The Rust District was a beast that never slept.
When Kaelen emerged from the grate and onto the main thoroughfare—a sprawling expanse of mud and metallic refuse—the first thing to hit him was the sound.
There was no silence here like that of the forest, nor the rhythmic dripping of the tunnels. Instead, the air was a cacophony of hammer strikes, steam whistles, the shrieks of vendors, and the rhythmic thudding of distant mechanical presses. The city did not breathe; it snarled.
Kaelen pulled his hood low. Groth's cloak made his shoulders appear broad, but in a crowd like this, remaining inconspicuous was a difficult task.
People were everywhere.
Some had faces masked by soot, while others had been repaired with crude metallic prosthetics. On the skin of many were greenish patches or tumors, the marks of alchemical waste seeping down from above. Kaelen fought to keep his right eye closed, but the Void energy behind the lid throbbed, waiting for any opportunity to leak through.
He walked.
His steps were heavy. Grief vibrated against his back.
This was not the mechanical reaction he had felt in the tunnel. This was the excitement of a predator looking upon a crowded herd. Thousands of hearts were beating around him. Thousands of memories, thousands of souls, thousands of potential sources of nourishment.
Kaelen ground his teeth. He pressed his hand against the hilt through his cloak. The metal was hot, burning almost like fire. He struggled to suppress the sword's savage appetite with his will. Not now, he thought. Not yet.
He passed a market stall where unidentifiable pieces of grey meat and rusted gears were being sold side by side.
Fresh! the vendor barked, one eye made of glass. Valley rats, these! Radiation-free! Fresh!
Kaelen felt his stomach contract. He was hungry. He had not eaten for days, and Silas's soup had long since become a faded memory. But he did not have a single Cog—the currency of Nihil—in his pocket.
For a moment, he considered snatching a piece of meat from the edge of the stall and running. His reflexes would be more than enough. No one would catch him.
But he did not. That would be the behavior of an animal. He was not an animal. He was fighting not to become one.
He pushed through the crowd. As his shoulders brushed against people, he felt them recoil. A coldness radiated from him. The scent of death was etched into his being, and these people, driven by survival instincts, recognized it.
Before him rose a massive, domed structure.
The Crimson Market Arena.
This was the heart of the market. Its outer walls were clad in rusted iron plates, and the sound of cheering from within rolled out like thunder.
At the arena gates stood guards armed with heavy, broad-bladed cleavers and riveted armor. Before them was a long queue.
People... waiting to be sold.
Some were volunteers, choosing to die fighting rather than starve. Others were slaves, dragged along with collars around their necks.
Kaelen paused. His eye caught a group at the very back of the line.
Three guards were forcibly dragging a scrawny youth. The boy was screaming, digging his heels into the dirt, but he was powerless against the guards' strong arms.
Please! the boy shrieked. I have no debt! My father paid! Please!
Your father's debt is finished, one of the guards said with a grin. But the interest is on you.
They shoved the boy to the ground. One of the guards drew his cleaver halfway from its scabbard. The sound of metal scraping against metal emerged as a threatening growl.
Kaelen's right eye twitched.
Looking through that eye, he saw the boy's aura as a dim, grey tremor—a silent cry for help. The guards' auras, however, were a filthy, blood-red and mud-colored smear.
He reached for his sword.
Then he stopped. Logic intervened.
If you start a war here, the whole city will collapse upon you. Your mission is not to save this child. Your mission is to go up. Become invisible. Move on.
Kaelen turned his head. He would keep walking. He would ignore it. Thousands died in this city every day. He could not save them all.
But as he turned his back, he felt that foreign ache in his chest.
The boy's scream cut off, replaced by the dull thud of a kick. An icy shiver ran down Kaelen's spine. This was not his own pain.
This feeling... it was Groth's conscience.
The Gravekeeper had lived his entire life carrying the weight of failing to protect his daughter. And now, Kaelen carried that man's soul, his regrets, upon his own back. Groth's legacy was not just his boots; it was his unfinished quest for atonement. The foreign memory in his body pinned him to the spot.
Kaelen stopped.
He exhaled deeply, his breath turning into grey vapor in the air.
Slowly, he turned around.
The guard had drawn his cleaver fully and was raising the hilt to strike the boy in the face.
Leave him.
His voice was not loud. But in that noisy street, it rang out as clear and sharp as steel striking concrete.
The three guards froze. The blade remained suspended in the air.
The guard in the center—bearing a yellow stripe on his helmet indicating rank—turned slowly toward Kaelen.
And who are you, gutter rat? the guard asked. His eyes drifted to Kaelen's old, tattered cloak and the massive weapon on his back. Move along. Or you'll be next in line.
Kaelen pulled back his hood.
Long, greasy hair fell over his face. He raised his head slightly.
His left eye was calm. But his right...
The guard stepped back when he saw that pitch-black void. There was no threat in that eye; there was an ending.
Leave the boy, Kaelen said again.
Grief vibrated on his back. The sword knew. The scent of blood was drawing near.
He is a mutant! the second guard shouted, pointing his cleaver at Kaelen. An alchemist runaway!
Take him! the ranked guard commanded. He would be a fine piece for the arena!
The three guards abandoned the boy and walked toward Kaelen, clearing the area with swings of their blades. The sound of heavy iron cleaving the air was enough to terrify the crowd.
Kaelen brought his right hand from beneath his cloak and gripped Grief's hilt.
Silas was right, he thought. Perhaps I am already a graveyard.
He did not draw the blade. Not yet.
Instead, he opened his right eye fully.
The world turned grey. Time slowed. He could see the flow of blood in the guards' veins, the weak points in the joints of their armor, even the shift in energy where they would take their next steps.
The first guard lunged, swinging his heavy cleaver savagely toward Kaelen's neck.
Kaelen did not move. He simply leaned to the side, as fluid as a leaf caught in the wind. The sharp iron passed inches from the tip of his nose.
In that instant, Kaelen struck the guard's ribcage with the pommel of his sheathed sword—that massive hunk of metal.
CRACK.
The armor buckled. Before the guard could even draw breath, he was sent flying backward, crashing into a market stall. Meat and gears scattered into the air.
The other two guards faltered in shock.
The crowd fell silent. The roar of the great market gave way to an eerie stillness. Everyone stared at this stranger who had sent an armored man flying with a single blow.
Kaelen looked not at the boy on the ground, but at the two remaining guards.
Go, he said. Or I draw.
He meant the sword. And the tone in his voice implied that if he drew that blade, not only they, but half the street would die.
The ranked guard swallowed hard. He looked at his companion's motionless body, then into Kaelen's bottomless right eye.
The Inquisition... they will hear of this, freak, the guard said, his voice trembling.
They retreated, dragging their fallen comrade. The crowd parted for them.
Kaelen reached out a hand to the trembling boy on the ground.
The boy did not look at Kaelen's hand, but at his face. With terror. It was as if he were looking not at a savior, but at a far greater monster.
The boy scrambled to his feet but did not take Kaelen's hand. He backed away and disappeared into the crowd, fleeing.
Kaelen's hand remained suspended in the air.
A bitter smile played on his lips. This was what he had expected. He was no hero. He was merely a scarecrow that frightened other monsters.
He pulled his hood back over his head and hurried away. Yet he was aware; he was no longer invisible.
The eyes of the crowd were upon him. And worse still, from a balcony on the upper levels of the arena, another pair of eyes was watching him.
The Rust District had caught his scent.