Chapter 82: Underground A [Somar POV]
The stone beneath my fingers held the afternoon sun's warmth. Each carved letter of my parents' names felt deeper now—as though grief itself had worn the grooves wider over the years.
I traced the familiar shapes one more time. The ache had not dulled with the years.
Years had passed since the Mana Calamity. Claude insisted on calling it the Metastasis Event, as if clinical terminology could sanitize the horror. The ache remained fresh. Unhealed.
The world moved on. Those left behind learned to carry their sorrow like a second shadow, darker but necessary. Life demanded continuation when the dead kept accumulating.
Dedoldia Village stretched around me. Wooden structures rebuilt stronger than before, yet still bearing scars from frequent raids. The beastmen here lived with a particular dread—not the sudden terror of natural disaster, but the slow-burning fear of being hunted for profit.
Their children learned to hide before they learned to hunt. Their elders spoke in whispers of family members who'd vanished in the night, sold to feed the endless appetite of the slave trade.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I sat in the exact spot where Claude had discovered my parents' bodies. Where he'd carved their grave with hands that had already killed more men than most soldiers saw in a lifetime.
He'd been eight years old then.
Still young enough that mercy might have been possible. The Claude I knew now had discarded mercy along with his childhood.
"Different from humans," I murmured, remembering Claude's explanation of the slave trade's economics. "Beastmen are exotic commodities. Rarer. More valuable."
His voice had carried no emotion when he'd explained how the trade worked. Caged in luxury. Transported in secret. Auctioned to the highest bidder in cities that pretended not to know where their exotic servants originated.
The memory of blood under my fingernails remained vivid. Eleven years old when I'd made my first kill. Entering that cesspit they called the City of Criminals with rage and a half-formed plan for justice.
The slavers who'd killed my parents died slowly. Their screams echoed off stone walls that had heard too many similar cries.
Killing became easier with repetition. Each death chipping away another piece of the boy I'd been. By the time I'd established Underground A as a power in Milishion's shadows, taking lives felt no different than taking breath. Necessary. Automatic. Barely worth noting.
Claude had started younger.
Eight years old when he'd first drawn blood, according to Mike's careful records. The difference showed in ways that made my skin crawl even now. Where I'd grown numb to violence, Claude had grown precise with it, surgical.
He killed like a craftsman working familiar materials. Each death serving a specific purpose in some grand design only he could see.
I'd suspected back in Buena Village that he was disconnected from normal human emotion. But seeing him after the Calamity, the change had been dramatic. The boy who'd once shown flashes of genuine warmth had become hollow. A shell animated by purpose rather than feeling.
His touki reeked of the same madness I'd sensed in broken slaves. Minds shattered by abuse beyond endurance. Yet unlike those poor souls, Claude maintained his external sanity with terrifying discipline. Like a perfectly balanced blade held over an open flame, functional and deadly, but always one degree away from shattering completely.
Mike had mentioned the dungeon trial that nearly killed him. Months of isolation and combat that should have broken anyone's mind. When Claude emerged, the barely controlled madness had crystallized into a colder focus. Whether it was meeting Isolte or training under Water God Reida—something had pulled him back from the brink.
Questions gnawed at me like infected wounds. Why had our parents died when everyone else in Buena Village survived?
Claude had been obsessive about protection. Distributing tracking items and escape routes with meticulous care. Almost the entire village had made it through the Calamity intact.
Almost.
The truth, when I'd finally uncovered it, had been both worse and better than I'd feared. My parents hadn't died from the Calamity itself. They'd died trying to save dwarven slaves from smugglers. Failed to save them all, but succeeded in creating enough chaos for some to escape.
Dying for strangers who shared nothing but suffering.
"So, you're here."
Dugan's voice belonged to the young dwarf who'd become my right hand in Underground A operations. One of the survivors my parents had died protecting—though I tried not to hold that against him. His beard was still sparse with youth, but his eyes carried the weight of someone who'd seen too much too early.
"We should begin our journey back, Lord Somar."
The title still felt strange. Lord of what? An organization built on blood and necessity, operating in shadows because the light revealed too many uncomfortable truths. But Dugan insisted on the courtesy. I'd learned to pick my battles carefully.
"Right." I rose from the grave with joints that protested more than they should for someone barely past his teens. "Sorry for keeping you waiting."
The dwarven village had welcomed us after we'd dismantled the slaver ring responsible for the smuggling. Freed their people. Returned their stolen children. Delivered justice with the kind of thoroughness that left no room for repeat offenses.
Dugan had approached me then, recognizing my father's features in my face. He'd told me the story of that final night. How my parents had appeared like guardian spirits, creating just enough distraction for some to slip their bonds and flee into the forest.
The revenge had been sweet when it finally came. The slavers died badly, their screams echoing off cavern walls as I'd extracted payment for years of suffering.
But vengeance was like drinking seawater.
"The beastmen are getting restless again," Dugan observed as we prepared to leave. His tone carried the particular exasperation of someone trying to understand a foreign culture's customs. "I don't understand why they keep offering their women to Master Claude. Is this respect or mockery?"
I suppressed a laugh at his confusion. The beastmen's zealous devotion to Claude bordered on religious fervor—something that made even their village chief nervous. They'd elevated him to near-mythical status. The pale human who'd freed their people and vanished like smoke, leaving behind only stories and scattered trinkets as proof he'd ever existed.
