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Back on Dog-Pudding Island, William meandered down the rough cobblestone paths of the Strip of Hope; his footsteps light and carefree for the first time in years. The sun pierced through the thinning mist of gentle pink, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape that felt more like a delicate veil than the suffocating shroud of acidic smoke that had plagued his people for generations—a paradise with air that didn't carry the stench of decay.

He paused to watch children chasing each other across the fields. Once sickly and frail, they had blossomed with health now as they were living instead of merely surviving. Their laughter rang out, pure and unbridled, as they kicked up dust from soil that was a pale shade of gray—no longer the black and red death sentence.

"No wonder they're so full of energy now," William mused, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He stood still, soaking in their joy. Faces that had once been gaunt and hollow now glowed with vitality, eyes sparkling with newfound hope. Every day for the last months, an almost festive atmosphere enveloped the island, like a long-awaited celebration after an arduous journey.

He found himself smiling—a genuine, effortless smile that reached his eyes and softened the lines of worry etched into his face. His shoulders relaxed—an oppressing weight he hadn't realized he was carrying had finally been lifted.

With a spring in his step, he continued his stroll, the memories of Makol's daring gamble flickering through his mind. 'Good job,' he thought with a wry grin. Without that risk, his Mother—the most important person in his life—might not be here today. Gratitude swelled within him, warming him from the inside out.

The community had been busy growing and building. Houses sprang up made of brownish-red adobe and clay, materials pleasant against the intense heat and the occasional fierce sea winds that easily destroyed wooden structures. There was little formal planning; anyone who found a patch of land not designated for agriculture could erect a home. Narsiz levied taxes based on the size, but this freedom allowed a patchwork of dwellings to emerge, adding to the Strip's chaotic charm.

William's spirits lifted even more as he watched neighbors greet each other with hearty embraces, their conversations filled with lightness instead of hushed whispers of desperation. The joy was palpable—a living, breathing entity that permeated every corner of the Strip. It was as if the shadows of their harrowing past had finally loosened their grip, retreating into the recesses of memory where they belonged. Stories of the old days were now shared over meals, not with bitterness but with the relief of survivors who had weathered the storm.

He realized he, too, had changed. The frantic urgency that had always gnawed at him was gone. 'I can finally breathe,' William thought, feeling a profound calm settle over him. With their survival ensured, his future no longer felt like a race against time but a path unfolding with endless possibilities.

A sudden outburst shattered the tranquility. "No! What the fuck are you doing?! This is dung, you imbecile! Motherfucker, do you even understand beast-kin?!" The shout was laden with exasperation, echoing across the fields.

A timid voice muttered, stumbling over the words, "But... ain't this... uh, y'know... dung?"

"Yes, genius, it's poop! But it's rich with nutrients the plants need! If you dry it and mix it properly, it'll help them grow better! Not by smearing it all over like that!"

William chuckled softly, his curiosity piqued. He approached the source of the commotion and spotted one of Alexander's retainers—a young spider-kin boy whose multiple eyes flickered through a kaleidoscope of colors as he barked orders. His slender arms gesticulated wildly, and his spit flew in agitation as he tried to impart the basics of fertilization to a bewildered group of novice farmers.

A warm sensation spread through William's chest as he watched the scene unfold. The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. Skills that had once been dismissed as insignificant were now the backbone of their blooming Strip. The art of agriculture, the craft of building, the simple joy of maintaining a home—all of it converged to paint a picture of a community reborn. And at the heart of it all was Alexander.

William felt a flush creep up his neck at the mere thought of him. He whispered under his breath, "My little Prince." The words tasted sweet, almost forbidden. An exhilarating mix of admiration and something deeper stirred within him. There was an undeniable allure about Alexander—his unwavering confidence, the way he carried himself with an air of authority that was both commanding and endearing. William longed to be near him, to feel the intensity of his gaze, perhaps even to be humbled by his dominating steps.

He chuckled softly, his thoughts drifting to the rumors about Alexander and Sarah. 'Though if the rumors are true and he prefers a more submissive role... well, that's a bit less thrilling,' he mused, a playful glint in his eyes.

Because of Sarah's stature and how their continuous sparring concluded, rumors depicted Alexander as more passive, even demeaning. But, he also started a trend through his gestures of love, which enflamed the desire of many other spouses to be adored in the same way.

'Still,' William licked sensually his lips. The idea of witnessing their first time would still be tantalizing. He shook his head, amused by his own wandering mind.

