From the edge of Sector 8 to the outer ring of Sector 9 was a mere 4 kilometers. Distance wasn't the problem—it was the obstacles in between.
The main road was a death trap, choked with Federation checkpoints and armored patrols. To the west, the river offered a watery escape, but its dark currents were patrolled by drones and manned boats. To the east, the forest loomed, its dense canopy hiding motion sensors and tripwires. Both routes were crawling with law enforcement.
But there was one path they hadn't thought to guard—not yet, at least.
The sewers.
Narvel moved through the underground labyrinth with ease, his boots splashing through murky water that reeked of chemicals and decay. The darkness was oppressive and the air was thick with the stench of rot, but his eyes adjusted quickly.
He could see well enough to avoid the worst of the sludge.
The whispers, however, were another story. They clawed at the edges of his mind, a relentless barrage of doubt and temptation.
You're wasting time. She's already gone. You'll never make it.
Narvel gritted his teeth, shoving the voices aside as he pressed on. The sewers were a maze of twisting tunnels and rusted grates, but he knew the way. He'd used this route before, though never under such dire circumstances.
The 4 kilometers felt like an eternity, each step a battle against the whispers and the growing ache in his finger. But finally, the tunnel widened, and Narvel emerged into a larger chamber. A faint light filtered down from a grate above, illuminating a faded sign bolted to the wall: "SECTOR 9."
Narvel smirked bitterly.
He pushed open the manhole cover with a grunt, the heavy metal scraping against concrete as he hauled himself into a dark alley. The air hit him first—thick with the acrid tang of burning trash and chemical residue.
Sector 9 wasn't just a step down from Sector 8; it was a plunge into a different world.
The buildings were shorter, their walls cracked and patched with corrugated metal and plywood. Graffiti covered every available surface—not the artistic neon tags of Sector 8, but crude, angry scrawls: "FED RATS OUT," "BURN THE NOVAS," "WE WON'T BE ERASED."
The streets were narrower, the asphalt pockmarked with potholes and littered with debris. Abandoned vehicles lay on their sides, rusted and stripped for parts. Flickering streetlights cast uneven pools of yellow light, barely cutting through the smog that hung low over the sector.
Sanitation was nonexistent. A trash piled up in corners, spilling out of overflowing dumpsters. Rats scurried along the edges of the alley. The occasional burst of neon from a ramshackle bar or black-market tech den offered brief flashes of color, but even these were muted, their signs cracked and flickering.
Despite the decay, there was usually a strange, grim vitality to Sector 9.
Normally, music spilled from open windows—a mix of distorted synth beats and mournful ballads. Voices echoed in the distance, some shouting, others laughing. The people here were survivors, hardened by years of neglect and oppression.
But tonight, the streets were eerily quiet.
Narvel adjusted the rag over his face, his eyes scanning the alley. The absence of surveillance drones was conspicuous. Their buzz was missing, replaced by an unsettling stillness.
'Where is everyone?'
The question gnawed at him as he moved. By this time of night, Sector 9 should have been alive with activity—vendors hawking their wares, the occasional drunk stumbling home. Instead, the sidewalks were empty, and the windows of buildings that were normally bright were dark.
Then he heard it.
The rhythmic thud of boots hitting the pavement was concise and deliberate. Narvel ducked behind a wall, his breath catching in his throat. Peering around the corner, he saw them.
A platoon of Federation officers, their black armor gleaming under the flickering streetlights. They moved in formation, rifles slung across their chests, their eyes scanning the shadows.
Narvel's mind raced.
'Either a lot of people awakened their Novara Gene and got dragged into the Crucible… or they're all hiding, waiting for the Federation to piss off and leave them alone.'
Other possibilities flickered through his mind, but none seemed likely. If the Federation had tried anything drastic—rounding people up, forcing them into quarantine, a riot would have erupted by now. Then he remembered the bulletin he'd seen in Sector 8 about a riot already breaking out in Sector 9.
'Most of their men must've gone to quell the riot. That's good. It means our place is probably still safe.'
"Hey! The rat hiding in the corner, step out and identify yourself!"
The voice came from behind him.
Narvel froze.
Without realizing it, an officer had circled around the wall he was using for cover. His first instinct was to run, but a quick glance confirmed the rest of the platoon was still marching ahead, their boots echoing in the distance.
'Good. They didn't hear him.'
