"There is no joy, for these moments fade. There is no clarity after loss, as such things settle in time. Memories of dreams slowly disappear, leaving only an absence—a void that is never full. Hunger consumes and kills some, while famine of the mind rots others from within. And yet, there is a peace born of pain—a longing that separates you from the world. There is a barrier, a shield, and the knowledge that to act is to fail. But to resist, one must try. Failure is the end of the cycle, but the cycle of resistance itself—eternal throughout a life—keeps you from the descent. It is the weight that holds you upright, the force against erosion, the perpetual struggle that denies oblivion. In the act of trying, defiance becomes its own kind of survival, its own form of existence. Yet if failure is inevitable, if the world is meaningless, and all else merely the last breath before collapse, then persistence itself becomes the act of defiance. To endure unto death is to remove failure from the equation, for destruction is not loss—it is the final truth. And in truth, no one falters. There is no fall when the ground is absent. There is no failure in oblivion.” - Martin Gravesend
About an hour after I departed, the warm melodies of gospel music filled the air, accompanied by soulful singing and the enchanting sounds of a piano. The atmosphere was alive with spiritual energy, creating a comforting ambience. During my time there, I had taken the opportunity to engage in gentle small talk with Larissa, asking about her favourite books and songs, while also sharing stories from my own experiences. As I made my way, I noticed something unusual: there were blood smears leading toward the Fountain of Asyrin. The cause wasn't immediately obvious, but as I got closer, I encountered a young monk whose lanky frame stood out against the backdrop of the serene temple grounds. His muscles were well-defined yet not overly pronounced, hinting at a life of rigorous discipline and physical training. He wore his short, chestnut-brown hair neatly pulled back into a tidy ponytail, which accentuated the sharp angles of his jawline. His complexion, though youthful, bore signs of hardship—sunken cheeks and a faint shadow beneath his eyes suggested he had often gone without adequate nourishment, likely sacrificing his food rations on multiple occasions for the sake of others.
The lines etched on his face spoke volumes about a life filled with toil and dedication, while the heavy eyelids hinted at countless nights spent awake, either in meditation or duty, stolen moments of sleep whenever he could manage. Despite the weariness that clung to him, there was a certain grace in his posture, a quiet resilience that seemed to radiate from his very being, drawing the eye and stirring a sense of admiration for his commitment to his chosen path. He seemed almost Destiny touched. The struggle that permeated Low Town had also left its mark on this man's flesh in the form of a bruise on his left eye and its stench upon his soul . The morally decadent society prioritised a rigid internal doctrine, akin to squashing bugs from atop the lofty heights of the city. The labourers, trapped in the relentless darkness that engulfed them, began to lose their grip on sanity, some descending into a state of frantic madness. The monk stood as a pillar of sobering defiance amidst this chaos, for he grasped the harsh truths of their existence. I observed him as he splashed water from the ornate fountain onto his weathered face, the droplets shimmering like tiny gems in the dim light. As I took in the moment, I realized that each church affiliated with the Priory of Laterists possessed its own unique character, evident in the subtle yet distinct variations in their architectural styles, liturgies, and community rituals, reflecting the diverse philosophies of the brothers who led them and knew this variation too then would have its judgement day. As I continued up the cobblestone path and turned to cut through the garden, I could hear a child call the monk over, "Thank you, Cedrie! My mom said you got her money back." As I crept past the monk, not wanting to intrude on his moment of clarity, I was aware of his heroism brought forth by force. I moved as quietly as a gargoyle, knowing that one day he, too, would be corrupted by Darkspire, and he too would face his reckoning. The city may never be the same—at least not in certain views. We were not a small city; rather, we were the centre of the world of castym so it was easy to find cabs and travel, even in the lowest level of Darkspire. As I climbed into the cab, I smelled a mixture of scented sprays used to help the man driving imprint his own order within his workspace, like a home that would always move him and offer consolation wherever he went. Funny, isn't that what we do to make sure our identity endures? Even this small act is evidence. Sitting in the cab, I glanced up at the small decorative pieces hanging from the centre of the car’s roof, swaying gently with the subtle motion of the vehicle. It was a symbol of the Karniquian faith—an intricate amulet of braided silver in the shape of a scarab, its surface etched with delicate, interwoven script that shimmered faintly under the dim interior light. A small gemstone, polished to a dull sheen from years of touch, rested in the centre, catching brief flickers of passing streetlamps as we moved through the city.
