“The Undercity shall be as it once was, ruled by its own people. You may attempt to righteously free the city, but such actions will only bring about its downfall. We are the ones who truly govern the Undercity. We bled and wept for it while you sat idle on your throne. We, the rightful defenders of the Undercity, will not tolerate this. Hand over the heads of those responsible for the representatives’ deaths, or there will be war,” read the letter, penned in bold strokes and affixed to the Contractor King’s chapel.
It fluttered faintly in the breeze, a menacing symbol of the rising tension within the Undercity. The letter carried a threat that could not be ignored. A meeting had been called—one that every guardian was required to attend. The strongest Contractors, the wardens of the districts, were summoned to gather in District 1. The air was thick with the scent of looming conflict, a stifling pressure that draped over the Undercity like a shroud of smoke.
Zeke and Isaac met early in the morning, before the Undercity had fully stirred. The streets, usually alive with activity and chaos, lay deserted under the dim glow of the streetlights. The once-bustling city now felt like a ghost town, its silence unnerving. Without the gangs that once ruled the streets, it was as if the soul of the Undercity had been stripped away, leaving only an empty husk.
“How are you feeling about this?” Isaac asked, his voice soft but laced with concern.
Zeke stood still, staring blankly ahead, lost in his thoughts. His fingers twitched as the frigid winter air nipped at his skin, sending a sharp chill through him. The biting atmosphere of the Undercity was palpable, the cavernous expanse above trapping the cold like a prison. Even the far reaches of the city seemed to groan under the weight of the cold, and Zeke felt it seeping into his bones, creeping through his skin like a slow, insidious poison.
A strange metallic dampness lingered in the air, almost tangible, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. The emotional weight of the day pressed down on him, a heaviness he couldn’t shake. His mind drifted, sinking into murky waters of distant thoughts, unreachable and obscure.
Then, as if the universe itself sought to jolt him back, a single snowflake fell from the top of the cavern. It floated gently downward, twisting and turning in the still air before landing softly on his face. The cold shock snapped him back from the edge of his distant reverie.
“I feel...” Zeke paused, his voice a low murmur, almost as if speaking to himself. His thoughts swirled, slipping back into that dark whirlpool of contemplation. “I feel nothing,” he finally sighed, turning to Isaac. His face was blank, a mask of indifference, though beneath it, a storm of unspoken emotions simmered. “Let’s go. We’ve got an assembly to attend.”
The two walked in silence, their footsteps echoing through the empty streets. They were the first to arrive at District 1, and as they approached the Contractor King’s chapel, Zeke’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. The chapel looked different. It was far larger than he remembered, its once modest structure expanding, stretching upward and outward as if it had grown overnight to accommodate the gravity of the meeting ahead.
Inside, the chapel had been divided into two rooms. The first was a waiting area for those accompanying the guardians—subordinates, allies, and companions. It was stark and dimly lit, the air heavy with the staleness of a room hastily prepared. The second room, however, was reserved for the guardians, where the meeting would take place. It was here that the fate of the Undercity would be decided.
Isaac stood anxiously near the door, his eyes darting around the room, as if expecting danger to appear at any moment. The interior was oppressively hot, the poor ventilation adding to the stifling atmosphere. The chapel’s construction had clearly been rushed, the design crude and inefficient. Isaac could feel sweat gathering on his forehead, trickling down beneath his mask and falling to the ground with barely audible splashes.
Each drop seemed to echo in his mind, and soon he found himself counting them, focusing on the rhythmic fall of sweat to distract from the anxiety gnawing at him. His thoughts drifted to memories of his family in Lower Babel, memories of a past long gone but never forgotten. His mother worked tirelessly, juggling two jobs to keep their lives afloat—by day, she worked at a small grocery store, and by night, she toiled in a low-cost ER clinic. She was a pillar of strength and love, though her presence was often fleeting. She was always away, always working, leaving Isaac alone with his father.
Isaac’s father had been a thug, a man with dreams of becoming a Contractor, but those dreams had crumbled when he failed to secure a contract. He couldn’t even join a gang, and so he spent his days in a haze of alcohol, bitterness, and violence. A man with no skills, no ambition, and no future, he took out his frustrations on his family.
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Isaac had never been one to back down, even as a child—a trait he undoubtedly inherited from his father. But resisting his father’s violent outbursts only brought more beatings. His father’s fists were relentless, and Isaac learned to endure, waiting for his mother to return and shield him with her own body, taking the blows meant for him. It was their daily existence—a cycle of violence and silence—until one day, it wasn’t.
