous emperor, simply withdraw because a new one demanded it? Everyone who had fallen victim to the Great War was enraged, and that fury had nowhere to go but outward.
So, they retaliated.
'What a bunch of fools… I can't believe my race lost to such a species.'
What they failed to realize was that the Emperor hadn't usurped the throne through luck or favorability. He had walked over the lifeless bodies of his siblings and crushed the nobility beneath his heel to claim his crown.
But the nobles weren't about to sit idle while a young emperor, barely half their age, issued orders as though the world belonged to him. Retaliation was natural. Drosamir's response, however, was anything but.
The one who made it all possible was, without a doubt, Leon Valcrest.
The young heir of the Valcrest Duchy, later burdened with titles such as Herald of Death and the Invincible Blade. Whoever rose to oppose Drosamir, be it a beast or a human, was cut down by Leon before they were even given a chance to retaliate.
Just as things seemed poised to improve, Leon entered the battlefield against the Artemis Alliance. The Artemis Alliance was formed from the last survivors of the Great War. It was only natural that their warriors were hardened, elite, and frighteningly experienced when it came to warfare.
The result… was disastrous.
The front lines were obliterated completely. Once Leon entered the battle personally, the opposing Ascendents had no choice but to follow. That decision multiplied the disaster to a scale never witnessed before. While the front lines stood no chance whatsoever, even the soldiers held in reserve suffered innumerable casualties.
By the end of the battle, everything in sight had been leveled into a barren plain. Countless bodies lay scattered across the land, visible even from afar, as though the gods themselves had left behind a grim spectacle.
Just thinking about that battle sent a shiver down Tirandel's spine.
'Let's just get this done with. I have my own problems to worry about.'
Tirandel, like everyone else tangled in the Emperor's web, had his own reasons for complying with Drosamir's demands.
Bumping into another person, Tirandel adjusted the straps of the leather bag resting on his shoulders. It was filled to the brim with parchments and documents. Keeping one hand pressed firmly against the papers, he pushed his way through the crowd with practiced urgency.
The documents were everything he could gather regarding the hospital and Venis as a whole. While the stack looked substantial at first glance, it was still barely enough to even hint at Iriel's exact location.
By now, it was certain that they were no longer dealing with the same kidnapper. In every sense that mattered, they were starting from scratch.
'Still… I have to acknowledge her guts.'
Conducting an investigation of this scale from scratch while staying hidden was no simple task. It was something even the Investigation Bureau had failed to accomplish, which made Tirandel's trust in Elira thin at best.
But he wasn't in a position to deny her. Leon had disappeared without a trace, and there was still no word from Bernard. With the two most experienced members nowhere to be found, it was only natural that Elira stepped into the role of leader.
Just as he was about to turn a corner, he collided with someone again. What caught him off guard was that it wasn't the usual ragged mercenary or lurking thief.
'A… child?'
Wearing a robe stitched together from mismatched pieces of cloth, a child lay sprawled in front of him. The body was so frail that Tirandel couldn't even tell whether it was a boy or a girl. A handful of papers had slipped from the child's grasp, now scattered across the stone floor.
Clicking his tongue, Tirandel crouched down and began gathering the scattered papers. As he did, his eyes caught on the words printed across them.
In these troubled times of conflict, loss, and uncertainty, many hearts grow weary.
If you seek peace, guidance, or simply a moment of stillness, you are invited to join us.
The Evening Prayer ceremony will be held
on the night of the full moon,
beneath the lower halls of the Eastward District.
No offering is required.
No name will be asked.
Only sincerity of heart.
Come as you are.
Leave your burdens with us, if only for a while.
For those who listen, the Her Grace listens back.
Before he realized it, the child was already standing beside him, looking down. The crimson flame of a nearby torch barely illuminated the child's face. In the shadows, the child offered an innocent smile.
"Would you like to come too?"
His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet it carried an unsettling contrast to the ruby eyes that pierced through the darkness.
Instead of replying, Tirandel simply shook his head and gathered the flyers into a single stack. Handing them back, he ruffled the boy's hair absentmindedly.
"Sorry, kid, I don't have the time."
Catching the delicate look on the boy's face, Tirandel hesitated for a brief moment before pulling a silver coin from his back pocket.
"Here, treat yourself to something good."
With that, Tirandel straightened up and continued on his way. The boy watched his back as Tirandel disappeared into the darkness, then slipped the silver coin into his pocket and walked off in the opposite direction.
Tirandel hurried out of the black market and into the open streets above. The contrast between the two worlds was jarring, and he found himself exhaling slowly as he leaned against a nearby wall.
Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind.
'Why did I give him a silver coin?'
As a merchant, Tirandel was far more frugal than most. Even among his peers, he was considered stingy, his reputation shaped by unconventional methods and a sharp aversion to unnecessary loss.
And yet, he had just handed over a silver coin out of pure pity to a child he had met mere moments ago.
Tirandel grimaced as though he were on the verge of tears. "What was I even thinking?"
After regretting his life choices for a few moments, he straightened his back and let out a tired sigh.
"Everything should be solved with a good night's sleep."