The cab’s interior was worn but well-kept, the scent of aged leather mingling with faint traces of incense, a lingering relic of past passengers. The dashboard was cluttered with personal effects: a faded photograph tucked into the corner of the windshield of the man's daughter, a string of prayer beads looped around the rearview mirror, and a handful of old transit tokens resting beside the gear shift. The seats were soft with use, the material fraying at the edges where countless riders had shifted and settled, their presence leaving quiet imprints of lives moving through Darkspire.
No matter where I went today, it felt as if God or something like Him was banging down my door. The Karniquian faith had no ties to Sin’Vella, yet here it was, a rarity in Darkspire, an echo from a world far beyond the city’s confines. It belonged to a small set of islands daring to defy the Varadeshi Republic, the distant Karntinguan Isles, a place whispered about in hushed tones, where outsiders claimed anarchy thrived and savage men roamed. The truth, as always, was far more complex, perhaps even the reverse. The voice crackled to life, deep and booming, its resonance twisting the fabric of the aisle into something altogether different. It issued from a stereo vox mounted behind the passenger booth, reverberating through the enclosed space. The reinforced glass—a necessity in this neighbourhood—separated us, his protection assured, yet his presence undeniable.
"Where can I take you, sir? Karato's blessings upon this fine night."
Karato—the crow god, one of the four deities entwined with humanity’s rebirth beneath an unending sky of darkness. Were we allies through derangement, I mused? Or bound by destiny? Perhaps even forged in deception, knowing my people. I shifted slightly in my seat, angling for a better view of the cab driver—an elusive figure, partially obscured by the dim lighting and the flickering cityscape beyond the window. As my gaze settled, the details of his face sharpened: piercings protruded from his skin, not unlike the ritual bones once used by certain tribal sects. But these were no crude adornments—each glinted like captive starlight, ornate jewels woven into his flesh with deliberate artistry. His face was a living mosaic, a tapestry of metal and skin, where tradition met subversion in an unspoken act of passion or adherence. I was still shaking from the Laterists, the echoes of their presence coiling deep within me. My hands trembled as I forced myself to speak, my voice dragging through the forges of my mind, gathering itself before emerging, slow and measured. "Raidewell alley. Do you know the Sinterlake District? It’s close to the old alcove near the bowling alley. New to the area—recent arrival." The driver slouched slightly—not in a way that suggested indifference, but in that subtle shift of posture that comes when a calculation is being made. He wasn’t just taking me in; he was assessing the location, mapping the most efficient trajectory in his mind before he spoke.“Yes, I know the place,” he said, his tone casual, but behind it lay an unspoken understanding. He had already formed guesses about my work, not through direct observation but through pattern recognition—a skill honed through years of navigating the city’s restless movement. Imprinting, though not done at birth for him, was still done at entry. His profession demanded constant exposure to people, their habits, their stories—real or fabricated. In his line of work, travel meant more than just distances covered. It meant experience with people in a lived-in way. He had ferried all types: the weary professionals returning from late meetings, the wanderers following the city’s pulse, the desperate clinging to destinations that offered escape rather than arrival. Each had left a trace, an impression, however fleeting. And now, in the quiet seconds between my request and his reply, I became another data point in his collection—a passenger to be categorised, understood, and filed away with all the others. While I knew his position was a Travik—a traveller imprint—I could assume comms as sub. The only thing he would know for certain about me was that I was some variety of Physik who had fallen on hard times. Maintaining this ruse meant keeping my guard up. Since Physik was a broad term, I could pass as industrial or security-related, and the secondary designation was an easier lie to sustain. The system itself was built on fingerprinting—a method refined over cycles to track movement and affiliations. Traviks carried their imprint through layers of verification, coded into transit logs and comms networks. It was an elegant structure, designed to ensure identities remained readable without ever truly exposing their depths—unless, of course, someone knew exactly where to look. That was the entire principle of the system: layered, meticulous, yet never so advanced that it became impenetrable. Forgeries existed, naturally. They were inevitable, because the system itself was built with methods that, while refined, were still physical—still subject to human error and manipulation. This made expertise paramount. Recognition wasn’t just about matching ink to registry or fingerprints to form; it was about understanding the rhythm of deception itself.
Authorities didn’t just verify—they analysed, traced, and studied. They worked through an intricate system of dossiers, fingerprinting preserved as a physical record rather than reduced to mere digital abstraction. Stamped clearance documents carried the weight of passage, each coded in ways only certain officials or factions understood. Some bore ink patterns, subtle enough to be missed by the untrained eye but undeniable to those attuned to the craft. Others relied on handwriting analysis—the slant of a name, the pressure of the stroke, the minute hesitations that exposed inconsistency. And then there were the higher listings—the documents that required something beyond mere sight.
