It is said that the leylines always existed, even before the world was created.

A foundational design of networked energy used as a framework by the old gods and precursor humanity, today the provision of all mankind. From the great spires comes the trickle of water and power, the creation of the most basic fundamental items to survival given as gifts by unforgotten betrayers.

At least, that’s how the cataclysmus sects of the southlands translate it. The twelve cities mostly spared by the touch of the old war, their destruction instead found in the hubris of man.

The cultural drift from thousands of years corrupts the history of their world. Visions from so-called zealots and prophets canonized into subsequently destroyed holy texts, with their remaining fragments pieced together by curious priests and canonized in an everlasting cycle; split by the geography of impassable wastelands, mighty mountain ranges, and the ruin of long forgotten crusades.

March still stands, millions of souls surviving within the shadow of its leyline node.

Yet, over the course of three thousand years, they have not yet mapped the catacombs beneath the city.

A dark network remade in utter chaos both under orders of mad regents and the decay of time. From bunkers to collapsed caves of unnatural creation, sewers and non-operational pirate factories.

A warned danger for treasure seekers, and a prophetic scripture for believers.

Ancient bars of brass and gold stored by empires long gone now waiting for their new rightful owners, and caches of magical weapons dating back to the old war fetching forth incomprehensible prices; guarded by traps and ancient constructs.

The cataclysmus sects believe a savior sleeps in the depths of the catacombs; a promised finale to their world lying deep within the crown jewel of the southlands.

There are those who delve into the dungeons, foolish souls seeking either enlightenment or riches beyond reproach. Those who dare challenge the depths of March, wage a war against the very gods themselves.

Most never return.

The few that do stumble back to the surface not grievously wounded or turned to raving mad men are laden with the uncountable riches pilfered from ancient vaults, or even rarer human minds gifted with prophetic knowledge from ancient divines.

They all say the savior sleeps in the untouchable depths of March.

The One guides them towards the chosen entrance, a small square manhole cover welded shut within a small alleyway between two city precincts.

The small coat of dust across its form dates its unuse in the modern era, confirmed by the words printed in the now deprecated southland dialect of standard language.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Five souls stare at the metallic thing, its size only large enough to accommodate one at a time.

Judge Murphy asks the question. “Is this our entry point?”

“Yes.” The one speaks.

Madeline points out the obvious contradiction as she makes the assumption. “I thought you said this wasn’t gonna be a sewer run.”

Samuel answers for her, hands already placed upon hot steel as he extends his false senses into the depths. “It is not. There is no evidence of liquid matter flowing within this system.”

The augmented body burns, a wasteful application of gravimetrics placed upon the rectangular access port snaking its way through the very fundamental properties of refined, metaloid matter. Eyes glow a pale blue as he pushes heat to near untouchable temperatures, alloy hands slipping into the surface itself.

Artificial muscles tense, the form of the young mage literally ripping the entire thing off its axis. An audible screech of steel, followed by the clattering of mass as Samuel simply tosses the thing into the alleyway.

Utter darkness suddenly illuminated by five suns above, a tunnel long forgotten now the source of visitation. Settled dust kicked up by the light wind seeping into the space, Alto the first to lean over the edge for a look within.

Ancient brick creating a primitive step ladder, the path to annihilation censored by sunlight reflecting particulates.

“How deep is it?” Samantha asks curiously.

Alto blinks, narrowing eyes watching as the dust clears from his field of view. “It shouldn’t be too deep.”

“It is a one point eight six five meter drop.” Samuel informs as his own passive sensor suite gives the most accurate estimation.

There’s a moment of confusion from the foreign measurement standard, Madeline narrowing her eyes. “Is that…”

“It’s around six feet.” Alto translates to the Federal gauge.

There’s a long pause as they all exchange glances, interrupted again by Madeline. “Is there an easier way? I mean there’s gotta be one right?!”

The question is directed at the Being, who turns to her with lifeless blue orbs. “There is an entrance directly over the primary manufacturing facility.”

“So why aren’t we there?!”

“This route was chosen under these requirements: a non-lethal approach and a non-proximity to waste-water outflow facilities.”

Judge Murphy asks the question to confirm his suspicions, a mission from the great city to be completed in one final blow. “The entrance directly above the facility is located within the central palace complex correct?”

The Being takes but a millisecond to speak to the inquiry. “Correct.”

Enough evidence to make a connection; a betrayal against the Federation to be included in the next status report alongside a request for reinforcement.

Assuming March survives the day.

Madeline nervously chuckles as she stares into the depths, a fear growing within her. “Is it too late for me to just give you my gun and run?”

“You are not leaving.” Judge Murphy coldly informs, a response beating out Samuel and Samantha’s own, less diplomatic answer to the request.

The woman purses her lips, eyes moving to stare at the form of Alto Carrin.

Hands clasped in prayer, whispered words before separation from the light of raging divines above them all. The lesson from the now dead clerical father clouds his own thoughts; a mind of doubt utterly consuming the process of humanity.

The gods above demand a single leap of faith, a bridge of trust from him.

A simple reality made evident to him, the words of Alina translated to humanity bringing a single learned lesson by every single one of the divines; fallen or otherwise.

To be betrayed, you must first trust.

Alto Carrin is the last to climb into the darkness.