The underground world of Ramsis was nothing like the glittering plazas above.
Albert Newton and Harriet Clover stepped down the iron staircase hidden behind the textile warehouse, the first thing that greeted them was the smell of rust, spice and warm oil.
It was dark, yet alive. The tunnels beneath Nayga City twisted endlessly in different directions, lit by paper lamps hung from tangled wires and the glow of crystal bulbs powered by old steam circuits.
The walls were damp, carved from black concrete, painted with forgotten propaganda of a empire long gone. Every few steps, the sound of laughter, metal and the faint crackle of fire echoed through the air.
Harriet squinted at a crooked sign nailed to a pillar. "Lower Bay Market," he read. "Population: whoever survived yesterday."
Tom smirked. "They're being honest at least."
They emerged into a massive underground plaza. A hive of merchants, gamblers, engineers, and crooks. Neon signs flickered over stalls made of scrap iron and wood, each selling strange goods.
Bottled lightning, mechanical limbs, glowing dust that supposedly let you "dream in peace." A man in a tattered suit performed tricks with playing cards while a yellow parrot collected tips from the crowd.
"Doesn't look poor to me." Harriet muttered, eyeing a woman in gold-trimmed rags buying food with diamond chips.
Tom nodded slowly, scanning the place with quiet calculation. "No. They just pretend to be poor so the surface world ignores them. Down here.… it's all about knowing what you are worth of."
They stopped at a notice board half-covered in bloodstained posters. In the centre, a large parchment read:
THE GRAND GAMBLE OF SIX MOONS. ENTRY TONIGHT. LUCK, LIFE, AND LOSS DECIDE ALL.
And below it, in red letters:
'IF YOU DIE, WE ARE NOT GUILTY.'
Harriet blinked twice, then turned toward him with mock horror. "Oh, lovely. A game that literally comes with its own funeral notice."
Tom adjusted his hat, his lips curling into the faintest grin. "That's why I'm joining."
"You're funny." Harriet hissed, grabbing his sleeve. "People die there, you know that? They don't even return bodies sometimes—just throw ashes into the boiler and call it 'honourable loss.'"
Tom's eyes traced the crimson letters again, then shifted toward the crowd—faces glowing in flickering light, each hiding ambition under a mask of cheer. "I'll take permission from Liam later," he said, voice steady, almost detached. "For now, I want to see how deep Ramsis's horse runs."
Harriet folded his arms, pretending to shiver. "Oh sure, because gambling with possible death is the best way to understand society."
"Experience." Tom replied simply.
They walked deeper into the bazaar, past tattooed dealers, fortune tellers and old soldiers selling charm coins. The atmosphere was strange.
Even in what looked like poverty, every stall had precision, every deal calculation. The people weren't poor at all; they were rich in secrets, rich in cunning.
At one corner, children played dice beside a woman singing softly in an old dialect. Harriet paused, listening as Tom stopped at a black gate painted with glowing symbols—the entrance to the Tournament Hall.
"Tonight...." he murmured.
Harriet grinned nervously, stepping beside him. "If you die, I'm not guilty either."
Tom gave her a look, the kind that could either mean a joke or a warning. "Then cheer loud," he said, walking ahead. "So I don't forget I'm still alive."
Tom and Harriet walked toward a heavy iron counter at the end of the hall, where a man with a bronze monocle and scar across his nose was writing names in a giant ledger. The man's voice was dry and very boring. He had said the same thing a thousand times before.
"Name?" he asked, not even looking up.
"Albert Newton," Tom replied, signing the name neatly on the parchment. His hand didn't shake even a little.
The man glanced up, finally noticing his calm tone. "Hmm. Confident one, huh? Haven't seen you here before. You sure you know what this is?"
Tom smiled faintly. "That's why I'm here to find it out."
Harriet leaned on the counter beside him, tilting his head. "Don't mind him. He's got a habit of walking into things that might kill him. Makes him feel alive."
The man ignored him, flipped the page, and began explaining in a flat, rule-heavy tone. "You'll start with the group round. Four players per table. Winners from each group move to Quarter Finals, then Semis, then the Final Match."
He tapped the next line on the form with his pen. "The closer you get to the top, the higher your chance of dying. You understand that, don't you?"
"Understood, roger." Tom said firmly.
The man narrowed his eye. "You may not use any Faces, Magic or other Abilities unless the roundmaster allows it. This isn't a show of power. It is a show of wits. You can bring weapons but nothing above Uptie-3 class. If you break that rule.…"
He raised his finger and sliced the air, grinning faintly. "The crowd will decide what's left of you. If you try to massacre, their are guards outside."
Harriet made a face. "Lovely. I see this place has strong management ethics."
Tom didn't laugh. "When does it start?"
"Tonight," the man said, flipping the ledger shut. "Ten o'clock sharp. Don't be late. Once the doors close, they don't open again till the match ends—one way or another."
