Every morning at 8:00 AM, a recording of birds chirping erupted through a vast network of loudspeakers installed across the Undercity. This daily broadcast served one vital purpose: to help residents keep track of time. The only natural light source here was the artificial illumination of labyrinthine corridors and murky streets, so the morning bird-chirping became a critical cue for daybreak—at least, as daybreak was measured down here.
Fredric and Zeke walked side by side through these still, vacant streets. Their footsteps echoed faintly along the metal grates and concrete. The occasional drip of water, condensation from the ceiling overhead, added an intermittent rhythm to the artificial morning. The moment the birdsong started, Fredric’s gaze flicked upward, as if searching for a nonexistent sky.
“Isn’t it strange?” Zeke asked in a measured tone, voice emerging from behind his mask.
“What?” Fredric answered, turning just enough to see Zeke in his peripheral vision.
“How, of all the sounds, you guys chose bird chirping down here?” Zeke continued, his voice carrying the slightest wistfulness. “Even those living above ground don’t have the luxury of hearing them for real.”
Fredric nodded, momentarily contemplative. “It was the King’s idea,” he remarked, shifting his posture. “He probably wanted the people of the Undercity to sense some small remnant of nature. We don’t see sunlight or wildlife, so maybe the noise helps us pretend.”
“Don’t you think it’s cruel?” Zeke murmured. “Hearing those calls only makes you want to see the birds themselves, which is impossible.”
“That’s the world we live in,” Fredric stated, brow furrowing. “Somewhere beyond the city, maybe there are still birds flying free, never touched by the calamity. But here, we can only imagine.”
“I’d like to believe so too,” Zeke said, inclining his head in a gesture of agreement. Though his mask shrouded his mouth, Fredric sensed the faint smile behind it and smiled back. Subtle beams of the Undercity’s artificial glow cast elongated shadows of their figures onto the cracked pavement, an eerie imitation of a morning sunrise.
They continued walking, passing a series of overhead lamps that glowed in different colors at strict intervals. At 8:00 AM, these lights shifted to a crisp, neutral white—another method for those living in the Undercity to tell time. Every six hours, the hue changed: by 2:00 PM, it became bright yellow; at 8:00 PM, an orange; and at 2:00 AM, a drowsy, pale blue. This rhythmic transformation underscored the Undercity’s constant flux. The place was chaotic and warped, yet it operated under its own meticulous system of order, all tied to the Contractor King’s grand design.
“So did the King actually create the Undercity?” Zeke asked out of nowhere, his mask turning toward Fredric with a measured tilt.
“Yes and no,” Fredric replied, allowing his memory to guide him. “Word has it that years ago, before he became the Contractor King everyone fears and respects, he served with the Knights. During one of their exploration missions, he supposedly discovered what was then just a small community of illegal contractors hiding in these subterranean caverns—doing what they could to fend off underground beasts. Over time, the King left the Knights and founded what we call the Undercity.”
“That’s insane,” Zeke muttered, voice laced with disbelief.
“It gets better,” Fredric added, a hint of a smirk playing on his face. “Another rumor says that when the Undercity was first coming together, the Knights staged a raid to shut it down. It’s said the Contractor King slaughtered the entire strike force—didn’t let a single soldier get out alive. Then he climbed for days up the tower, reached the city of Upper Babel, and cut some deal with the big shots up there. From that point on, the Knights haven’t been able to interfere with the Undercity.”
“He’s…” Zeke began, stumbling for the right words, “quite a character.”
“He’s a shattered madman,” Fredric sighed. “He holds himself together just enough to keep his empire from collapsing. Every time he wields that damned magic, it tears him apart piece by piece.”
“What’s his power, anyway?” Zeke asked.
“Stop,” Fredric abruptly commanded, cutting off their conversation. “We’re here,” he muttered, glancing at a cramped, shadowy alley. Its narrow walls made the space feel more like a tunnel than a proper passage.
“Here? Where exactly?” Zeke asked, scanning the claustrophobic path.
The alley smelled of stale urine and gritty soot. Balconies of welded metal wires and polycarbonate sheets protruded overhead, forming an impromptu ceiling. In some spots, piles of trash lay stacked so high that it was impossible to see the ground beneath.
Fredric stepped in without hesitation, and Zeke followed, tensing under the alley’s oppressive air. “Where are we going?” Zeke asked, his tone betraying a slight tremor.
He picked his way over heaps of garbage, each step cautious to avoid sinking into the mounds of refuse. Now and then, a small scrabbling noise told him that something alive skittered beneath the trash.
“Don’t worry. He knows we’re coming. They won’t attack,” Fredric remarked, seeming amused by Zeke’s unease.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“Who is ‘they’?” Zeke asked warily.
“The rats,” Fredric replied, lifting his gaze toward the polycarbonate rooftops.
Zeke followed his line of sight. There, perched on the makeshift ceiling, were large, bald rats with six legs and eerie bloodshot eyes. Many dozens of them loomed overhead, each pair of eyes tracking the duo’s every move like silent sentinels.
“Fredric, enough already. Where are we going?” Zeke demanded, tension coursing through his voice.
Fredric turned around slowly, his silhouette lit by a faint overhead bulb. “To see the weaponsmith,” he said, causing Zeke’s breath to catch.
“All right,” Zeke responded, hustling closer to Fredric.
They advanced deeper until they discovered a wide circular lid, battered and intentionally rusted. Zeke noticed it was deceptively high-tech—something one might find in the safer parts of Lower Babel, not rotting in an Undercity alley.
