"Valtieri, sir!" a guard shouted, rushing toward him.
The surroundings—more than mere environment—spoke of technological pinnacle: a corridor gleaming with sterile white, streaks of bold blue tracing along the tops of the walls. The air itself was charged, humming with an electric chill. People moved with purpose; some threw furtive glances, others stared ahead, every step calculated and deliberate.
Sporadic cries pierced the silence, only to be smothered just as swiftly, like fabric torn by a blade. The space absorbed sound with clinical finality.
Valtieri halted, turning with simmering impatience. His eyes narrowed.
"Yes?" His voice was sharp and controlled, slicing through the murmurs with an authority that demanded attention.
The guard caught his breath and straightened. His uniform matched others stationed nearby: dark grey tunics with light blue trim at sleeves and collars. Buttons gleamed on his chest. These guards wore no insignia—just a single red line slashed from shoulder to hip, stark as blood, painted like a vow of silence.
"Sir..." The guard's voice trembled with urgency, the weight of his message pressing against the sterile walls.
"What?" Valtieri's irritation surfaced in his clipped tone, though his stance remained composed.
The guard hesitated, then found his voice. "The prisoners—one of the patients—has a rare story skill. They're apparently from the nature-worshipping tribe held in the cells... that worships a supreme deity."
A flicker of interest passed through Valtieri's expression. He turned fully, gaze sharpening.
Adjusting his glasses in a habitual gesture, he met the guard's visor. "Which deity?"
The guard lowered his voice, glancing down. "A sage. This prisoner claims a unique link to it. Their story skill—Divine Interpreter—allows direct communication with the sage."
A gunshot cracked the air. The guard's words died with him.
Valtieri lowered his smoking pistol with a calm flick of the wrist and holstered it without pause—no hesitation, no remorse. His precision was clinical. The weapon gleamed—sleek and gold, adorned with serpentine engravings along the barrel. A white muzzle contrasted starkly with its opulence. Its grip, wrapped in stitched leather, ended in a golden crest—a mark only the initiated would know.
"Divine Interpreter..." he murmured, lips curling into a slight, unsettling smile.
Blood pooled at the guard's feet, staining the immaculate floor crimson—a violent blemish on an otherwise flawless scene.
But the red slowly faded, absorbed by the building itself. The floor bleached white again, seamless and clean, as if the man had never stood there.
Valtieri stepped over the body without a glance.
"Well now... isn't that a fine way to counter the Church," he muttered, chuckling softly as he approached a large gate—white, streaked with blue.
Beyond it, another gate stood where the hallway split. One path vanished into dim shadow; the other flooded with blinding white.
He didn't hesitate. He turned right.
Each footstep echoed in the corridor's vast emptiness. He pressed a palm to the wall. "Down."
A section of floor slid open, revealing a chute.
Without slowing, he stepped in.
The guard's corpse followed, drawn through a secondary mechanism, vanishing into darkness.
—
He landed in a chamber vast and cold. The ceiling soared. Machines hummed, and people bustled, their movements perfectly synchronized within chaos.
At the center stood a massive, circular prism. Within it, light ricocheted violently. Each burst sent waves rippling through the air, unsettling and alive. Tubes stretched from the prism's core, colors pulsing—red to green, then fading into calm blue—as if the room itself breathed.
Scientists filled the space, each holding flickering holograms. Data flashed and vanished in seconds—calculations constructed, tested, and discarded in rapid succession.
One scientist muttered, "Is it even possible to stabilize this core?"
Valtieri's gaze swept across them, cool and assessing.
"It is," he said. His voice was a blade. "Work harder!"
The words cracked through the tension. Several staff paused, faces blanching. Then, as if coordinated by instinct, they replied: "Yes, sir."
Valtieri walked past them, indifferent to their fears. His expression carried a glint of satisfaction—subtle, but unmistakably cruel.
At the chamber's far end, a door waited. He approached it, placing his hand on a scanner.
The device whirred, meticulously tracing each fingerprint. Blue light spread across the surface, forming a unified glow.
The door hissed open.
As he stepped through, the sterile white walls dulled to gray. The air felt heavier. The hallway now seemed abandoned—an underbelly forgotten by those above.
More guards lined his path. Their tunics matched the ones above, but the crimson lines across their chests varied—some bright, others faded, some barely visible. The older guards were hollow-eyed, their movements sluggish, haunted.
To each side, archaic prison gates emerged from the shadows. Rusted iron bars clashed against the Sky District's sleek image. Behind them, prisoners wept, screamed, or lay curled and silent. Their cries fractured into a chorus of misery—raw, chaotic, and quickly swallowed by silence.
Valtieri paused at a cell.
Inside, a creature crawled forward—long tail twitching, hands like a dog's. Coarse fur covered its body, and its wary eyes shimmered with fear... and a glimmer of hope.
"You. Come," Valtieri said gently, coaxing.
The creature crept closer, drawn despite itself.
"What is your name?" he asked.
It tried to speak, stammering in a broken dialect of Kol-nic, old and dying.
A shot rang out. The creature crumpled, a clean hole through its skull.
Valtieri holstered his pistol without emotion.
"Clean it," he said, handing it to a nearby guard.
The guard fumbled. "Y-yes, sir!" He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, hands trembling as he wiped it down.
Each stroke revealed more of the pistol's shine.
"Here," the guard whispered, handing it back.
Valtieri took it with a nod. "You're welcome," he said, dryly polite. Then he turned to the cells. "Where are the prisoners from the 49th city? The coexistent tribes specifically?"
The guard shifted. "Second section, sir." His gaze flicked to the cells.
The prisoners, sensing Valtieri, grew frenzied. Screams turned to wails. Hands reached through bars—some bloodied, some desperate.
One man clung to the iron, eyes wide, voice cracking. "Please... don't leave us here!"
A woman whispered nonsense through sobs, her fingers digging into rust as if grasping her last shred of sanity.
Valtieri's eyes swept across them—cold and unmoved.
He adjusted his coat and continued walking. The cries followed him briefly, then faded.
Only his footsteps remained—measured, echoing, relentless.