Myth stepped out of the alley, the dim light casting long shadows behind him. The group was waiting just outside—silent, uncertain. Victor stood a little apart from the rest, arms crossed, eyes distant.
"Ashley, can you check on Sira?" Myth asked, his voice calm but hollow.
Ashley looked like she wanted to say something—her lips parted, then closed again. Now wasn't the time.
Myth turned to the group, avoiding everyone's gaze.
"Let's all meet back here. One hour. Don't go far. Stick to this street."
"Okay…" Ashley replied quietly.
They dispersed without a word, their footsteps light, cautious, disappearing into the soft hum of Draymont's quieter side streets.
Myth walked alone now, the empty street stretching in front of him. The lights were faint here, flickering occasionally like they were half-asleep. The air smelled of old metal and stale steam.
His thoughts, though, refused to sleep.
'Sira wasn't wrong to get angry… not at all. So why did I snap like that? Was it… jealousy?'
The answer came without hesitation—yes. A part of it was jealousy. A bitter, stupid part he didn't want to admit even to himself.
But regret?
That never showed up.
No, he didn't regret what he said. Maybe the timing. Maybe the delivery. But the words needed to be said. It was long overdue that Sira stopped seeing the world through that same soft lens.
Myth kicked a loose stone on the sidewalk and watched it rattle away into the dark.
'She needs to change. The world won't wait for her to catch up.'
And neither would he.
The group once again gathered at the same alley. The atmosphere was thick with gloom—silent, heavy, and tense.
Sira had faint tear marks on her cheeks. Ashley wore a look of silent resentment. Walker glanced at Myth with suspicion. Only Victor stood calm—his usual dead-eyed stare now carried a flicker of support.
Myth looked at them all and spoke in a polite, measured tone.
"So, as you all know, we have only 250 sols and three Level One energy cores." He paused.
"I don't think selling the cores is wise. We'll obviously have to do illegal things here—and for that, we'll need every bit of power we can muster."
"How are we even supposed to survive?" Ashley said in a low voice.
"The military and police are on our trail. Doing anything illegal this early will just get us killed."
"I say we sell one core," Walker added. "It'll buy us time. Which we're in desperate need of right now."
Myth nodded slightly, keeping his tone calm.
"I've considered that. But I don't think we'll get a fair price here. And if Victor's right about how scarce they are, finding a replacement would be nearly impossible. That means one of us—me, Sira, or Ashley—would be a deadweight. So let's keep that as a last resort."
Ashley folded her arms.
"Fine. But do you even have a long-term plan?"
Myth gave a small smile.
"A few. The best one is information trade. We have two detectives—and a liar—in the group. It's the perfect mix. If we can tap into the undercity's info networks, we can survive. Maybe even thrive. And that kind of access might help us track down Victor's girlfriend."
He paused, letting that hang in the air.
The silence wasn't just quiet—it was cold, uneasy. The question lingered between them: Why should we help Victor?
Myth addressed it directly.
"Victor's girlfriend has been in this ring for four years. She knows the undercity. She's also a Bishop. If we want to get out of here, we need her."
Walker broke the silence.
"Let's leave long-term plans for later. Right now, we need cash. Anyone got ideas?"
Myth nodded.
"Three. First, we steal. With Victor and Walker, it's doable. Second, underground fighting. Walker enters the ring—we place bets. Third..." he paused for effect, "we sell information about the portal incident. Not the whole truth. Just enough to get someone interested."
Myth continued, taking a slow breath.
"For the first and third plans, I'll need everyone's agreement. The second one—only Walker's."
He paused, glancing around.
"So… what do you think?"
Ashley answered almost immediately. "I'm fine with selling information. We're going to take risks anyway—might as well start now."
Myth nodded.
"I'm fine with both," Victor added calmly.
Then Myth turned to Sira, softening his voice.
"What about you, Sira?"
She hesitated, her voice a bit shaky.
"I… I'm okay with selling information."
Finally, Myth turned to Walker.
"I'll fight," Walker said before the question even fully landed.