He leaned forward on his elbows, studying Tom like he was weighing him. "It's six now. You've got 30 plus hours to pray, eat or change your mind. I'd suggest the second one."
Tom gave a small nod. "I'll see you at ten."
As they turned away, Harriet poked his shoulder. "You actually look excited. That's worrying me. I will have to do everything alone!"
He adjusted his hat, a quiet gleam in his eye. "Maybe. But it's been a while since something promised both risk and purpose."
Harriet rolled his eyes. "You mean both money and death."
He smirked. "Those too."
Behind them, the man muttered while writing another name. "Every season, there's always one like him. They either leave legends.… or stains."
The letters of his words followed them out of the hall.
Outside, the underground sky lamps flickered, dimming toward night. The market crowd began to thin. The whispers of bets and odds floated in the dusty air.
Tom looked up, watching the clock tower's hands inch closer to seven. "Looks like the night's coming again." he said softly.
Harriet sighed. "Yeah and somehow, it's never the peaceful kind."
Tom smiled, eyes steady on the growing darkness. "That's what makes it worth walking through."
....
However, evening hung over Nayga City like a fading ember. The streets shimmered under the dying gold of the setting sun. Vendors closed their stalls, iron shutters clanging, while the smell of fried oil and dust lingered in the air.
The sound of faint music came from the far end of the boulevard very cheerful, yet strangely hollow.
Down that same street, a Jester walked.
He wore a half-white, half-black suit, the fabric tight and precise, one side polished to gleam, the other torn and stained with old ink. His face was painted down the middle — left side smiling, right side cracked in sorrow. A top hat, tall and tilted, shadowed his face. In his gloved hands he carried a bouquet of balloons. Each one colored like fragments of a sunset. Gold, crimson and violet.
People stared, but no one spoke to him. His boots clinked quietly against the cobblestone as he passed humming a strange lullaby that none could recognize. A tune both hopeful and doomed.
When the Jester reached the Shaw Mansion, he stopped. His reflection shimmered in the golden gate's metal. Behind it, the manicured garden swayed under the wind. The mansion's many windows stared blankly, like eyes that had seen too much.
He tilted his head and peeked inside.
A whisper escaped his lips, "Fortune or ruin. It all blooms the same."
The great doors opened. Liam Shaw stood there, tall, composed, his expression calm but his eyes sharp as razors. His dark navy suit reflected the amber light.
"Can I help you?" he asked, tone mild but heavy.
The Jester grinned. "Perhaps I can help you instead." He lifted a small, luminescent flower from beneath his coat. A white lily with glow of sunshine. Its petals shimmered as though woven from morning dew and moonlight.
"The Angelica Flower," the Jester whispered, voice trembling between kindness and madness. "A token of luck.… or maybe, the test of it."
He placed it gently in Liam's hand. Then in the next blink, he was gone. The balloons drifted upward, strings snapping one by one, vanishing into the wind.
The hourglass of sand in the courtyard cracked suddenly, scattering its contents. The city's time turned uneasy. Players, especially Homans hurried to their homes as if driven by instinct. Doors slammed. Windows closed. Only the Hunters remained outside, restless, blades glinting under lamplight.
Liam exhaled slowly, pocketing the strange flower. The moment he turned toward the gate again, the ground trembled.
A shadow moved near the outer fence
hulking shapes crawling from the dark. Their skin shimmered like wet leather, eyes glowing pale green. Beasts.
He smiled faintly, rolling up his sleeves. "Perfect timing."
From his coat's lining, iron claws extended
elegantly, sharp and whisper-thin. His feathered hat cast a hunter's silhouette under the dark sky.
The first beast lunged — he sidestepped, slicing its throat in a single upward motion. The blood hissed on the pavement. Another beast came; Liam pivoted, claws flashing. His movements were graceful, almost a nobleman dancing instead of killing.
They kept coming — five, six, maybe twenty no— more. His coat flared behind him as he spun, tearing through flesh and sinew. He grabbed one by its snout, whispered something, then ripped its jaw apart with one clean pull.
The street became a bathtub of blood. Hunters nearby stopped to watch, murmuring.
"Liam Shaw, the noble from the west district.…"
"He's fighting alone?"
"That is performing." someone replied.
Indeed, it looked like art. Each strike measured, precise, deliberate. His boots left no unnecessary print.
When the last beast fell, its body dissolved into vapor, leaving the scent of burnt copper behind. Liam stood still, brushing the blood from his gloves. His reflection shimmered faintly in a puddle but for a moment, it wasn't his own face staring back. It was the Jester's.
He blinked and it was gone.
The Angelica Flower in his suit was behaving unnatural.
He looked toward the horizon, where the rainbow of dusk had faded into deep blue.
"Good luck, huh?" he muttered, voice quiet but curious. "Let's see which side of luck you meant…. weal or woe."
A distant thunder rolled. Somewhere in the shadows of Nayga, the Jester crazily laughed again.