Narvel stood slowly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. His face remained covered, the bloodstained rag masking his features. The officer's grip tightened on his pistol, its barrel glowing faintly with a blue radiance.
"Unmask yourself. Now."
Narvel hesitated, then spoke in a weak, trembling voice. "Sure, but… I'm injured." He held up his left hand, the pinky bent at an unnatural angle, swollen and purple.
For a moment, the officer's eyes flicked to the injury, his focus wavering—and that was all Narvel needed.
With a surge of willpower, he activated his telekinesis, a weaker ability of his but enough to loosen the officer's grip on the pistol. Before the man could react, Narvel lunged forward, his fist slamming into the officer's stomach. The blow bypassed the armor, driving the air from the man's lungs. The officer crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Narvel didn't wait. He was already moving, darting down the alley as the whispers rose in his mind like a storm.
Weakling. Fool. Do you think you can outrun us?
The voices grew louder, more insistent. Narvel gritted his teeth, shoving them aside as he ran.
Fifteen minutes later, he reached the place he had called home for the past seven years. A three-story building tucked between a pawnshop and a boarded-up diner. The faded sign above the door read "The Rusty Anchor," though the "R" had long since fallen off, leaving only a faint outline.
Narvel removed the rag on his face and knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the empty street. A latch slid open, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes.
"Scrounge, it's you." The voice was low and cautious. The eyes darted left and right, scanning the street for any sign of trouble.
"Open up," Narvel growled, his patience wearing thin.
"Tonight's not a night to be lax. I need to do my due diligence." The latch snapped shut, followed by the sound of locks clicking open.
The moment the door was fully unlocked, Narvel pushed it open and stepped inside. The main hall was dimly lit, with round tables and chairs scattered haphazardly across the room. The bar in the corner, usually bustling with men drowning their sorrows in cheap liquor, was eerily empty tonight.
"Greaves is in the basement with Josey," a voice called from behind. Narvel didn't turn around; he already knew it was the same person who'd opened the door. "She seemed a lot weaker this evening. This Ember thing they spread around the outer ring isn't doing her any good."
Narvel didn't respond. He was already moving, his boots clanging against the metal stairs as he descended into the basement.
The basement was different from the bar above, sprawling low-ceilinged space lit by fluorescent lights. Rows of cots lined the walls, some occupied by sleeping figures, others by people huddled together, whispering in hushed tones. The air was frigid cold, different from the weather above.
At the far end of the dimly lit room, Mama Greaves stood over a cot, her broad frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the flickering light of the single bulb above. Her expression became a usual mask of unshakable calm but was grim.
The deep lines around her mouth and forehead were etched with worry. Her skin was a rich brown of aged mahogany, and her dark eyes, sharp and piercing, flicked between Joseline's frail form and Narvel's hesitant approach.
Joseline lay on the cot, her skin pale as parchment, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Strands of her black hair stuck onto her face. The faint hum of an energy pulsated from her and filled the room, it was also the source of the frigid cold that filled the basement.
Mama Greaves turned to face Narvel, her frown deepening. She wore a long, patchwork dress made of faded fabrics. A thick, knitted shawl draped over her shoulders, its frayed edges brushing against her arms as she crossed them. Her hair, a wild crown of silver-streaked curls, was tied back with a strip of cloth, though a few rebellious strands framed her face, softening her stern expression.
"She tried resisting. Now, her consciousness has already been drawn into the Crucible," Greaves said.
Narvel's stomach dropped. His mind raced with images of the horrors she might face in there. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the basement, his boots echoing on the metal stairs.
He strode to the bar, crouched, and pulled a machete from its hiding place beneath the counter. Gripping the weapon tightly, he made his way upstairs, not stopping until he reached his room.
"What's he gonna do with that machete?" A brawny man muttered.
"Don't worry," the blue-eyed man replied, waving a hand dismissively. "He does crazy things when he's upset, but he's not stupid."
In his room, Narvel stood frozen, staring at an empty space. The whispers in his mind grew louder, taunting him.
I thought you said you'd never go back to the Crucible. What changed your mind, weakling? Hahaha!
The voices cackled, but Narvel ignored them. All he could think of was Joseline—where she might be, and what she might be facing.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice steady. "I'll find her. I'll protect her until she's able to wake up."
With a deep breath, he stepped forward into the empty space. A strange energy enveloped him, crackling like static, and in an instant, he vanished…