Chapter 23 – Blood in the Gutter

Karthaven's Outer Streets never truly slept.

The lamps didn't banish darkness—they carved it into thin ribbons. Alleyways breathed with muttered threats, flashes of knives, and the sound of flesh on flesh. Somewhere distant, a bell tolled from a hidden shrine, answered by laughter from a drunken mob.

Aarav kept his head down, hood low, hands tucked into his patched cloak. Xena strode ahead like she owned the street, which, in this part of the city, probably kept them alive.

"Where are we going exactly?" Aarav whispered.

"To get you an identity," she said. "We find the right forger, slip some coin, and they etch you a sigil good enough to fool Inner scanners."

"Seems simple."

"It's not. The underworld smells new blood like ash-smoke. Don't make eye contact unless you want trouble."

The Underworld

They descended a narrow stairwell carved beneath a ruin of an old clocktower. The air turned hot, sour with sweat and blood.

Below, the tunnel opened into a cavernous chamber.

The underground arena stretched wide—a sand pit ringed by jagged iron spikes. Spectators in layered robes and tech-visors screamed from rickety stands. A horned brute of a man smashed his opponent into the ground, laughter rising like a tidal wave.

Aarav froze at the sight. Something stirred in his chest—the Vael'Zorath bloodline, Emberborn flames licking at his veins.

Fight… the Invader Will whispered. Feel the pulse of the hunt…

His breathing quickened, muscles coiling like springs. For a split second, he imagined stepping into that pit, feeling his blood ignite as he tore through opponents.

A sharp slap to the arm snapped him out of it.

"Don't," Xena hissed. "That's not for you—not yet."

"Yeah," he muttered, trying to steady his pulse. "Just… watching."

Past the arena, they wove through a grim warren of tunnels. Along the way, they passed:

A gang of masked thugs surrounding a sobbing debtor, booting him down stairs as they collected dues.

Shady rune-tattoo stalls, where desperate men screamed as counterfeit sigils burned into their flesh.

Black-market tech vendors, selling salvaged mech-arms and beast-gland injectors from glowing crates.

Everywhere they went, eyes followed them—hungry, calculating.

Finally, they reached a rusted door marked with faint crimson runes.

"This is the forger," Xena said. "Stay quiet. I'll talk."

They didn't make it inside.

From the shadows, a dozen figures emerged—thugs with crude shock-clubs and rune-daggers, their leader a lanky man with molten tattoos crawling up his neck.

"Well, well," he drawled. "Fresh meat from the gate. We've been looking for you."

Xena's stance shifted subtly, hand near her cleaver. "Move."

"No can do," the leader sneered. "There's a bounty out. Alive preferred. Dead acceptable."

Aarav felt heat crawl under his skin. Emberborn fire whispered. Break them…

The thugs lunged.

The alley erupted in chaos.

Xena spun her crescent cleaver in a brutal arc, severing a shock-club and splitting its wielder's ribs in a single blow.

Aarav ducked a blade swipe, twisting under the attacker's arm before blasting Infernal Pulse point-blank, sending the man crashing through crates.

Sparks and rune-light painted the walls as bodies slammed into stone.

Despite their fury, more thugs poured in from both ends. Aarav and Xena were being herded.

"That's not normal gang behavior," Aarav grunted, slamming another merc's face into the wall.

"Nope," Xena agreed, cleaving through a shoulder. "Feels like bait."

The answer came as a shrill, metallic howl echoed above.

Dark shapes dropped from the rooftops—Ashhounds, cloaked hunters with glowing red visors and clawed gauntlets. Unlike the thugs, they moved with chilling precision.

"Target confirmed," one rasped, voice mechanical. "Capture priority one."

"Oh great," Aarav said. "Merc dogs."

The Ashhounds attacked like predators—one slid across the ground with chain-blades, another vaulted and pinned Aarav with a gravity snare.

He roared, blood igniting, Emberborn power bursting in a spiral of flame that shredded the snare and burned the nearest thug alive.

Xena met an Ashhound's blade strike-for-strike, sparks raining as she snarled: "I hate mercs!"

The fight turned feral.

Aarav's dagger carved heated trails through the dark, every strike backed by unnatural reflexes as Emberborn frenzy took hold.

He absorbed faint flickers of essence from every fallen foe—strengthening his muscles, sharpening his instincts mid-fight.

Xena's cleaver painted the alley crimson, each kill a calculated, brutal flourish.

One by one, the thugs fell screaming. Two Ashhounds burned under Aarav's Infernal Pulse, another decapitated by Xena's vicious backswing.

At last, only silence remained.

Bodies smoldered, steam rising from blood pooling on stone. Aarav stood hunched, chest heaving, flames flickering along his arms before fading.

Xena kicked an Ashhound corpse, muttering. "We're so dead…"

A sharp beep came from Aarav's shoulder. He glanced down—under the torn fabric, a faint red sigil pulsed, embedded in his skin.

"A tracker," Xena hissed. She tried scraping it with her dagger—no use.

"They branded you during the fight," she explained. "Means the mercs can find you anywhere in the wilds."

"Great," Aarav said dryly. "I've always wanted to be bait."

Xena blew out a breath, then gave him a lopsided grin.

"You're a drag, you know that? Gonna cost me twice my bounty just to scrub this thing off."

Aarav winced. "We'll… figure it out?"

She pointed at the smoking battlefield. "Start figuring faster. Because next time, there won't be an Outer Streets left to hide in."