A barrage of colorful language jolted William from his reverie as he ventured into the western quarter of the Strip, affectionately dubbed the Cursing Iron. The air here was thick with the clang of metal, the hiss of steam, and the ceaseless tirade of profanities that flowed as freely as the molten ore.

"Are ya daft, ya dolt?!" the burly potter roared, his voice booming as his face went red under the grime. "It's water an' clay, right amount o' both! Too much, it's sludge; too little, it's rock! Do I gotta carve it in yer skull?"

Nearby, an older artisan barked at a young apprentice, "Girl, I had me stones smashed flat by a beast, an' even they'd do a finer job on this metal! Pay attention, will ya!"

Another craftsman scratched his head, squinting at a hunk of gear. "Right, so this here… uh… whatever-it-is—don't let the leather catch fire, yeah? Keep it from smokin'."

William couldn't help but grin. The rough-and-tumble nature of the artisans was an acquired taste, but it brought a vibrant energy to the Strip. Under Narsiz's and Alexander's guidance, beast-kin from various backgrounds had flocked here to share their knowledge and skills. The cacophony of shouts and the relentless pace might have been overwhelming to some, but for the residents, it was a welcome change from the soul-crushing monotony of their previous lives—endless days spent washing demonic leather.

Leaving the clamor of the Cursing Iron behind, William strolled through the open fields, the tall grass swaying gently in the breeze. His leather boots scuffed against the gravel path, occasionally sending small stones skittering ahead. Lost in contemplation, he remained vigilant, his eyes darting to the tree line and the distant hills—a habit ingrained by years of hardship.

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As he neared the heart of the Strip, the faint hum of the marketplace reached his ears, gradually swelling into a cacophony of voices. A heated argument pierced the general bartering.

"Do not fuck with me, you rustler!" a fiery voice snarled.

"I don't even know what that shit means! Will you buy it or not?" came the exasperated reply.

"You stupid asshole, you were the ones who attacked us!"

William sighed, his brow furrowing. 'Another petty squabble,' he thought. The marketplace was an ambitious experiment—an open bazaar where three rival factions could trade freely. It was intended to foster unity, or at least tolerance, but old grudges died hard.

He edged closer and saw a fire djinn, flames flickering angrily around his wrists, confronting a wind djinn whose translucent wings, made of small gales, fluttered in irritation.

"I never even heard about anything of that, so fuck off!" the wind djinn snapped.

"Heh, your dialect—you really speak like a moron?" the fire djinn taunted.

"What did you say? Wanna repeat it?" The wind djinn's eyes narrowed, a gust swirling around him.

Before the confrontation could escalate, a beast-kin guard stepped between them, arms outstretched. "Enough! Both of you will stop and step away with me," he urged.

William watched the scene with a mix of frustration and resignation. 'So much for Alexander's ideals,' he mused. He admired the vision of different races coexisting, but centuries of animosity weren't easily erased. It would take more than shared commerce to bridge the chasms of hatred—perhaps a common enemy or an unparalleled act of unity.

Back to walking through the enthusiastic marketplace, vendors called out from their stalls, their voices blending into a lively chorus. "Fresh bread! Delicious sourdough bread!" one shouted, waving a crusty loaf. "Exotic fish! The likes of which you've never tasted before!" another enticed, holding up a shimmering catch.

Despite the occasional disputes, the marketplace thrived. Coin clinked and changed hands rapidly as the Strip transformed into a bustling hub of commerce—though perhaps not in the way Alexander had originally envisioned. William chuckled to himself, recalling their lively debates when the first traders arrived, bringing news and opportunities.

Turning down a narrow alleyway, he emerged into a district awash with vibrant colors and enticing aromas. Lanterns hung overhead, casting a warm glow that would soften the edges of the night. This was the heart of cultural exchange—the red-light district. Unregulated by the Lord or Lady, Narsiz, or anyone else, it had become a melting pot where inhibitions faded and boundaries blurred. Here, the exotic allure of different races and the promise of freedom drew crowds day and night.

A flirtatious voice purred nearby, "Hey there, sweetie. You look awfully... breedable. Care for some fun?"

An awkward reply followed, "I... uh... I'm a guy."

A playful laugh. "Well, that suits me just fine."

"I mean..."

"I enjoy fun regardless. You seem strong, muscular—"

"Uhhh..."

William smiled at the exchange. The Strip's harsh history had left little room for traditional relationships. With life so precarious, people embraced the moment, seeking comfort and connection where they could, unbound by conventions of gender or status.

