The descent into the Deep-Vents was a journey through the city's subconscious.
Here, the rhythmic hum of Vesper's grand engines faded into a wet, heavy thumping, like the heartbeat of a dying giant. The air was thick with a damp, earthy musk that felt wrong—too organic for a world built of brass and coal.
Ronan climbed down the rusted rungs, descending fifty meters into the gloom. The Lunar-Glass shard was tucked into a lead-lined pocket against his thigh. Even through the heavy leather, he could feel its unnatural chill seeping into his skin, a frozen needle pricking his nerves.
[WARNING: ATMOSPHERIC TOXICITY INCREASING]
[SPORE DENSITY: 12% — IDENTIFIED: MYCELIAN RESIDUE]
[SOUL-COLLAPSE RISK: 0.18%]
He reached a maintenance platform suspended over a vertical drop that seemed to plummet into the planet's core. The walls were slick with "Glow-Silt," a bioluminescent fungus that pulsed with a sickly, pale-green light.
It was here that the primary coolant pipes for the Third Tier converged. It was also where the pressure drop was most severe.
"Help... me..."
The voice was a dry rasp, barely audible over the hiss of escaping steam. Ronan froze. His hand moved instinctively to the heavy scraping pole he'd brought as a makeshift weapon.
He activated his Thermal Vision, but the display was a chaotic mess. Blobs of white-hot warmth from the pipes clashed with the cold, dead spots of the fungal growth.
He moved toward a junction box where a massive, two-meter-wide pipe had been partially crushed by an unknown force. Tucked into the recess was a man.
Or what used to be one.
His legs were fused to the iron by thick, ropey veins of iron-root fungus. His Guild leathers were tattered, revealing skin that had turned a translucent, bruised purple. This was a Mycelian infection in its late stages—the Ghost-Cap variety.
[TARGET ANALYSIS: TERMINAL STATE]
[BIOLOGICAL INTEGRATION: 88%]
[RECOGNITION: GUILD INSIGNIA DETECTED — HOUSE-LESS]
Ronan knelt beside him. The cold from the pipes bit through his oil-skin trousers. "Are you Kaelen's brother?"
The man's eyes flickered open. They were cloudy, the pupils replaced by tiny, radiating spores. He didn't look at Ronan; he looked through him, toward some invisible horizon.
"The... the roots," the man whispered. His breath smelled of damp earth and rot. "They don't just eat the steam. They hear the world. The Peak... it's calling them."
Ronan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the freezing ambient temperature. He reached out, his matte-black fingers brushing the man's wrist. He wasn't looking for a pulse; he was looking for the Aether-Lead.
The man's veins were bulging with it—concentrated, toxic, and exactly what Ronan needed to bind his marrow. But as he looked at the man's face, he saw a haunting resemblance to Kaelen's sharp, obsidian features.
"She's looking for you," Ronan said, his voice surprisingly soft.
The man let out a wet, rattling laugh. "Tell her... tell her the vents aren't empty. Tell her the Amanita-Stalkers are building a throne in the dark. Don't... don't let the pressure rise."
His hand went limp. The bioluminescence in his eyes faded, leaving behind only the dull, grey hollows of a fungal husk.
[BIOLOGICAL TRACE EXTERMINATED]
[AETHER-LEAD SOURCE: ACCESSIBLE]
Ronan stood in the silence of the Deep-Vents. He could simply harvest the lead now. It would be easy. It would put him at 90% progress instantly. But he thought of Kaelen's weary eyes and the way she'd tossed him the Lunar-Glass—a gesture of trust she couldn't afford to give.
If I take the lead from his bones, I am no better than the High Houses, he thought.
The Hunger screamed in his gut, a physical cramp that nearly doubled him over. He ignored it.
"I'm not a scavenger," Ronan muttered to the darkness. "I'm a historian."
He didn't touch the body. Instead, he turned his attention to the crushed pipe behind the man. The leak wasn't a mechanical failure; it was a deliberate tap. Someone—or something—was diverting the high-pressure Aether-Lead into a hidden chamber deeper in the vents.
He followed the trail of violet-black sludge dripping from the pipe, moving past the body and deeper into the darkness where the Guild's maps ended. Ten meters down, he found a hidden hatch. Its edges were sealed with the same iron-root fungus.
With a surge of his Vein-Seeker strength, Ronan wrenched the hatch open. The iron screamed as it gave way.
Inside was a small, pressurized vault filled with stolen Guild supplies and a crate of Refined Aether-Lead canisters. They were being hoarded by the Stalkers to feed their fungal growth.
[AETHER-LEAD ACCUMULATED]
[LEVEL 2 PROGRESS: 88%]
[NEURAL STRAIN: HIGH]
Ronan took what he needed. He also took the man's Guild tag—a dented brass disk engraved with the name Jeren.
When he finally climbed back up to the Guild hall, he was covered in soot and spore-dust. His lungs burned with every breath. Kaelen was waiting at the top of the ladder, her arms crossed, her lunar-blue eyes scanning his face.
Ronan didn't say a word. He walked up to her and pressed the brass disk into her hand.
The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating. Kaelen looked down at the disk. Her obsidian fingers trembled slightly. She didn't cry; she didn't have the luxury. She simply closed her fist around the metal until her knuckles turned white.
"The vents are clear," Ronan said, his voice raspy. "The pressure will hold."
Kaelen looked up at him. For a second, the mask of the Master-Scavenger slipped, revealing the raw grief beneath. "Did he... did he say anything?"
"He said the Silent Peak is calling," Ronan replied. "And he told me to finish the job."
Kaelen nodded slowly. She reached into her belt and pulled out a small, leather-bound book—the Guild's Ledger of Rites. She shoved it into Ronan's chest.
"You're at the threshold, Scribe," she said, her voice thick. "Don't do the ritual in the cubicles. The Overseers will smell the marrow-burn. Use the sub-basement behind the boiler. I'll keep the watch."
[NEW ALLY SECURED: KAELEN (BOND STRENGTHENED)]
[LEVEL 2 PROGRESS: 95%]
[STATUS: PREPARING FOR ASCENSION]
Ronan watched her walk away, her gait slightly less certain than before. He had his materials. He had his location. And now, he had a debt that would eventually have to be paid in blood.