As a teenager, Isaac had grown stronger, both in body and mind. And one night, when his father erupted in another drunken rage, Isaac had finally had enough. He fought back, unleashing years of pent-up anger. The fight was brief and one-sided. Isaac stood victorious over the man he had once feared, looking down at his bloodied father and wondering how he had ever been so afraid.
He had looked out the window of their tiny apartment, gazing at the neon-lit streets of Lower Babel. When his mother came home and found her son standing over her unconscious husband, she had struck Isaac in shock and grief, casting him out of their home.
Isaac had been left to fend for himself after that. He joined a gang not out of desire, but necessity, and fought to survive. Unlike his father, Isaac didn’t revel in the violence, but he knew it was his only way forward. Perhaps that was why, unlike his father, he had been granted a contract.
Years passed, and his mother came searching for him. Each time she came to the gang’s territory, she pleaded with them to let her see her son, but was always turned away. They gave her money, and she was escorted back home, only to return again and again. Eventually, Isaac learned she had died. He came to see her one last time as she was being cremated.
The memory of that day was etched into his mind. The funeral was held in a shabby 24/7 funeral home, the air heavy with the constant black smoke from its chimneys. It was a place of death, where the fires never stopped burning. Isaac stood in a grimy room, surrounded by his mother’s coworkers, her photo resting on a simple white table. Her body was already gone, cremated before he could say goodbye.
And his father? He hadn’t even bothered to show up.
“If only I’d said something to her back then,” Isaac thought, his heart heavy with regret. “Maybe things would’ve turned out differently.”
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the chapel creaked open, snapping Isaac out of his reverie. His head jerked up as a man entered, his steps slow and deliberate. The man appeared to be in his early forties, clad in a black leather trench coat that billowed slightly as he walked. A black dog mask covered his face, adding an air of menace to his already intimidating presence.
This was the guardian of District 8, known as the Hound. He was flanked by two women, both dressed in scant leather straps and masks. Their black bobbed hair barely reached their shoulders, their expressions concealed beneath featureless masks. They moved with a disturbing grace, like shadows trailing the Hound’s every step.
“Ahh, wonderful!” the Hound barked, his voice loud and grating as it echoed through the chapel. “Me and dipshit are the first to show up,” he said, shaking his head, clearly unimpressed by the empty room.
Prowler, the guardian of District 7, smirked from where he stood. “I see this dumb mutt still hasn’t learned how to shut his mouth.”
The Hound’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “And who’s the coward you brought along? Isn’t that the one who choked at the trade center?” His gaze locked on Isaac, a sneer curling his lips beneath the mask. “I heard all about how you froze up.”
Isaac’s jaw tightened, anger flashing across his face as he straightened, ready to confront the Hound. But before he could take a step, the Prowler moved forward, positioning himself between them. His movements were slow, deliberate—like a predator surveying its prey. His robotic voice sliced through the rising tension.
“Better than being surrounded by ‘fuckable meat,’” the Prowler spat, his words dripping with disdain as his eyes flicked briefly to the women standing with the Hound.
The insult hit its mark, and the Hound’s face twisted with fury. He stalked toward the Prowler, the space between them charged with the threat of violence. His breath came in ragged bursts, his fists clenched so tightly that his leather gloves squeaked under the pressure.
“What did you just say to me?” the Hound growled, his voice a dangerous whisper. He stood nose-to-nose with the Prowler, trembling with barely-contained rage. “Say it again.”
The Prowler remained unfazed. His cold, mechanical tone was unwavering. “Better than being surrounded by fuckable meat... dickhead,” he repeated, each word sharper than the last.
The Hound’s hand shot forward, fist curling, ready to strike. But before the blow could land, a wave of pressure descended on the room like a crashing tide. It was immense, suffocating—a presence so overwhelming it dwarfed everything else. The air thickened, as though an invisible force had blanketed the space, and the Hound froze in place, his fist hanging in midair.
The color drained from his face as he turned, sensing a shadow behind him—vast, looming, and terrifying in its intensity. The presence of a vessel that dwarfed his own, making him feel insignificant, as if he were a drop of water compared to an endless ocean.
Slowly, the Hound turned his head, heart pounding, to see the source of the presence—two enormous, furrowed gray eyebrows hovering above him like storm clouds.
“Fuck off, will you?” Nolan angrily growled, pushing Hound into a state of profound distress.
image [https://i.postimg.cc/fTwvjTrK/Name-Alias-X-Species-Demon-Age-80-Height-182cm-Affiliation-Knights-Rank-Special-grade-investigator.png]