A few days had passed since the corporations paid several gangs to launch a ruthless, coordinated strike on the Undercity. Among the most ravaged districts were 7, 8, 11, and 13. Of these, battered District 7 took the hardest hit, its streets drowning in violence as an overwhelming number of gang members laid siege. And yet, amid the smoke and rubble, the newly appointed guardian rose to the occasion, shocking everyone with his unlikely heroics. A heavy hush fell over scorched alleyways, as if the city itself paused to witness his every move.
Prowler—once dismissed as a cowardly rogue—now stood infamous for his eerie calm and tactical genius on the field of battle. Even more unexpected was his iron restraint: though he overpowered countless enemies, not one of them died by his hand. Most guardians lacked that level of control, and his mercy only sharpened the edge of his menace. Doubts about his abilities vanished when he brought down an invoke without possessing any enhancements himself, a near-impossible feat that turned grudging cynics into wary believers. His name rippled through the neon-lit corridors, whispered in both reverence and dread.
Defeating an invoke was no trivial triumph. Contractors typically settled fights by slugging it out, their vast mana reserves deciding the winner. For Prowler, an ordinary man in the eyes of the Undercity, to emerge victorious against such power was unthinkable. Yet he did. His triumph spoke of something beyond brute force—an unflinching cleverness that earned him newly minted respect. Night after night, his legend grew, carried by hushed voices through flickering lamplights.
He was the first to charge into the inferno when the corporations sent their hired guns. To District 7, he became a symbol of defiance—ready to protect the vulnerable without hesitating. Even those who refused to see him as noble were forced to acknowledge the quiet storm that followed wherever he walked. Some dreaded his capacity for violence more than they revered his sudden compassion.
Rumors began to swirl after his battle with Boar, a vicious foe he left crippled in both body and spirit. By the time the tales reached the outer districts, they had taken a life of their own. Whispers claimed Prowler had repeatedly torn out Boar’s regrowing tongue—a gruesome torture that continued until Boar could neither scream nor heal. The final image was seared into people’s minds: a sobbing, broken man and a mound of severed tongues piled at his feet. Those who retold the story would lower their voices, as though speaking too loudly might invite Prowler’s wrath. A grim hush lingered in the corners of dingy bars—a quiet question of how far one man’s cruelty could stretch.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
In the aftermath of that bloody assault, the Undercity itself underwent a transformation. The Contractor King, alarmed by the corporations’ brazen encroachment, summoned all guardians and hammered out a merciless plan to cut off corporate influence. Executives and shareholders who lurked within these sprawling subterranean zones were either exiled or executed, their power stripped and their wealth confiscated. Into the sudden vacuum stepped representatives from Nimid’s, replacing the old corporate guard with a new administration that recalibrated the Undercity’s fragile balance of power. And, in the dim spaces where deals were once brokered in hushed conspiracies, a far different order began to emerge.
As part of this overhaul, the Contractor King declared all gang activity illegal unless directly supervised by a guardian. With the stroke of that decree, guardians gained absolute authority to execute anyone breaching the new law. Fear seeped through the lawless corridors like poison through veins; after seeing the havoc unleashed, few dared challenge the guardians’ iron rule.
Many gang members, left adrift in this volatile climate, sought safer ground by swearing loyalty to Prowler. Some even migrated from neighboring districts, drawn by rumors of his cunning leadership. Their ranks became the foundation for a fledgling organization called the Caretakers. Under Prowler’s banner, they funneled resources into District 7—reinforcing roads, rebuilding homes, and installing new security measures. The once-lawless zone began to shed its scars and reemerge as a steadier, more welcoming place. Yet beneath the surface, wounds were slow to heal, and tension lay coiled like a serpent, waiting to strike.
As District 7 found its footing, Prowler gradually faded from public sight. He vanished into his private quarters, his silhouette becoming a fleeting rumor among the city lights. Day-to-day governance fell to his closest allies—Isaac, Antonio, and Hanna—who oversaw trade negotiations, resource distribution, and conflict resolution. The people spoke of Prowler’s absence in hushed tones, uncertain if he lingered in the shadows by choice or by burden. A faint apprehension clung to the air, as though his reemergence might herald a new storm.