"Just leave them be," I advised, watching a group of crafters work themselves into a frenzy as they carved wooden totems in Claude's likeness. Their chanting about "God Claude" made my teeth ache with secondhand embarrassment. "The last thing we need is a weird cult sprouting in the Great Forest."
Dugan's expression grew thoughtful—the way it did when processing information that didn't fit his preconceptions. "I've never met Master Claude personally, but everyone in Underground A seems wary of him. Is he good or bad?"
How did one explain Claude to someone who'd never experienced his particular brand of controlled insanity?
He wasn't evil. Evil implied malicious intent, and Claude's intentions were often genuinely noble. But he was something else. Something that defied easy categorization.
"He's not bad," I said finally, choosing my words with the care of someone defusing a bomb. "But he's intense. I consider him a friend, and I know his heart's in the right place. He's sincere about his work, completely dedicated to whatever goal he's pursuing. You can feel that sincerity when he trains people. There's no doubt he wants them to succeed."
I paused, remembering training sessions that had left grown men weeping from exhaustion and fear.
"But he's also devious in ways that make people uncomfortable. Most will respect his abilities while actively avoiding his attention. He's likable enough in small doses." I fixed Dugan with a serious look. "Just don't ever ask him to train you. Trust me on this."
Dugan's eyes lit up with the dangerous curiosity of youth. "But isn't he supposed to be a master blacksmith and genius enchanter? Wouldn't training under him be invaluable?"
I turned away. Memories of Claude's "gentle instruction" made my old scars ache in sympathy. Some lessons were best learned through observation rather than experience.
Underground A's intelligence network spanned the Millis Continent now. What had started as a desperate attempt to avenge my parents had evolved into something far more ambitious. We'd positioned ourselves at the intersection of legitimate trade and shadow operations—not through force, which was crude and temporary, but through necessity.
Making ourselves indispensable to so many operations that removing us would cause the entire system to collapse.
The transaction with the Great Forest's demi-human tribes was complete. Weapons and tools traded for information and safe passage. Relationships built on mutual benefit rather than exploitation. It was honest work, as honest as anything could be in our line of business.
Milishion awaited our return. The City of Water Saints, where the faithful gathered to worship and the corrupt gathered to profit from their worship. We'd carved out our own niche in that ecosystem. Information brokers with enough muscle to protect our sources and enough discretion to keep our clients' secrets.
The city's underworld was a vast network of competing interests. Smugglers moved contraband through the port district. Forgers sold false documents to those seeking new identities. Assassins took contracts from nobles too cowardly to handle their own dirty work. And beneath it all, the slave trade continued its vile commerce, despite the Millis Church's official condemnation.
Underground A had systematically infiltrated each of these operations. Not to control them directly, which would paint targets on our backs, but to become their most reliable supplier of critical resources. Information on guard patrols. Advance warning of church investigations. Safe routes through territories controlled by hostile factions.
We sold knowledge.
Claude had taught me that principle, though he'd never taken credit for it. Power wasn't about how hard you could hit—it was about making sure everyone needed you to keep hitting their enemies.
"Lord Somar," Dugan said as we made our way through the forest paths. "The shipment from the Demon Continent will arrive next week. The representative from Shirone's network sent confirmation this morning."
I nodded, mentally cataloging the logistics. The Demon Continent connection had taken years to establish. Most humans wouldn't even consider trading with demon races, but Claude had introduced me to key figures who saw beyond racial prejudices. Merchants who cared more about profit than politics. Warriors who respected strength regardless of its source.
"And the weapons for the beastman tribes?" I asked.
"Production is on schedule. The blacksmiths in Milishion have filled most of the order. Master Claude's designs continue to impress, even the dwarven craftsmen admit the enchantments are remarkable."
Claude's genius was undeniable, but it came packaged with the kind of ruthless pragmatism that made even hardened criminals nervous. He'd designed weapons for beastman physiology, not out of altruism, but because well-armed clients made for loyal customers.
Everything was a transaction to him. Every relationship a potential asset. I'd watched him cultivate connections across multiple continents.
"What about the Church's investigation?" I asked.
Dugan's expression darkened. "They're sniffing around our shipping operations in the port district. Nothing concrete yet, but they suspect we're moving more than legitimate cargo. I've redirected the most sensitive shipments through alternate channels until they lose interest."
The Millis Church. Publicly devoted to eradicating slavery and corruption. Privately riddled with both. The hypocrisy would have been amusing if it weren't so dangerous. We'd identified at least three high-ranking priests on the payroll of rival criminal organizations. They used their positions to selectively enforce laws that conveniently eliminated competition while ignoring the crimes of their benefactors.
Underground A maintained a delicate relationship with the Church. We provided them with intelligence on heretics and demon cultists—real threats that the Church genuinely opposed. In exchange, they turned a blind eye to our less savory activities. It was a pragmatic arrangement that suited both parties.
As we departed Dedoldia Village, I cast one final glance at my parents' grave. The stone would weather whatever storms came, keeping their memory intact long after my own bones had returned to dust.
The Great Forest closed around us as we headed toward Milishion. Its shadows familiar and welcoming.
My parents had died trying to save others. I'd built an empire on their sacrifice. Whether they'd be proud or horrified by what I'd become, I'd never know.
But I'd honor their memory the only way I knew how. By protecting those who couldn't protect themselves.
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