Lord of the Foresaken
Chapter 30: UNDERCITY

Chapter 30: UNDERCITY

The Capital’s splendor was a lie that ended at sunset. As darkness fell, Reed pulled his hood lower, obscuring his face as he moved through streets that no longer pretended to defy gravity. Here, beneath the gleaming towers and floating gardens, the Undercity sprawled like a festering wound—reality laid bare.

"This is unwise," Shia murmured beside him, her hand never straying far from the curved blade at her hip. "The tournament begins at dawn. You should be resting, preparing."

"Knowledge is preparation," Reed replied, his voice barely audible above the cacophony of the Undercity. "And there are things I need to know that won’t be found in the gilded halls above."

They passed through a market where butchers hawked meat of dubious origin, the stench of blood mingling with incense burned to mask the rot. Reed’s gaze lingered on a vendor selling organs—some still pulsing with unnatural life, others preserved in viscous fluids that glowed with alchemical properties. Not all appeared to be from animals.

"Looking for something special, Lord?" the vendor asked, yellow teeth bared in what might have been a smile. His eyes—three of them, arranged in a triangle—gleamed with recognition. "Rare components, perhaps? I have hearts that beat without bodies, lungs that breathe elemental essences..."

Reed kept walking, but not before noting how the vendor’s third eye tracked him with unnerving precision. Word of his presence was spreading.

The architecture grew more hostile as they descended. Buildings leaned into each other like drunken mourners, windows like lidless eyes watching passersby. The people changed too—fewer pure elementals, more hybrids, mutations, and beings who defied categorization altogether. Outcasts and anomalies, like Reed himself.

"The Whispering Veil is just ahead," Shia said, pointing to a structure that seemed to fold in on itself, its entrance visible only from certain angles. "Your contact should be waiting."

Reed nodded, but his attention had fixed on a figure being dragged into an alley across the street—a young woman, her elemental signature flickering weakly. Water domain, by the blue-green shimmer of her aura, but corrupted somehow. Three larger figures surrounded her, their elements clashing jarringly.

"Wait here," he told Shia, already moving.

"Reed—" she began, but he was already across the street.

The alley reeked of waste and desperation. The woman was pinned against a wall, a knife at her throat. Not an ordinary blade—its edge gleamed with anti-elemental properties, designed to disrupt the very essence of its victims.

"Pretty blue-blood," one assailant sneered, his face a mass of tumorous growths that shifted constantly. "Your kind doesn’t belong down here. But your essence—that’ll fetch a nice price in the right market."

Reed cleared his throat. "I believe the lady is disinterested in your proposal."

The three attackers turned. The leader—the one with the shifting face—laughed. "Fuck off, unless you want to be next."

"I wouldn’t recommend that course of action," Reed replied evenly.

The leader gestured, and his companions moved toward Reed—one with hands that elongated into blade-like appendages, the other seeming to dissolve into a noxious gas with each step.

Reed didn’t move, didn’t blink. The air around him distorted subtly, the temperature dropping until frost formed on the alley walls. He opened his palm slightly, and within it, the four elements churned in perfect, terrible harmony.

The attackers hesitated, primal instinct warning them too late.

"You’re—" the leader began, recognition dawning.

Reed closed his fist. The elements erupted outward in a controlled wave. The gaseous attacker solidified instantly, crystallizing into a brittle statue that collapsed into dust. The blade-handed one screamed as his metallic appendages oxidized and crumbled. The leader turned to flee, but tendrils of elemental energy wrapped around his throat, lifting him.

"You recognized me," Reed said, stepping closer. "That’s interesting. Who told you the Lord of Hollow would be here tonight?"

The leader gurgled, his tumorous face writhing in agony. "N-no one! I swear!"

"Lying," Reed said calmly, tightening his grip. "Your corruption is deep, but not natural. Someone made you this way. Who?"

"The—the Flesh Sculptor!" the man choked out. "We serve Lord Vexus! He has eyes everywhere!"