Fredric rapped the lid with his fist, leaving a slight dent. “Open up, you old bastard! I know you’ve been watching,” he shouted, frustration clear.
No immediate reply came. Fredric glanced sideways at Zeke. “He’s ignoring me, huh?” he snickered. “Guess I’ll bust it open,” he murmured excitedly.
“Maybe he’s not here,” Fredric mused, then spun around and lashed out with a harsh kick that left a deeper dent on the metal door.
“Stoooooop!” a voice yelled through a hidden speaker.
“Ah, you hear that? The smelly-ass, fuck-head-of-a-hermit is home,” Fredric hollered mockingly.
“Who the fuck are you, you peroxide bimbo stripper in a male body?” a ragged voice blared from the speaker.
Fredric applauded sarcastically. “Go ahead, turn the volume up. Maybe they’ll hear us in Upper Babel,” he sniped.
“Fuck you,” the voice retorted.
“Open the door,” Fredric said, leaning against the metal with a mocking, seductive gesture.
“No!” the voice snapped back.
“I’m with the new guardian of District 7,” Fredric whispered.
“Oh,” the voice stammered.
In a flash, the circular lid split open, its mechanical segments rotating like clockwork.
“Why didn’t you say so,” the voice sighed.
“You didn’t ask,” Fredric muttered under his breath, stepping in alongside Zeke as the door parted. They continued along a short passage until they reached a well-lit square chamber.
“We’re here!” Fredric shouted.
“Patience! Shutting down my security system isn’t so easy,” the voice grumbled, sounding clearer now. Fredric huffed, tapping one foot restlessly. As a second set of doors parted, a spotless white facility awaited them inside, separated by at least ten more security doors that hissed open in sequence. At last, a balding old man in a lab coat stood at the far end.
“So you arrived,” he said in a tired, raspy tone. “Hello. You must be the new guardian of District 7,” he greeted, barely acknowledging Fredric while extending a hand to Zeke.
“I’m not sure,” Zeke answered bluntly.
“Give it to him,” Fredric whispered, prompting Zeke.
“What?” Zeke asked, puzzled.
“The sword, obviously,” Fredric clarified.
“Oh.” Zeke produced a broken sword from his back pocket.
The old man’s eyes bulged at the sight. He grabbed it from Zeke’s hand, flung off his lab coat, and unbuttoned his shirt, leaving only a white sleeveless undershirt. He slid the damaged blade into a sophisticated contraption that hummed softly. Zeke followed him into an adjoining workshop: a bright, immaculate space brimming with monitors, advanced machinery, and overhead turrets. The scientist donned a device resembling a monocle over his left eye, scrutinizing every inch of the broken sword, rotating it within his apparatus.
“Do you have any idea what you just handed me?!” the scientist barked.
“Well, he didn’t really hand it to you,” Fredric drawled, removing his mask. “You snatched it and dashed off, half-naked like some twisted pervert. Also—could you fix this?” he asked, offering the mask.
The old man squinted. “Just pick a spare from the upstairs locker,” he mumbled. “Anyway, I’m Professor Cassimyr Bertold, District 7’s weaponsmith.”
“He doesn’t look like much,” Fredric remarked, “but trust me, he’s legit. Customized that mask of yours, and he’s the guy who makes weapons for me, Nolan, and even the Contractor King.”
“But why need weapons if you have your souls?” Zeke asked, clearly lost.
“Using your soul can be risky,” Cassimyr explained. “Sometimes you’d rather keep that power hidden, so you rely on a weapon that matches your soul’s strength. But that’s not the issue here. Do you realize what this broken sword is?”
“A broken sword?” Zeke echoed blankly.
“A dragon’s will,” Fredric interjected. “Legend says each dragon has a powerful desire, a wish so strong it manifests as a physical object with the potential to fulfill it.”
“So that sword was…” Zeke began, processing his thoughts.
“Yes, the dragon wanted someone to kill it,” Fredric elaborated. “Normally, a dragon’s will is unbreakable—unless the dragon’s wish changes.” He paused. “Professor, can you ensure nobody else hears this?”
“Sure,” Cassimyr said, pulling a remote from his pocket and pressing a button. A large globe descended from the ceiling, spinning in a peculiar pattern.
“All clear, no interference,” he announced.
Fredric exhaled. “Right. Here’s the truth: you were never supposed to kill that dragon. It was an impossible task to make you give up, to show you certain deeds can’t be done. But you refused to stop. You fought until you obtained that blade, struggling to match the beast on equal footing. I sensed something else: that dragon canceled my magic, but it also recognized your perseverance. It shifted its desire from wanting to die to wanting you to grow.”
“You’re the one who achieved the impossible, claiming the Cradle of Fools and becoming a guardian of the Undercity. District 7 is now in your hands—whether it rots or thrives depends on you,” Fredric finished, staring momentarily at the polished floor.
“I don’t want to be a guardian,” Zeke said, sounding stricken. “I just want to go home.”
“You don’t really have that choice,” Cassimyr answered, matter-of-fact. “The King’s command is absolute.”
“How do I get back?” Zeke demanded, anxiety tightening his voice.
“You’ll have to beat him like you beat that dragon,” Fredric concluded with a faint, knowing smile.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/5tS3yMzW/Name-Alias-X-Species-Demon-Age-80-Height-182cm-Affiliation-Knights-Rank-Special-grade-investigator.png]