“Who dares intrude upon Nether City?!” a voice snapped, colder than the chains. The speaker remained hidden, words spilling out of the surrounding dark like knives. Three figures stepped forward. The one in front towered above mortal height, clad in black war armor and a helm made from bleached bone.
Only twin eyes shone through the visor, burning blue. The pressure rolling off him marked an Upper Immortal, sixth grade!
Behind him waited two fully armed ghost guards, bone spears in hand, their strength hovering around Upper Immortal fourth grade. Jared coughed, a raw scrape in his throat betraying the chain’s bite. Forcing steadiness, he said, “We didn’t trespass. We seek Ghost Clan kin. The man beside me is your blood, and he needs nether aura to heal.”
The bone-helmed ghost captain let the single word hover between them. “Clansmen?” His voice slid over the syllable, dry and edged. The echo crawled down the polished tunnel walls. Chains rasped against Jared’s armor. The sound reminded him the power to tighten those links still lay with the speaker.
A thin laugh escaped the captain, metal plates tapping against one another. “The Ghost Clan topside died off a thousand years ago when the celestials butchered them to the last.” The words flowed like poison. “So tell me, how could any survive? You two are clearly infiltrators the celestials groomed and pushed toward our gate.”
Luther’s answer broke apart as soon as it formed. “N-No… not…” The wheeze rattled out of his throat. Every breath scraped, yet his eyes refused to drop. A faint shimmer of nether aura clung to his lips, proving stubborn life still flickered inside that battered body. He forced the next claim out, each syllable trembling. “I am Ghost Clan… Of the Ming bloodline… Ninety-seventh heir.”
The title sounded both weighty and fragile the way it passed over his cracked lips. Even so, the statement held a stern spine the chains could not bend. From deep inside his chest, pure nether aura surged. The vapor spilled through the shackles in curling threads, merged with the dungeon air, then rippled along the carved stones. Nearby buttresses answered with a soft hum, as though the architecture itself recognized a lost heartbeat.
All three ghost soldiers stiffened. Helm crests stopped swaying; spear hafts dipped an inch. An instant earlier they looked carved from threat. Now uncertainty feathered their stances while their eyes tracked the drifting aura that refused to lie.
The captain’s gaze narrowed, inner light flickering behind the bone visor. “Nether aura can’t be forged…” he conceded. “Yet puppets can be. Prove you aren’t a husk the celestials hollowed out and filled with commands.” His tone made the test sound routine, lethal, necessary.
Luther swallowed brokenly. “I possess… A fragment of the Ghost King Token…”
The promise in that single relic outweighed the tremor in his voice. Hope and risk twisted together, each daring the other to blink first. Fingers shaking, he dug beneath scorched robes and produced a pitch-black token shard. The piece looked unimpressive, no larger than a child’s palm, yet the moment it cleared the fabric, the lantern-blue glow in the tunnel guttered as if yielding to an elder presence.
The temperature plunged. Nether aura all around them roared like an awakened tide. Invisible currents slammed outward, rattling chain links and rippling torch fire. For a breath, every particle of darkness seemed to bend toward that shard.
Streams of ghostly light arrowed in from every archway. They swirled about the fragment, knitting themselves into flickering sigils—ancient Ghost Clan script that hovered, billowed, died, then birthed anew in an unending ring of acknowledgment.
“It’s the Ghost King Token!” one guard blurted. His voice cracked, spear lowering a fraction as instinctive reverence overruled training. Awe replaced suspicion in the whites of his eyes.
The captain snapped his hand forward. The shard launched from Luther’s numb fingers into his plated palm. He inspected its jagged edges, the way faint glyphs crawled across the surface, and let a hush stretch thin. A muted spell flashed across his pupils. After the pulse faded, he inclined his head, though skepticism still clung to his tone.
“The token is genuine… The bearer might not be…” Doubt lingered like smoke between the words. He pointed deeper into the city. “Unleash your heart-bound art. If the Ancestral Soul Stele resonates, I will accept you as kin. Fall, and suspicion becomes verdict!”
Luther’s jaw locked. Pain flashed in the fine lines around his mouth, but he nodded once, slow and final. Resolve gathered where strength had already run thin. He drew on reserves that barely existed. Blood threaded from one nostril, then another.
Crimson beads welled at the corners of his eyes, yet concentration tightened every muscle. He had chosen ordeal over silent death. Nothing but necessity remained. Proof or oblivion, no middle ground waited here.
His hands began a deliberate dance, fingers biting through the air to weave sigils. A guttural chant, older than the tunnels, scraped past his teeth, each phrase dragging a shred of life with it. A phantom surged up behind him: three heads, six arms, each face crowned with cruel serenity. The manifestation loomed, translucent yet whole, an unmistakable avatar of the Sovereign of the Netherworld.
From somewhere buried in the earth, a bell tolled. The note tunneled through strata and silence alike—vast, patient, impossible to refuse.
*Ding!* The single syllable throbbed, shaking dust from arched ceilings; it settled into living bones, a reminder of laws older than sunlight. The peal carried an age-worn sorrow. Time itself seemed to pause, listening for an echo no one else could provide. Jared tasted metal on his tongue.
Color drained from the captain’s cheeks. “The Ancestral Soul Bell… It answered! He is clan!” The admission sounded half disbelief, half prayer. He swung an arm in a sharp arc. “Release them! Now!”
Authority cracked through the word like a whip. At once the chains unraveled, links dissolving back into the waiting shadows. A final clink faded, leaving only free air around wrists and throats. Jared slid under Luther’s arm before the smaller man collapsed. Muscles coiled, ready for treachery, even as his eyes fixed on the three ghosts ahead.
The captain advanced, gauntlets brushing against his breastplate. Each step shed threat, replacing it with formality. He removed the helm. A pale yet striking face emerged, sharp lines glowing faint in the lantern haze. He lowered to one knee, right hand over heart. “I am Morvane, Garrison Commander of Nether City. Ignorance led to offense. I beg your forgiveness, honored guests!”
Behind him, the two guards copied the motion, bone spears laid flat across armored thighs. Their obedience struck as practiced, yet the bowed heads revealed genuine remorse.
Luther waved weakly, breath thin. “Dispense with ceremony… Take me to the City Lord…”
Morvane rose and said, “The City Lord remains in seclusion. Until his return, Great Elder Gloam governs. Please, follow me to him…” Courtesy wrapped around each syllable, no longer edged.
Under Morvane’s escort, Jared and Luther stepped onto the main avenue. Stone underfoot pulsed with distant bell echoes while unfamiliar constellations of crystal kept the darkness at bay. Every new sight bent Jared’s opinion of the Ghost Clan a degree further from rumor. What lay ahead resembled a hidden civilization, not the savage horde celestials preached about.
Figures passed them, some indistinguishable from humans, others wearing horns, scale patches, or extra eyes that blinked in curious rhythm. Each radiated thick nether aura like a cloak grown from the soul. The very air seemed woven with it. Shopfronts glimmered beneath rows of blue lanterns.
Inside, traders bartered chunks of raw nether ore, bundles of ghost-grass, bone-wrought trinkets, and freshly cut soul crystals. Children darted between pillars, laughter ringing silver-bright.
For a heartbeat, the scene felt no darker than any surface marketplace, until one noticed those giggles left trails of frost in the air.