Reed’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. "Then deliver him a message. Tell him that the next time he sends assassins, he should come himself."

He released his hold, and the man collapsed, gasping. Without another word, Reed turned to the woman, who had slumped to the ground during the confrontation.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, kneeling beside her.

She looked up, eyes wide with terror and something else—recognition. "You’re him. The one they’re all talking about. The aberration."

Reed’s mouth twisted. "So I’ve been told."

"Why would you help me?"

"Because I could." He helped her to her feet. "Go home. The Undercity isn’t safe tonight."

She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and pressed something into his hand—a small vial containing a luminescent blue liquid. "For your fight tomorrow. It won’t help you win, but it might help you survive."

Before he could respond, she was gone, disappearing into the labyrinthine alleys.

Shia materialized beside him, her expression tight with disapproval. "That was unnecessary. And now Vexus knows you’re here."

"He already knew," Reed replied, pocketing the vial. "Let’s continue. We have an appointment to keep."

The Whispering Veil lived up to its name—the entrance wavered like water, voices emanating from within, speaking secrets in a thousand different tongues. Reed passed through it without hesitation, the barrier parting like silk around him.

Inside, the tavern defied conventional space. Tables floated at varying heights, each surrounded by a privacy field that distorted sight and sound. Patrons of all species and elements conducted business in hushed tones, exchanging information more valuable than gold.

At the center of it all sat a woman whose age was impossible to determine. Her skin was like parchment, covered in moving ink—tattoos that shifted and changed, revealing secrets while simultaneously obscuring them. Madame Vex, the most notorious information broker in the Capital.

"Lord Reed," she called, her voice resonating with a strange harmonic quality. "You’re late. The shadows grow restless."

Reed approached her table, which descended to meet him. "I was delayed."

"Yes, I know. Vexus’s little test. Crude, but effective at measuring your capabilities." She gestured to an empty chair. "Sit. Time is money, and you have little of either."

Reed sat, Shia remaining standing just behind him. "I need information on the tournament participants. Specifically, Lord Krell and his champion."

Madame Vex laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Straight to business. I appreciate that." She snapped her fingers, and a servant appeared with a crystal decanter. "Drink?"

"No."

"Wise. Most of my refreshments are poisonous to at least one elemental affinity." She poured herself a glass of iridescent liquid. "Lord Krell. The Iron Tyrant. Undefeated in three tournaments. His champion, Ironheart, has killed three hundred and seventeen opponents in ritual combat."

"I already know this," Reed said impatiently.

"But do you know that Ironheart isn’t a Hero at all?" Madame Vex leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "He’s a construct. A vessel forged from the essence of fallen warriors, bound together by Krell’s will. That’s why he never tires, never shows mercy. He cannot."

Reed’s expression remained impassive, but his mind raced. "That’s against the tournament rules."

"Rules are for those without power to break them." Madame Vex took a sip of her drink. "The Archons know, of course. They find it... amusing."

"What else?"

"The Council of Shadows grows concerned about you, Lord Reed. Your presence here disrupts certain... arrangements."

"The Council of Shadows is a myth," Shia interjected.

Madame Vex smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. "All myths have origins, my dear. Just as all shadows have substance." She turned back to Reed. "They’ve placed bets on your survival. Some favor you, others do not. The odds are... unfavorable."

"I didn’t come here for odds," Reed said.

"No, you came for advantage." Madame Vex produced a small box from beneath the table. "This will cost you."

"Name your price."

"Information for information. Tell me what you truly seek in the Capital."

Reed considered her for a long moment. "Justice."

Madame Vex laughed again. "A luxury few can afford." She pushed the box toward him. "Inside is a map of the arena, including the weakness points in Lord Krell’s territory. And this—" she produced a folded parchment "—is something you might find more interesting. Reports of rebellion in the Eastern Domains. Whispers of an alliance forming among the lower houses. Your name is mentioned."

Reed took both items, tucking them away. "Anything else?"

