Escape
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, dressed as sewer workers, leaning casually against crude spears. Beneath their disguises, glimpses of makeshift armor—patches of leather and rusted metal—hinted at their true purpose. Their postures were relaxed, but their eyes darted with sharp awareness, and their hands lingered near their weapons. These were no ordinary 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?
I'm still in a city?...
Taisora?!
The thought hit like a slap.
Impossible.
Taisora was rough, violent even—but this? Human sacrifices? Rituals just 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—though dilapidated—still stood tall in Taisora. Their acolytes 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 right 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 kings in all but name. And with them came their mages.
Their family's magic pathway had bred Tier 2 mages. There were even rumours that the clan leader was a Tier 3.
Magic. He had 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 down.
If only just to silence him, he knew they would hunt him down.
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. A Tier 2 knight, and a Tier 2 mage. A magic knight—steel and mana fused into a walking executioner.
The Sho 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.
It just keeps getting worse, Zephyr thought with a flicker of despair.
A sound snapped him from his thoughts—the distant din of a commotion echoing from down the corridor.
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 had to move.
His eyes darted around, looking for anything that might be of help.
There!
He caught the outline of a runoff pipe on the far side. It was narrow, partially hidden in the shadows, but it led past the entrance—a possible escape route.
If I could reach it unnoticed...
His mind raced, weighing the risk of movement against the growing clamor behind him. Every second counted.
He slid low, moving along the edge of the stone wall. The remaining guard leaned on his spear but was more alert now because of the distant commotion, eyes darting toward the corridor.
The stench from the pipe opening grew stronger as Zephyr crept closer and closer. The narrow crawlspace was 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 held his breath and wiggled into the pipe, the cold waste sucking at his skin. His eyes were closed as he pushed on.
"Pff..."
A faint breath escaped his lips as he fought against the unholy stench that permeated the cramped space.
Above him, the guard shifted at the sound, pausing mid-step.
Zephyr froze, his muscles locking in place, heart pounding as he waited—hoping the man would dismiss it as nothing more than the creak of old pipes or the drip of foul water.
The guard stepped closer, his boots scraping against stone, standing directly above him now.
His heartbeat stretched into eternity.
Just then, a faint rustle sounded nearby.
A rat skittered along the edge of the chamber, its tiny claws scraping against the stone. The guard grunted, his posture relaxing. Then he stepped away, muttering something under his breath about "filthy vermin."
Zephyr waited until he heard footsteps retreating before releasing his breath.
He took in another breath, foul and suffocating, but right now he didn't care.
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 finally reached the end of the pipe.
Bursting out, he tumbled into the shallow stream of filth that flowed through the main sewer tunnel. The cavern was far behind him now, but he wasn't in the clear yet. Too much noise here could draw the guard's attention, and he couldn't risk him coming out here. He steadied himself, crouching low in the muck, and scanned the dim tunnel ahead.
He spotted faint traces of light filtering from above in the distance and waded toward it, the filth clinging to his legs with every step.
Above him—a rusty grate. Beyond it—open night air.
His chest tightened with a flicker of relief.
He reached up and pushed. The grate shifted with a low, grating scrape. He froze, ears straining.
No shouts. No footsteps.
He pushed harder in one go and 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 man seeking to relieve himself.
He closed the grate behind him and shuffled away as quickly as he could, weaving through dark, narrow alleys. His clothes clung to him, reeking and squelching with every step.
I'm really still in Taisora..., he thought as he ran.
All my fears were real.