World Cry

Zephyr moved faster now, his breath tight in his chest. The upward slope of the tunnel was growing steeper, and with it, a faint shift in the air. Less stagnant. Less death-ridden. There was something fresher ahead—damp, but touched with a coolness that whispered of the outside. He was getting close.

Hope surged—until he heard the voices.

Clearer than before. Alert. Steady. Guards.

He slowed, pressing himself against the damp stone wall. The narrow passage opened into a larger chamber ahead. Beyond it, the faintest sliver of light filtered down—a hatch? An entrance? He crept forward, careful with every step, until he saw them.

Two men, wearing garb like sewer workers leaning against crude spears, traces of armor pieced together from leather and rusted metal beneath their disguise. Their postures were relaxed, but their eyes moved often, their hands resting close to their weapons. Not mere thugs—these men knew their work.

Zephyr's pulse quickened.

An entrance meant escape. But guards meant death.

He shifted back into the shadows, his mind racing. He had to think.

The stench in the air was familiar now—the reek of sewage, rot, and human waste. He had crawled through plenty of hidden tunnels as Ra'el, dodging Scarface's patrols, escaping rival gangs. This place had the same sour odor.

A sewer.

He was still in a city.

Taisora?

The thought hit like a slap.

Impossible.

Taisora was rough, violent even—but this? Human sacrifices? Rituals beneath the city? No one had whispered a word of this in all his years surviving its streets. And yet…

He thought of the church. The Mother Gaia's branch temple stood tall in Taisora. Their priests roamed the alleys, offering bread to the destitute, medicine to the sick. He had seen them. He had eaten their bread.

If this was happening beneath their feet…

Zephyr's stomach twisted.

Someone powerful was covering this up.

His thoughts spiraled further. Taisora's ruling clan—The Sho Clan. The Baoshen kingdom had assigned them here a few generations ago. They controlled the city like lords in all but name. And with them came their mages.

Tier 2. And even rumours of a Tier 3.

His chest tightened at the memory. Magic. He had seen it only seen it once but had heard the tales—flashes of light, stone rising like a living creature beneath a mage's command. A fire user turning a rival to ash with a flick of his hand. Those were not men you crossed.

If those men learned what had happened—that he had survived, that he had woken up—

They would hunt him.

They would never stop.

A thin sheen of sweat coated his back. He forced his breathing to steady. Panic would kill him before any mage did.

Scarface's face flashed in his mind, that jagged sneer. He had always been dangerous, but he still bowed his head to someone worse.

Reaper.

That name was whispered like a curse in the alleys. Taishen's underworld king. Tier 2 knight. Tier 2 mage. A magic knight—steel and mana fused into a walking executioner.

The ruling clan tolerated him. Perhaps even needed him. He knew the streets better than any official. If this ritual—this operation—had been running under the city, there was no way he was unaware.

Scarface had handed him over, but Reaper had likely signed the deal.

Zephyr's teeth ground together.

He was nothing to them. A rat to be traded. A corpse to be dumped.

And now he was a loose end.

A sound snapped him from his thoughts. Voices shifting. A question called out. A reply—confused.

A distant commotion.

The guards up front stiffened. One raised his head, listening. The other frowned.

"Go check it out," the first muttered.

The second grunted and moved into the dark tunnel leading back toward the disposal pit.

Zephyr's heart leapt.

It was now or never.

He slid low, moving along the edge of the stone wall. The remaining guard leaned on his spear but was more alert now, eyes darting toward the source of the noise. Zephyr crept closer, each step slow, deliberate.

The stench grew stronger. A runoff pipe jutted from the base of the chamber, leading into a narrow crawlspace filled with sludge. Filth pooled beneath it—a mixture of excrement, decay, and things he didn't want to identify.

His stomach churned.

But there was no other way.

He dropped to his knees and slipped into the pipe, the cold waste sucking at his skin. He bit his lip to stifle his breath as the filth reached his chest.

The guard shifted above, pausing.

Zephyr froze, submerged up to his chin. He dared not move. The guard stepped closer, his boots scraping against stone, standing directly above him now.

His heartbeat stretched into eternity.

Then—a faint rustle nearby.

A rat skittered along the edge of the chamber. The guard grunted and stepped away, muttering under his breath.

Zephyr waited until he heard footsteps retreating.

He pushed forward, his body slick with filth as he dragged himself through the pipe. The air grew thinner—brighter.

He pressed forward, hands trembling, until he reached the end of the crawlspace. Above him—a rusty grate. Beyond it—night.

His chest tightened with relief.

He pushed. The grate shifted with a low scrape. He paused, listening. No shouts. No footsteps.

He pushed harder. The metal gave way.

He climbed out, gasping as the cool night air hit his face. He wiped his eyes, smearing grime across his cheeks. He blinked against the dim light of flickering lanterns in the distance.

Stone buildings rose around him—narrow, crowded. He was in a small, neglected alley. Overgrown weeds pressed against the cracked stone walls. The kind of place no one lingered, except perhaps for a desperate man seeking to relieve himself.

He sagged against the wall, chest heaving.

Then the stench hit him—stronger now, clinging to his skin. He reeked of sewage and death. His clothes were soaked with filth. His hair plastered against his forehead with gods knew what.

He gagged but forced it down.

A distant shout carried over the rooftops—drunken laughter, the murmur of night traders. Life.

He was back in Taisora.

But nothing felt the same.

The streets he had once called home now pressed in like a trap. Every face could be an enemy. Every alley could hide a blade.

And beneath these stones—beneath this city—was a darkness he had glimpsed but barely escaped.

He was not safe.

Not here. Not anywhere.

He had survived their ritual.

And they would come for him.

But he was not the same boy they had left to die.

He was Zephyr.

And he would not be caught.