Punched-card verification was their safeguard, a method rooted in precision, ensuring only the designated could move freely. Each punched sequence encoded a layer of clearance, a confirmation of status—an irrefutable marker that one belonged. But beyond paper records and physical permits, the deepest layer of identity verification lay beneath the skin itself.
By 1923, Darkspire’s biometric registrars had perfected a system of chemical DNA staining. Every individual, upon registration, underwent the process—a proprietary dye, tailored to bind selectively to a sequence within their genetic code, marking them with a luminous barcode visible only under precise reagent exposure. Officials trained in its analysis could discern clearance levels by the distinct pattern of the stain, a sequence woven into the biological fabric of each person. It was meticulous, refined, but never truly invulnerable.
Forgery thrived beneath bureaucratic rigidity. Skilled technicians mastered the manipulation of DNA staining, stripping away the encoded dye or replacing it with fabricated sequences. Some carried two barcodes at once—their original designation and the mask of another. This deception wasn’t merely personal; entire archival halls housed corrupted logs, falsified genetic registries running parallel to official records. Authorities continued scanning fingerprints as part of identity verification, but it was the barcode—the buried sequence within the flesh—that determined if a person was acknowledged as legitimate or an anomaly waiting to be erased. The Driver navigated Gravecrest Straight, the tires humming against the worn surface. Just before reaching The Slant plaza, he veered left—away from the slant opposite factory district, toward the lower sectors where the streets pulsed with subtle danger. As the vehicle slipped into the ether lit-stained gloom, he leaned back and offered a statement more theatrical than casual.
"Low Town’s falling apart. Used to be simple—you came, did the job, joined the Risers or didn’t. Life wasn’t so bad. But now? More gangs are pushing in, carving up territory that shouldn’t even be theirs. Lux is a good example. You know the club? You look the type who would… Or maybe Helena’s little Twin Snakes Bar?" Beneath the black plate of lowtown, The Slant sprawled like a forgotten artery of Darkspire—suffocating under its own weight. Ether lamps flickered along walkways where merchants whispered half-truths and deals turned on a silver’s edge. The ground level was slick with condensation, old wires looped around steel beams like veins in a dying beast, and rain dripped through the cracks in the metallic roof plates. The deeper one wandered, the more the amber glow of the illicit market
Low Town thrived in its decay, feeding on the slow rot of forgotten ambition. I paused for a moment, taking it all in, then replied slowly. "Yeah… I know Lux. Pepper didn’t seem so bad once you got to know her. The bar, though—that’s new? I didn’t even know there was one."
The Driver slumped back, exhaling as the silver light crept through the windshield, catching on his metal piercings. He lit a cigarette, the flickering glow merging with the ghostly beam where it met the ether lighting’s green haze. The atmosphere shifted—muted, uncertain—before his reply came, slow and measured. "Yeah, Pep’s not so bad. The bar’s new—got a new player in town. Cobra Gang. They’ve been shutting down most of the stores out that way. It’s local to your sector… Not surprised you don’t know it, being a new arrival." He paused for a moment, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as the ether lamps washed over him, their glow flickering against his worn jacket. A smirk twisted his expression, amusement laced with something sharper—something sickly.
"Nowadays, even medical supplies are a rarity in Low Town. Guess I lucked out—unlike the Phyiks. Makes me wonder just who those types are pissing off." As the car slowly descended deeper into Darktown’s Eclipse Tunnel Network, weaving through the district’s subterranean arteries, the interior gradually lost access to natural light. The Driver flicked on the dashboard glow, its dim blue radiance casting angular shadows across the cabin. We continued into the eclipsed passage, where silver blinking directional lights pulsed along the tunnel walls, their rhythm eerily precise. Powered by ether energy—known as the Infinite Force—the lights guided movement, marking designated pathways through the dense underworld. Their glow was neither warm nor inviting, but clinical, a mechanical heartbeat pulsing against the cold steel of the network’s structure.
It was here that I began to notice the Driver’s quirks—the quiet contentment in his posture, the slight ease in his breath. He was happy to be here, as if he had escaped something far worse. To him, my own people were the ones truly dangerous—to themselves, more than anyone else. He scanned the surroundings, his eyes flickering with rapid calculations, mapping the angles, the exits, the unknowns. As we edged forward in the queue of cars, a subtle shift in his posture betrayed a quiet tension—controlled, but undeniable. His voice, measured yet edged with weariness, broke the silence.
"Just another day—escape a war, enter mediocrity. You know how to fight?"
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first. Just the usual shuffle of vehicles creeping forward, the hum of engines, the nervous energy of those caught in the limbo of transit. But then—I saw it. A shape, barely perceptible, tucked into the dense shadows beyond the roadside. It moved with slow, deliberate intent, slinking through the darkness like a predator eyeing its prey.