The red-light district had blossomed rapidly, becoming a place of pleasure and a center for trade in rare goods and substances—mostly narcotics and various potions. When Alexander first learned of its popularity, his expression had been priceless—a mix of surprise and bemusement. Yet, ever pragmatic, he'd recognized its potential and supported its growth as a means to attract even more visitors to the island.

A tinge of melancholy crept into William's thoughts. 'Not everyone chose to stay,' he reflected, his gaze drifting to the horizon. Despite the burgeoning opportunities, many had left the Strip, seeking their fortunes elsewhere. Some ventured to Wolfsteeth, hoping to carve out a name for themselves as adventurers or mercenaries. Those whose skills didn't align with the island's needs craved purpose beyond its borders.

Fortunately, combatants weren't needed as The beast-kin patrolled the perimeter diligently, ensuring that the Essence Alliance could not exploit any vulnerabilities or provoke conflict.

Others were drawn to the allure of the dungeon—a labyrinthine network of caves teeming with danger and reward. Whispered tales spoke of the riches to be gained. Unfortunately, the risks were too massive as the first monsters inside were Tier 3 and above; it was also a veritable nest of toxic spiders and intricate traps, so it was shut until Alexander's people became strong enough to attack it safely.

A sly smile tugged at William's lips as he recalled his own foray into the depths. Navigating the winding passages and battling colossal insects—had been both terrifying and exhilarating. The dungeon's complexity made swift progress impossible, but the spoils were unparalleled. Each defeated creature yielded high-quality cores, and the experience gained was double the norm.

Dungeons were mysterious, each with its own unique structure—some a single vast chamber guarded by a formidable beast, others sprawling multi-level mazes with myriad foes. No one knew what lay at the heart of this one. There was even uncertainty about whether they could reach the guardian monster's core—the most coveted prize of all in the next decade.

'If I recall correctly, in certain circles, gold isn't even the currency of choice,' William mused. 'Transactions are made with cores, their value surpassing mere coins.' Cores were versatile—ingredients for potent potions, components in crafting powerful weapons, and essential for training. Their effects varied, but their worth was undeniable.

A sharp command cut through the air. "Use your hips, moron! Do you want to fight? Do it right!"

"Yes, senior!" came the earnest reply.

As William continued eastward, he passed the open training grounds. Rows of warriors, soldiers, and adventurers moved in unison, the rhythmic clanging of weapons and the shouts creating a symphony of discipline and determination. Here, skills and knowledge were exchanged freely, attracting newcomers and veterans. They drilled by day, honing their abilities with each other, and indulged by night, seeking release in the pleasures the Strip offered.

William felt a warmth spread across his cheeks as he thought of Alexander once more. 'He was right about this place,' he acknowledged, a soft smile playing on his lips. He remembered Alexander's tail swaying excitedly when he learned of the influx of trainees and their enthusiasm. The Strip's tumultuous history had forged a community rich in combat experience. Combining Alexander's open-hearted approach to sharing that wisdom had made the island a beacon for both novices seeking guidance and seasoned warriors looking for insights.

Beast-kin, djinns, and others who cared little for old enmities found common ground here. They valued the opportunity to grow stronger and fill their coffers over clinging to the past. Many had made the Strip their temporary home, contributing to its diverse and vibrant tapestry.

Yet, not everything was as idyllic as it seemed. A shadow crossed William's face as he considered the challenges that lingered. Alexander bore the weight of heavy burdens—consequences of a coup that had been more orchestrated than spontaneous. As a result, he was compelled to launch a military campaign against a seemingly insignificant island, a move that served as punishment.

The Strip had rallied behind him. Thousands had volunteered, willing to risk their lives in combat. But unease gnawed at William. 'They haven't come back,' he thought grimly. Under Narsiz's directive, scouts had been dispatched to infiltrate the island ahead of the main force, but they have yet to return. The silence was unsettling, and though they maintained a facade of optimism, doubt crept in.

'Soon, it'll be my turn, he reminded himself.' In a week's time, he would embark on a reconnaissance mission, hoping to uncover why his people didn't make it.

Pushing the disquieting thoughts aside, William decided to visit his Mother. He made his way to their humble abode—a spacious tent adorned with modest decorations. Pulling back the entrance flap, he was greeted by emptiness. "Good for her," he murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

His Mother had been more active lately, taking long walks and forging new friendships. Seeing her embrace life lifted his spirits.

A folded piece of parchment caught his eye on the table. Picking it up, he read aloud, "I'm at the altar, taking a hike, waiting for you." He arched an eyebrow, a mix of amusement and concern washing over him. 'The altar?' he mused. 'Why visiting the dungeon?' A name they had chosen to call it until it officially opened.