Neon lights cut through the darkness, mingling with the cloying scent of perfume in the air. The faint aroma wafting through the smoke—was it burning cannabis or the residue of an aphrodisiac-laced drug? Either way, the stench emanating from the broken humans prowling the pleasure district was unlike anything in other sectors—a nauseating, literal human odor, a blend of women’s sweetness and men’s rancid sweat. Clad in armor, gripping the handle of his assault rifle, Danan glanced at a frenzied prostitute dancing wildly, then shifted his gaze to a man slumped in an alley.

  Reddish-purple track marks marred the man’s arm, just above a grimy rubber tube tied around his joint. His insect-like eyes locked onto his target as he trembled, plunging a needle into a bulging vein and injecting the syringe’s narcotic contents. With each millimeter of liquid entering his body, his face twisted into ecstasy, drool dripping as his eyes rolled back. When the drug was fully administered, his body convulsed, urine and feces spilling from slackened muscles.

  Broken. Everything here—instinct and reason—was thrown into a blender, shredded, and fused together. In this place, self-control held no value, mere dust compared to the supreme doctrine of instinct, of seething desire and greed. Every resident offered their lust and carnality to themselves, dedicating the pleasure and pain they received to the Empress of Debauchery. Thus, the pleasure district bloomed and rotted under neon lights, the most warped, mad, and ugly existence in the undercity.

  The crucible of carnal desire, ruled and dominated by the Empress, could be likened to a rotten lotus blooming in sludge. Feeding on the putrid stench rising from the gutter, absorbing the decayed air from bursting bubbles, it produced a maddening fragrance that bewitched people. The Empress, a fallen star standing amid the lotus, the leader of the crucible, sustained this broken city with the flies swarming around her. Emitting a sweet rot and declaring service and lust as the ultimate treasures, she sat today in a palace that shone with an otherworldly brilliance in the pleasure district.

  Women and children sold off, men with their tongues ripped out and limb joints severed, crawling like dogs. And an ugly woman, laughing raucously while clutching a leash… Her gaze stabbed at Danan, and after whispering to a suited man beside her, they silently drew electric shockers from their pockets.

  Before he could register the threat, Danan’s arm moved, aiming the rifle at the man. His steel finger pulled the trigger. A dry gunshot rang out, the bullet piercing the man’s forehead, splattering brains and blood across the ugly woman’s face. Ear-piercing screams mingled with the clinking of leash chains. The woman, her barrel-like body quaking, slapped the rear of the limbless “human dog” and aimed a magnum at Danan—one she couldn’t possibly fire.

  She was likely from the affluent mid-level city, a true sadist who bought, broke, and killed for sport. Her necklace, studded with colorful gems, and the ring on her finger, set with a child’s tooth, proved it. Her arms, unmechanized, bore sagging skin and thick flesh, evidence of a lavish lifestyle.

  Few in the undercity dared defy mid-level city dwellers. No one went out of their way to act—there was no mutual non-aggression pact or treaty of friendship. It was simply pointless. Death in the undercity was one’s own responsibility. Venturing into danger, throwing money around to do as they pleased—none of it prompted complaints from the undercity. But if they lost their lives, had their mid-level ID stolen, or fell victim to abduction, it was all due to their own lack of responsibility. If a mid-level citizen strayed from the security forces during an “undercity tour” and got killed, the undercity laughed it off as expected, gleefully looting the dead’s possessions.

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  Thus—Danan slashed down a charging black-clad figure, shot another dead, and dodged a magnum bullet aimed at his arm by a slight shift of his body. Drawing his sword, Helles, he severed the ugly woman’s jaw and neck, ending her life. Kicking her rolling head aside, he stripped her of valuables, glanced at her hollow-eyed “possessions,” and resumed walking.

  No need to save them, no obligation to try. Once collared in this district, they were someone’s property until death. Physical shackles could be removed, but the mental chains and drug dependency were unbreakable. He had no responsibility to go that far. The stunned “possessions” surrendered to passing autonomous machines, assigned new product names and numbers, and were displayed with price tags as they moved down the street.

  “Danan, incoming transmission from Lils. Connect?” Nephthys’ voice echoed in his mind.

  “Do it.”

  A noise like static buzzed in his ears, followed by Lils’ voice through the radio in his mechanical arm. “How’s it going, Danan? Can you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. The nano-GPS signal is close. It’s coming from deeper in the district… the crucible’s headquarters.”

  Danan’s eyes locked onto a palace gleaming with gold, silver, and vibrant neon, and he nodded.

  “And?”

  “…”

  “How do you plan to get in? Going in guns blazing? Don’t. It’s you against an army. Their soldiers may be a few steps below the ruffians in skill, but can you take on thousands alone? No way, right?”

  Lils’ words halted his steps. Brushing off a prostitute clinging to his arm, Danan scraped the spit on his boot against the ground and surveyed the street.

  Dancing prostitutes, men buying them, couples entangled in alleys, gang members surrendering to drug-fueled euphoria… The clamor fueled the heat, and Danan approached a manhole illuminated by grotesque light. Tapping the cover with his foot to confirm it wasn’t sealed, he growled his mechanical arm to life and lifted it effortlessly.

  The manhole led to a stench-filled abyss, crawling with cockroaches and rats. Donning a gas mask and goggles, Danan slipped on gloves and crouched down.

  “Going underground?” Lils asked.

  “Figured you’d approve.”

  “I do, but… I’ll guide you. Focus on yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Activating his goggles’ night vision, Danan stepped onto a rusted ladder. Once fully inside the manhole, he closed the cover. The sealed sewer reeked, its toxic levels far higher than the surface due to the extreme environment. Even considering the waste and filth from toxin-ravaged humans, the values were abnormal. Brushing a cockroach from his ear, Danan slid down the ladder, scattering the rats swarming the ground.

  Feces, urine, foamy sewage from brothels, the corpse of a prostitute who’d fled to the sewer with her sanity intact. Eaten by insects and gnawed to the marrow by rats, the body was a skeleton of exposed white bone. Clutching a dull gold-plated locket, Danan picked it up, opened it, and saw a photo of what seemed to be a family.

  “…”

  Long ago, when the old man was still alive, Danan had heard of a gunsmith’s family sold to the pleasure district over unpaid debts. Back then, he was just a kid, a novice relic hunter still wet behind the ears.

  “…”

  Sighing deeply, Danan compared the skeletal corpse to the girl in the photo, said to be close with the old man. Picking up strands of red hair scattered on the ground, he tucked them into the locket, closed it, and shoved it into his pocket.

  He knew it was pointless sentimentality, mere self-satisfaction that wouldn’t please the dead. Yet, for some reason, it felt like the right thing to do. Ignorant of burial rites or etiquette, with the phrase “regret comes too late” flashing through his mind, Danan stroked the skull of the skeleton and stared into the sewer’s darkness.