The cars ahead screeched to a sudden stop.
A rush of fire erupted—an explosion of light, fierce and consuming, turning the eclipse above into a mockery of a sun. Screams cut through the thick night air, tangled with the unmistakable sound of laughter—sharp, jagged, unhinged.
A woman sprinted backward, desperation etched in her face as she shouted, "Tollgate raider!"
Though it was doubtful they had stockpiled much in the way of true weaponry, makeshift arms were more than enough to turn this into a bloodstained ordeal. My instincts coiled tight, the same survival impulse flashing across the cab driver’s face as he muttered under his breath.
He reached over, shoving a battered metal bat into my grip. Then, with a practised gesture, he kissed his hand, tapping a faded photograph of his daughter taped to the dashboard.
"Physik, right?" The firelight reflected in his eyes now—calm, resigned, ready. These thugs weren’t true Darklands raiders—just desperate opportunists, tangled in their web of deceit. Contacted through stolen frequencies, fed lies, indoctrinated into the illusion of anarchy. Most of them actually believed in the chaos like scripture, convinced it was some grand salvation. The mistake—the fatal one—was assuming it was better. A faith built on imposition, brutality, and the glorification of destruction for its own sake. Sounds rich coming from me, I know. But to me, it’s just a job.
I clambered out of the vehicle, slipping into the half-light, my movement swallowed by the surrounding ruin. The car itself was no ordinary construct—it felt alive, almost breathing, its surface shifting with the oil-slick sheen of polymer plating that reflected the fragmented plasteel bleeding from above. The seams between its panels pulsed faintly, responding to my weight as I slid along its side, careful not to disturb the whisper-thin sensor ridges that traced its edges. Its doors had no visible hinges—just an outline, as if waiting for permission to materialise.
Crouching at the back, I caught sight of my new acquaintance. His stance was unchanged, but his hand was no longer empty. A compact Gw3n11 sidearm rested against his thigh, fingers loose but ready. At least one of us had a gun. That could come in useful. If I could pin one of them down—even if I got caught—it would be about positioning, setting up the shot. He’d need a clear line. No obstructions, no second guesses.
The firelight licked against the car’s surface, distorting the glow as the shadows moved beyond it.
It was about to begin.
The Gw3n11 wasn’t built for elegance—it was crafted for efficiency, raw and unceremonious in its form. Compact, yes, but dense with reinforced alloy plating that gave it a deceptive weight in the hand. The grip, textured with a crosshatched polymer, showed signs of wear, faint streaks of oil and grime ingrained into its surface from years of use.
Unlike conventional sidearms, the Gw3n11 featured a tri-barrel design, making it brutally effective in close engagements. Its staggered chambering allowed for concentrated stopping power, each barrel synchronised for sequential discharge rather than simultaneous eruption. This made single shots devastating at short range, but the design had its risks.
Rapid firing was a gamble—too much heat buildup, too much recoil deviation. The exposed barrel vents left the wielder’s hand vulnerable; reckless overuse could result in catastrophic misfire or, worse, self-inflicted injury. A mistake in handling wouldn’t just jam the mechanism—it could blow fingers clean off. It wasn’t a weapon meant for spray-and-pray tactics. It demanded precision. Control. A steady hand and measured intent. No external safety. No excess mechanisms. Just the essentials: a manual charge indicator pulsing faintly, a side-mounted ejection port for quick cycling, and a low-profile trigger guard meant for instinctive handling rather than careful deliberation.
The muted sheen of its plating caught the etherlight for just a moment before it was swallowed again by the night. I suppose this was the fragility of man more mental than physical at any moment it could be your last and on nights like these where people actively sought to cut the threads of fate to gamble with the threads of their own existence whilst testing others....that fragility came full form if medical care wasn't an option since expense that meant we had to be careful. The fragility of man was never just of flesh and bone—it was far more treacherous, more insidious. It was the mind’s brittle balance, the quiet war between reason and recklessness, the knowledge that fate could unravel in an instant.On nights like these, when desperate souls wagered their existence against another’s, when violence wasn’t just a means but a ritual—a test of will, of survival—the fragility of life became something tangible, something felt in the charged air between breaths.
