The stairs spiraled downward far longer than Zhang Lu expected.
Each step creaked beneath his boots, the sound brittle and tired—like an old man's bones protesting one movement too many. Moisture clung to the stone walls, beading along faded runes that pulsed faintly when the lantern passed. Its golden flame swayed in his grip, stretching shadows that crawled along the narrow stairwell like living things.
The air changed as he descended.
Above, it had smelled of dust and forgotten paper.
Down here, it carried warmth. Breath. Smoke.
The smell of a living city.
At the bottom waited a heavy wooden door, swollen with age and warped by damp. Anthony's memories surfaced without effort—muscle memory, precise and practiced. Zhang Lu pressed a loose brick beside the frame.
Click.
Hidden gears groaned.
The door slid aside.
Night spilled in.
The city struck him like a wave.
Aetherport unfolded beyond the alley mouth in layered chaos—tier upon tier of stone and steel, stretching upward into a permanent haze. White marble spires pierced the fog, their tips crowned with glowing arcane crystals that bathed the city in pale, artificial starlight. Airships drifted overhead like lazy leviathans, sails embroidered with noble crests, engines humming with restrained divinity.
Below, the streets churned with life.
Merchants barked prices from rune-lit carts hauled by mechanical horses. Children darted through crowds, laughing as they chased floating orbs that chimed with soft, bell-like music. Veiled figures slipped through shadows that felt deeper than they should—places where the light hesitated.
But beauty didn't reach this level.
Here, in the mid-districts, fog from the god-touched ruins clung low and heavy. Coal smoke mingled with frying dough and the sharp, metallic tang of blood—fresh from a butcher's stall, or the residue of a spell gone wrong.
Zhang Lu pulled his cape tighter and dimmed the lantern beneath its folds.
People noticed anyway.
The clothes marked him as wrong—too refined for the slums, too worn for the upper tiers. Beggars tracked him with hollow eyes, their skin marred by faint iridescent scars.
Failed blessings, Anthony's memories whispered.
Marks left behind when gods rejected their prayers.
"No phone. No map. Just vibes and trauma," Zhang Lu muttered under his breath.
He oriented himself using borrowed instincts. Downhill toward the river. Skirt the market square. Then cut hard into the Lower Warrens.
He moved.
Cobblestones clicked beneath his boots. Overhead, rune-lamps flickered to life, fed by captured essence siphoned from lesser gods. Vendors shouted over one another:
"God-blessed apples! One bite, no nightmares!"
"Authentic relics from the old ruins—guaranteed or your coin back!"
Scams. Most of them.
The real artifacts never touched open markets. They were locked away by academy elites—or buried beneath the Dark Castle's watch.
A column of Ivory Guard marched past.
White armor gleamed. Halberds tipped with anti-magic crystals caught the light. Their visors turned as one, scanning the crowd with cold precision.
Zhang Lu slipped into a side alley, pulse spiking.
Anthony had graduated from their academy on scholarship. Debt and disgrace had kept him from ever wearing that armor.
Good, Zhang Lu thought grimly.
Those guys exist to make protagonists miserable.
The alley narrowed, hemmed in by brick walls streaked with grime. Trash bins overflowed. Laundry lines sagged overhead. Voices drifted through the dark.
"…another disappearance last night."
"…walls glowing again."
"…same words as before."
Zhang Lu slowed.
Two cloaked figures leaned against the wall, sharing a pipe that glowed faint blue.
"Everyone dies," one muttered. "That's what it wrote."
Zhang Lu froze.
"The Dark Castle's posted a bounty," the other added. "Info on the lantern bearer. Prophecy nonsense, if you ask me."
"Prophecy pays better than starving."
Cold slid down Zhang Lu's spine.
Lantern bearer.
He backed away, melting into shadow, then moved faster—cutting through side passages, doubling back until the voices vanished behind brick and fog.
The Lower Warrens greeted him with open squalor.
Buildings leaned together like drunks. Roofs were patched with mismatched tiles and prayer sigils scratched in desperation. Puddles reflected sickly green rune-light. Children played barefoot in the mud, mock-casting spells that sparked harmlessly.
Adults hurried past, eyes down.
A scrawny kid slammed into him.
Too hard.
A hand darted for his inner pocket.
Zhang Lu reacted without thinking.
His grip snapped shut around a wrist. A twist—precise, economical. A knife clattered to the stones.
The boy hissed, eyes wide and feral. "Let go, you cursed noble!"
"I'm not—" Zhang Lu stopped himself, then sighed. "Pick someone else next time."
He released him.
The kid snatched the knife and bolted, disappearing with a muttered curse about "ghost-eyed freaks."
Zhang Lu exhaled slowly.
Adrenaline sang in his veins.
Perk unlocked, he thought wryly. Not completely useless.
The tenement came into view—five stories of sagging stone and cracked windows. A peeling sign read Warrens Rest. Laughter and tankards clanged from the tavern below.
He took the external stairs, avoiding the weak ones Anthony remembered breaking before.
Their door—third floor, end of the hall—stood ajar.
Light flickered inside.
"Orion?" Zhang Lu called softly.
The room was exactly as remembered.
Two narrow beds.
A rickety table.
A stove that barely worked.
Orion sprawled across one bed, blond hair a mess, chewing on a half-loaf of suspiciously fresh bread.
"Anthony!" Orion perked up. "Thought library ghosts finally ate you."
Zhang Lu closed the door and set the lantern down. Its flame dimmed, calm and obedient.
"Late research," he said. "You know how it is."
Orion tossed him the other half of the loaf. "Snagged it from the baker's discard bin. Still soft."
Zhang Lu ate. It tasted like salvation.
"Any trouble?" he asked.
Orion shrugged. "Skipped the forge again. Fixed the roof. Mostly."
Lazy. Clever. Untapped magic humming under the surface.
In the novel, that potential awakened too late.
"We need coin," Zhang Lu said gently.
"I know," Orion muttered.
Debts. Varkis. Cult whispers.
Zhang Lu leaned forward. "Guild work. Low-rank jobs. We do them together."
Orion blinked. "You serious?"
"Dead serious."
Orion studied him. "You're… different today."
Zhang Lu smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm tired of dying poor."
They ate in silence.
Later, Orion yawned. "Mom's anniversary is soon."
Zhang Lu nodded, throat tight.
Orion pulled out a letter. "Found this."
Zhang Lu saw the words at the top.
To my sons, if the lantern finds you…
"We'll read it tomorrow," he said.
Orion slept.
When the room was quiet, Zhang Lu lifted the lantern.
The flame brightened.
A map bloomed into the air—fragmented, glowing—marking the Eastern Ruins.
A voice echoed in his mind.
The truth begins where everyone dies.
The wall etched itself anew:
EVERYONE DIES—UNLESS YOU LIGHT THE WAY.
Zhang Lu didn't hesitate.
He pocketed the letter.
Lifted the lantern.
And stepped back into the night.
The mystery wasn't waiting.
It was calling.