"The black market thrives on rare artifacts these days. Relics from before the Archons’ rule. Tools that can... disrupt elemental bindings." She studied him intently. "I could arrange a meeting with certain sellers, if you’re interested."

"Perhaps after the tournament."

"If you survive." Madame Vex drained her glass. "One last thing, freely given. Watch the shadows in the arena tomorrow. Not all who observe the match will be visible to the naked eye."

Reed stood, recognizing the dismissal. "Thank you for your time."

"Don’t thank me yet, Lord of Hollow. Knowledge is a double-edged blade." She gestured toward the exit. "The back way would be safer. Vexus isn’t the only one with eyes in the Undercity tonight."

Reed nodded to Shia, and they moved toward the rear of the establishment, passing through a corridor that seemed to stretch impossibly. The walls pulsed with a sick, organic rhythm, as if they were walking through the throat of some enormous beast.

"I don’t trust her," Shia muttered.

"Nor should you," Reed replied. "But her information is reliable, if incomplete."

They emerged into an alley different from the one they’d entered through, the air thick with mist that glowed faintly green. Reed consulted the map they’d acquired, orientating himself.

"This way," he said, pointing toward a narrow passage between two towering structures.

They were halfway through when the stones beneath their feet rumbled. Reed froze, senses alert. The walls on either side began to close in, slowly at first, then with increasing speed.

"Trap!" Shia shouted, drawing her blade.

Reed thrust his hands outward, summoning earth and air to brace against the encroaching walls. They slowed but didn’t stop. The passage continued to narrow, stone grinding against stone.

"Go!" he commanded Shia, who hesitated only briefly before slipping through the narrowing gap ahead.

The pressure increased, the trap clearly designed to crush anyone caught within. Reed’s strength began to falter as the elemental energies within him strained against the opposing force.

From the shadows at the end of the passage, a figure emerged—tall, unnaturally thin, its form constantly shifting as if viewed through rippling water. It raised a hand, and the walls accelerated their movement.

"Reed!" Shia called from beyond the trap, her voice muffled by the grinding stone.

The figure spoke, its voice like metal scraping against bone. "The anomaly dies tonight. The tournament requires... adjustment."

Reed gathered his strength for one final push, drawing on all four elements simultaneously. The strain was immense, blood vessels rupturing beneath his skin as power surged through him. With a roar, he unleashed it all at once.

The walls exploded outward, fragments of stone raining down upon the alley. Reed staggered forward, his vision blurring from the exertion. Through the dust and debris, he saw the figure still standing, untouched by the blast.

"Impossible," Reed whispered, his strength nearly depleted.

The figure moved with inhuman speed, crossing the distance between them in an instant. Up close, its features were indistinct, constantly shifting between different faces—all wearing the same expression of cold disdain.

"What are you?" Reed demanded, struggling to remain upright.

"I am judgment," the figure replied, reaching toward him with a hand that elongated into a blade of pure shadow. "And you, Lord of Hollow, have been found wanting."

The shadow-blade plunged toward Reed’s heart—only to be intercepted by Shia’s curved sword. The weapons met with a shriek that tore at the fabric of reality itself.

"Run!" she urged him, her blade shimmering with protective enchantments as she held the figure at bay.

Reed wanted to protest, to stand his ground, but he knew that in his depleted state, he would only be a liability. Reluctantly, he turned and fled deeper into the Undercity, the sounds of combat fading behind him.

The night veiled him in shadows as he moved, each step taking him further from Shia and closer to unknown dangers. The tournament forgotten, survival now his only goal. He clutched the information he’d purchased with one hand, the mysterious vial with the other.

A whisper reached him from the darkness ahead—not a voice, but a feeling. A presence. Ancient. Familiar. Waiting.

Reed hesitated, then stepped forward to meet it, unaware that eyes watched from every shadow, chronicling his every move, his every weakness.

The game was changing. The pieces were moving. And somewhere in the Capital, the Archons smiled.