Walker knew the options were just for show. This was exactly what Myth had planned. Selling information was far too risky, and most of the group wasn't ready to dive into illegal work—not yet. Myth wanted to corner him, isolate the decision. Either Walker volunteered to fight, or they'd all be forced into something even more dangerous, and Walker still would have to fight, though a different battle. The choice wasn't really a choice at all.
Walker clenched his jaw but said nothing. He could see the strings being pulled, each word from Myth carefully chosen, each plan weighed to lead them right here—to this moment.
"It's settled then," Myth said. "First, we find the arena."
"We should check out the poorer districts in Draymont," Ashley suggested, her tone sharper now, more focused.
Myth nodded. "Alright... let's move."
They took a public tram to the district called Lowden. As they walked along the narrow street and ventured deeper into Lowden, it became clear that this was one of the poorest quarters of Draymont.
Cracks ran across building walls like scars. Garbage clumped at corners, mixing with dried stains of who-knew-what. The air had a bitter, metallic tang. Despite the decay, a fair number of people moved through the streets. Strangely, the only thing that seemed to work perfectly here were the street lamps.
The group kept their heads low and eyes sharp.
Soon, they spotted a bar at a corner beside a crumbling building. It had a broken sign that simply read "Riff's" in flickering green light.
Without a word, they made their way inside, hoping to gather some useful information.
"Remember," Myth said in a hushed tone, "you guys don't talk. Just sit and let me handle the rest."
The group entered the bar. It was a small, dimly-lit place awash in flickering purple, green, and blue lights. The air smelled of stale alcohol and faint smoke. Behind a cheap, dented black metal counter—its paint peeling in strips—stood an aged bartender. Only three or four customers were inside. Two sat silently at the counter, lazily nursing their drinks.
The group took a seat at an empty corner table while Myth walked up to the bar.
He took the stool next to a random man and casually faced the bartender. Glancing at the dusty, flickering menu screen, he picked the cheapest option: a drink called "Rustbrew", priced at 40 sols. Even that felt like a luxury.
"I'll have a Rustbrew," Myth said, then added smoothly, "Also… you happen to know of any underground fight rings? Somewhere I could place a bet or two?"
The bartender was a burly older man with white hair, a thick beard, and arms like barrels. He glanced at Myth and replied in a casual tone:
"You're new around here, huh… Red eyes. Can't say I've seen someone with that color before."
Myth smirked. "Well, maybe that's why they say travel broadens the mind. Living like a hermit won't get you far—figuratively and literally."
The man next to him burst into sudden, violent laughter.
Myth blinked, slightly startled. Even the bartender let out a chuckle seeing Myth startled.
'That wasn't that funny,' Myth thought. 'Pretty sure he didn't even get it.'
He shifted in his seat, letting the moment pass before sliding back into the real conversation.
"The red eyes are due to a disorder," he said calmly, waving it off. "So, about that info... I'd be very grateful if you could help me out."
"So the big guy with the patchy beard wants to fight and earn some note…" the bartender said casually, wiping down a glass.
Myth didn't look back as he replied, his tone light and teasing. "You know, for a bartender, your conversation game's halfway decent. You're killing the opener—asking questions, taking initiative. But your follow-up? Bit of a disaster. Listening and answering? Totally slacking."
The drunk man next to him let out another loud, wheezing laugh.
'Come on, man. It's really not that funny,' Myth thought.
Even the bartender chuckled.
"So… your guy's a fighter. You're not from around here. Probably on the run.
Definitely broke. No place to sleep, either," the bartender continued, his eyes sharp now.
Myth didn't flinch. "Your name's Riff. You know something, and you're late with my drink."
Riff grinned, clearly amused. "You're not here for the drink. You're here for the info. And yes, I know a few places."
He paused.
"I'll give you details on every place I know—for free."
Myth's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
'Don't tell me it's because of my sense of humor…'
Riff held up a finger. "If…"
'There it is.'
"…If you work for me. As a bartender. Thousand sols a week. I'm being generous, kid."
Myth blinked. "What?"