The Underveil(3)
I wake up to the sound of distant machinery grinding through the night. My muscles protest as I shift, the cold seeping into my bones after sleeping against a rusted steel wall. My stamina has recovered slightly, but my health remains the same. No natural regeneration. If I want to heal, I need proper rest—or some kind of medical aid.
The world outside the broken scaffold is still alive. The Underveil doesn't sleep.
I peek through a gap in the metal, watching the figures moving in the distance. Some are traders, dragging carts filled with scrap and salvaged tech. Others are mercenaries, their weapons gleaming under the flickering neon lights. Further down, I spot a group of men huddled around a fire, their voices low and cautious. The 12-hour survival quest is still active. 5 hours left.
I stay low, opening my Apex System interface once again.
I need more information. If I'm going to survive, I have to know exactly what I'm working with.
[Apex System Interface]
User: Ash Renford
Level: 2
Class: Unassigned
Experience: 15/50
Health: 79/100
Mana: 20/20
Stamina: 42/50
[Abilities Unlocked]
• Survivor's Edge (Lv.1): Increases reaction speed and reduces pain perception.
• Adaptation Protocol (Lv.1): Slightly boosts experience gained from life-threatening situations.
[System Functions]
• Status Screen: (Unlocked.)
• Combat Log: (Unlocked.)
• Skill Tree: (Locked – Requires Class Selection.)
• Inventory: (Locked – Requires Level 5.)
• Shop: (Locked – Requires Synchronization.)
• Dungeons: (Locked – Requires Level 10.)
I frown. The Skill Tree being locked behind class selection is frustrating. It means no active combat skills until I commit to a path. I could select a class now, but I don't have enough information to make a choice.
I scroll down, trying to find anything I might have overlooked.
That's when I see it—something I hadn't noticed before. A small, flickering tab at the bottom of the interface. It wasn't there before.
[System Directives – Pending Activation]
I tap it.
[System Directives]
• Synchronization: 4% Complete (Further Synchronization Required to Unlock Additional Functions.)
• Class Expansion: Data Incomplete (More information required before additional classes can be revealed.)
• System Currency: Not Yet Introduced (Requires First Shop Interaction.)
• Quest Board: Unavailable (Requires Settlement Access.)
I exhale sharply. There's a lot the system isn't telling me yet.
The Synchronization percentage stands out. If it's at 4%, that means it's actively increasing. But how? Just by surviving? By fighting?
And then there's Class Expansion. That confirms something I suspected—there are more classes beyond the ones I originally saw. But I need more data before they unlock.
I close the tab and shift my focus. Right now, I have two choices.
One: Keep moving, explore more of the Underveil, and gather whatever resources I can.
Two: Take a calculated risk and find a way to force a system update—through combat, leveling up, or some other trigger.
A sudden noise pulls me from my thoughts.
Footsteps. Close.
I freeze, pressing my body against the cold metal. The steps are heavy, deliberate, not the casual wandering of a trader or scavenger. Someone is searching.
A shadow moves past the gap in the scaffold. Then another. Two figures.
Armed.
I hold my breath. If they find me, I won't be able to fight them off in my current state.
One of them speaks in a low voice. "You sure he came this way?"
"Yeah. He's fresh. Unmarked. Means he's worth something."
My stomach tightens. They're hunting someone.
And I have a feeling that someone is me.
I stay pressed against the cold steel, barely daring to breathe. The footsteps outside my hiding spot are slow, methodical. The two men aren't scavengers, not like the ones I'd seen earlier. These two moved like they belonged here—not comfortable, not casual, but with the wary control of men who knew the danger of their surroundings.
Not Underveil-born though. That much is obvious.
The people who actually live in this place—those poor bastards scraping by in the filth and darkness—move differently. They slink, keep to the shadows, melt into the cracks between structures like rats. These two? They carry authority, even down here.
But that doesn't mean they're safe.
A small part of me wants to stay still, let them pass. But my gut twists at the way they're speaking.
"Unmarked. Means he's worth something." I softly whisper.
They aren't looking for some random guy. They're looking for me.
Why? That's the question clawing at my brain. No one should know about me yet. I've barely been here a full night.
I need more information. I ease my head just a fraction to the side, peering through a jagged gap in the rusted scaffolding.
Two men. One taller, built solid, wearing scavenged armor over reinforced cloth. A hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. The second one is shorter, leaner, moving with an air of impatience. No gun on him, but the twin knives on his belt don't bode well for me.
Bounty hunters? Enforcers? No. Not police, at least not officially. Real cops don't work down here.
It's not that they can't—technically, the Underveil is still part of the city's jurisdiction. But the law doesn't reach this deep.
The police could march in if they wanted. Send a full squad down the tunnels, armored up, rifles ready, maybe even deploy a mech or two for support. But they don't. Because no one wants to.
This place isn't worth the manpower.
The air is toxic in some sectors. The infrastructure is barely holding together. The people are desperate, diseased, and dangerous. Cops who come down here don't leave without losing something—money, a limb, or their life.
Even hunters, the ones who chase bounties into the filth, only come when they have to. Too many disappear without a trace.
That's what makes these two interesting. They shouldn't be here.
And yet, they are.
I clench my jaw, running through options.
I could run. The tunnels stretch out in all directions—I don't know them well, but neither do they. But if they're tracking me, it won't matter.
Fighting? No. Not unless I have to. I'm outnumbered, outgunned, and barely holding together.
That leaves one option.
Misdirection.
I exhale slowly, shifting my weight. My stamina isn't fully restored, but it's enough for what I need.
I reach down, find a loose chunk of metal—a jagged scrap of rebar about the length of my forearm. Heavy enough to make noise.
One chance.
I grip it tight, then hurl it as hard as I can down the alley. It crashes into a pile of junk, sending cans and rusted debris clattering. The noise rips through the silence like a gunshot.
The two men react immediately.
"There!" The taller one whips around, rifle raised. His partner moves fast, knives drawn, eyes sharp.
They rush the noise.
I move in the opposite direction.
Keeping low, I slip between the jagged remnants of old scaffolding, ignoring the way my heart slams against my ribs. I move fast, silent, keeping to the patches of darkness where the neon lights don't reach.
I don't stop until I find an exit tunnel, one of the maintenance shafts leading deeper into the lower districts.
I slide into it, forcing myself to breathe evenly. Five hours left.
The hunt isn't over yet.