“Nether City was founded three thousand years ago, during the celestials’ Great Purge,” Morvane spoke while leading them forward, his voice a calm thread stitching past tragedy to present survival.
Footsteps rang lightly on the obsidian street as Morvane guided them forward. The faint sheen on his black armor caught the blue lantern glow, yet his voice carried the dust of old wounds.
“Back then,” he said, each word measured, “our Ghost Clan was almost wiped out… Only a handful slipped deep underground and stumbled upon this natural pocket of nether aura. That lonely refuge kept the bloodline breathing.”
Jared caught the tremor beneath the calm statement and pictured survivors hauling their injured through endless tunnels, the air growing colder with every yard. The thought tightened his chest before the next step pushed it aside.
“For three thousand years,” Morvane went on, breath fogging in the chill, “we have lived here, too afraid to risk the surface even for a moment of sunlight.”
The admission landed heavier than the clank of his greaves. Jared tasted iron on the back of his tongue, sensing how long a single decision to hide could stretch across generations.
“Now and then we sent scouts upward,” Morvane added, his words slowing as though he felt those losses returning. “They always returned with the same story: the celestials tighten their grip, city after city nailed under divine banners. After a while, hope itself stopped coming home.”
Jared pictured unseen messengers slipping away and never reappearing, each absence another brick in a wall of despair. The commander’s gaze shifted to Luther. Behind the bone visor, a flicker of dawning faith sparked. “Yet the surface still carried your branch, and it carried the Ghost King Token with you. Perhaps the Sovereign of the Netherworld has decided our clan should walk beneath open sky again.”
Luther’s shoulders sagged beneath both the chains of expectation and the tremor of his wounds. He managed a rueful smile that broke at the edges. “My line is down to me alone. Without Jared standing beside me, the celestials would have finished that tally weeks ago…”
Jared felt the weight of the older man’s gratitude settle on him like a cloak he had never asked to wear.
Morvane faced Jared squarely. His gauntlets rasped as he pressed one fist to the other. “Thank you for saving a clansman’s life. Our Ghost Clan may be bruised, but we still repay debt. Whatever you require, Nether City will try its utmost.”
The formal promise hummed between them like a drawn bowstring. Jared shook his head. Chain scars still throbbed beneath his sleeves, yet his answer came steady. “There’s no need for thanks. The celestials and I have blood to settle as well. Helping Luther was simply on the way to that reckoning.”
The words tasted plain, but a faint relief crossed Morvane’s storm-blue eyes. Conversation carried them to the heart of the city, where the streets widened into a silent plaza. Their steps slowed at the foot of a colossal structure, shadows climbing its angled sides like restless spirits.
Before them rose a pyramid-shaped temple forged from midnight stone, its peak stabbing nearly 1,090 feet into the dim vault overhead. Two statues of the Sovereign of the Netherworld, each with three heads and six arms, guarded the entrance, their stone eyes drilling into every approaching soul. The sheer scale pressed on Jared’s lungs, as if the building itself judged his worth.
“This is Nether Hall,” Morvane said, the low timbre of pride threading through fatigue. “Great Elder waits inside…” He gestured toward the shadowed doorway where cold torches hissed with ghost-blue halos.
Crossing the threshold, Jared felt space open like a lung. The interior dwarfed the exterior shell, aisles stretching wider than any mortal cathedral he had seen. Echoes of their footsteps vanished into unseen heights.
Twelve stone pillars marched down either side, every surface etched with centuries of Ghost Clan triumphs and catastrophes. At each capital, an undying netherflame curled upward, washing carvings in shifting sapphire light that made history seem alive and whispering.
At the far end, a lone dais lifted an elder above the silence. White hair fell like frost over a back held eerily straight. The quiet around him felt deliberate, as though the hall itself refused to intrude on his thoughts.
He wore a rune-laced black robe and rested both hands upon a polished bone staff. Age carved valleys in his face, yet his eyes held a depth that suggested falling forever. The aura swirling around him matched the peak of High Immortal Realm Level Seven.
Jared’s skin prickled; even Morvane straightened unconsciously. This was Elder Gloam, Great Elder of Nether City, the weight behind every law whispered on these streets.
Morvane drew breath to speak, but the elder lifted one tapered hand, stilling the hall. Even silence obeyed. All attention followed the elder’s gaze to Luther.
Elder Gloam’s voice carried no volume yet reached every corner. “Blood of the Lutherne, bearer of the Ghost King Token… I never dreamed I would witness a true descendant in what remains of my lifetime…”
The acknowledgment hung like incense above an altar, rich and unmistakable. His voice was aged yet gentle, and it carried a power that seemed to pierce straight into the soul. Luther braced his battered body and bowed. “Ninety-seventh successor of the Lutherne, Luther pays respect to the Great Elder…”
Elder Gloam nodded, then turned to Jared. Surprise flickered in his abyss-deep eyes. “The aura around this young friend is… truly strange… It resembles chaos yet is not chaos, resembles origin yet eludes origin… In eight thousand years, I have never witnessed such power…”
Jared’s heart jolted. This elder’s perception was even sharper than Elder Hartcrest’s.
“Jared Chance…” Elder Gloam rolled the name across his tongue, eyes narrowing as pieces aligned. Sudden sharpness froze the air. “Are you the man who slew the Five Venerables of the Divine Punishment Hall and now carries a celestial-wide bounty?”
Jared neither flinched nor puffed his chest. “I am…”
The simple admission thudded into the floor like a battle hammer. He had not guessed news from the surface could slip through so many layers of stone and time. Whispers spread along the pillars—hushed, rapid, incredulous. The hall felt like a lake stirred by sudden wind. Morvane and several seated elders stared, faces caught between awe and disbelief.
Elder Gloam answered with a low, rolling laugh. “Excellent! Splendid! Those celestial vermin deserved their fate long ago!”
The elder’s glee rang brighter than the flames atop the pillars. He stepped down from the dais. Each careful stride sent ripples through the nether aura. Stopping before Jared, he studied him as though reading hidden runes.
“Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Nine, yet you felled five opponents at High Immortal Realm Level Seven… Were it not for witnessing that strange power clinging to you, I would have dismissed such tales outright.”
The scrutiny carried neither envy nor fear—only curiosity honed razor-sharp. “Great Elder flatters me,” Jared answered, voice low, shoulders refusing to rise in pride.
Elder Gloam waved the compliment away. “Modesty is wasted here. Your presence in Nether City at this moment smells of destiny more than chance…” The certainty in his tone allowed no argument. His focus swung back to Luther.
A frown etched into deep lines. “Your wounds run deep, your Ghost Clan essence nearly shattered. Morvane, escort him to the Nether Spring. Use the finest Soulmend Shadegrass we possess.”