Each thread stretched taut, waiting for the careless hand that might sever it. There were no guarantees, no second chances. Injury was not just pain—it was a financial weight, a sentence of suffering if the means to heal did not exist. So we moved carefully, like shades in the dark, navigating the narrow precipice between fortune and collapse. The cost of care was cruel, unforgiving, and so caution became the only armour we had. This was the truth of the world—not a grand battle, not an endless war, but a slow erosion, a quiet attrition of those too weak, too unfortunate, or too reckless to dance the line without consequence. The Raiders moved in erratic, theatrical strides around the car at the front of the queue—an intimidation tactic designed to keep the others frozen in place. There were three of them, each playing their part in this violent spectacle. Some drivers attempted to force their way forward, but jagged tire spikes had already been deployed. The moment their wheels hit the traps, rubber shredded, sending vehicles skidding wildly before crashing to a halt, their momentum stolen by cruel ingenuity.
The largest of the three Raiders strutted toward the second car, flamboyant in his movements, revelling in the chaos like a performer basking in the heat of stage lights. His attire was a twisted parody of opulence—worn leather adorned with mismatched patches, a crimson sash wrapped around his waist like a trophy, and thick, reinforced boots scuffed from years of brutality. Metal rings clinked on his fingers as he swung a weathered baseball bat, its surface stained and splintered.
"Burning metal... something about it gets me off!" he mused, whilst grabbing his crotch, his voice laced with amusement and malice. "I wonder what the pomps around here think. Should we ask contestant number two?" With a sudden, savage motion, he brought the bat down against the second car’s windshield, the glass shattering into jagged shards that spilt into the cabin like fractured starlight. The passengers inside—a man and a woman, both pale with fear—recoiled. Their clothes were worn and grimy, remnants of better days clinging to them like ghosts.
"Get the little rat lollipopper out!" the Raider barked, signalling to his men. "It’s a party after all."
The other two Raiders moved in, their gear a patchwork of stolen military scraps, salvaged armour plates, and makeshift insignias that meant nothing except to those who wore them. One had a rusted pauldron strapped to his shoulder, a twisted metal crest barely resembling something from a long-forgotten regiment. The other had a belt lined with spent shell casings, trophies of past violence.
Flames crackled along the wreckage further down the queue. The cars, their bodies twisted from impact, burned with a sickly glow—molten metal hissing as it consumed the vehicles from the inside. Smoke coiled into the air, heavy with the scent of scorched rubber and smouldering upholstery. The heat distorted the scene, making the wreckage seem almost alive, writhing in its final moments before collapsing into ruin. It was difficult to gauge our surroundings in the thick darkness, even with the distant fire flickering like a broken flashlight. The haze obscured most details, making it hard to distinguish figures or landmarks. Still, as I clung to the boot of the car, craning my head for a better view of the three raiders, I could sense something—a flicker of movement, a disturbance in the air. Years of training as a physik had sharpened my perception. Though we were only human, our kind thrived by specialising, refining skill sets attuned to the demands of our roles.
Yet even with my observational discipline, I knew the man opposite me would be the superior spotter. It was not a matter of effort but of design. Some men honed their abilities to razor precision, transforming raw talent into mastery through singular focus. I turned to him, catching the faint glint of his eyes as he studied the terrain through the left side. He had to be the one to see more—to notice the details I could not.
"What do you see?" I asked, trusting in the refinement of his vision over my own.
The principle was not new—history had shown that greatness often emerged from this ruthless refinement. Consider your own fragmented world Miyamoto Musashi, the famed Japanese swordsman who spent his life perfecting combat techniques, achieving unparalleled mastery through relentless duels. Or Nikola Tesla, whose obsessive focus on electrical engineering revolutionised the modern world, his mind tuned only to the currents and mechanics of innovation. Even in warfare, the sniper Vasily Zaitsev proved the lethal advantage of singular specialisation—his vision trained to recognise the faintest shift of an enemy amidst the rubble of Stalingrad. Specialisation was not about possessing every skill but perfecting the one that mattered most in the moment. And in this moment, survival depended on his sight. The cab driver let out a weary sigh, shaking his head as he surveyed the scene. “Yeah… three, obviously. But—uh—the car took a hit. Molotov. You can see the scorch marks. They’ve laid a few rail spike traps, too, so no smooth getaway. And the exit? Boarded up tight. No sneaking out of here without a fight.”
He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose, his gaze dropping to his feet. As his head tilted downward, a soft clinking accompanied the motion—the delicate chime of Karntiguan jewels shifting against his piercings, catching faint glimmers of light even in the dim haze. The sound was subtle yet distinct, a small whisper of wealth in a moment thick with tension. “My daughter, Veta… Her birthday was yesterday. Missed it. Had to grab a gift after this job.” His voice faltered for a moment before he steadied himself, lifting his head. His eyes narrowed as he studied the figures ahead. “One’s got a bit of a gut, but the way he swings—there’s power behind it. Physik, I’d wager. The other two? Hard to say. Raiders just… do what they want.”