Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 362: DASHA: No Light

Chapter 362: DASHA: No Light

The Underground, the realm where the light did not touch.

The Underground, where Jack the Ripper’s masks were sold like a commodity.

A different culture. A different smell. A different people.

Above were twisting tawny rocks and below was an enclave. A densely populated urban jungle that defied conventional city planning and architectural norms. Standing in its shadow for the first time, one might hardly believe that such a place existed. The walled city was a chaotic mosaic of concrete and steel, a tangle of buildings so tightly packed together that they seemed to meld into one another, forming a colossal, interconnected hive.

The buildings themselves were a patchwork of materials, cobbled together with little regard for aesthetics or safety. Rusted metal sheets, rotting wooden planks, and crumbling bricks formed a world that seemed to defy the laws of architecture. Everything had been constructed with little regard for safety or aesthetics, each new floor added haphazardly atop the last. It was as if the city had grown organically, layer upon layer, a living, breathing organism constantly adapting to the needs of its inhabitants. The upper floors leaned perilously, supported by makeshift pillars and beams, their balconies and rooftops bristling with satellite dishes and water tanks.

The narrow alleys were crammed with makeshift stalls selling everything from illicit potions to enchanted trinkets, their vendors shouting hoarsely to attract the attention of passersby.

Dasha Pang ignored all the voices that called for him. His walk was empty as it was intentional. Slow yet not touched. In a rush of people yet slipping through as if gliding across the ground.

No special gauntlets.

No armour.

Only a cloak of invisibility and a Venetian mask that hid another broken mask.

Dasha Pang wandered through the Underground, untouched.

The inhabitants of the Underground were a motley crew. Rough, tough men and women who walked and talked with quick glances or none at all. Many bore the marks of old wounds, scars that told stories of violence and desperation. Others, the least fortunate, were hunched over between alleyways, their eyes hollow and vacant, lost to the oblivion of magical drugs that coursed through their veins.

Dasha Pang stared up. Above the buildings, above this desolate world, was a tower. It was always in view and never forgotten. A silver-grey tower of epic proportions that was akin to the moon. A small glimpse of night that kept the darkness reined in.

The Dark Tower, the center to the Underground. It connected to the ceiling and did not dare to go higher. It was the one constant and the one absolute in this underground of crime and darkness.

’Another tower,’ Dasha thought. ’Curious.’

The Heavenly Tower, the Dark Tower...was there a connection? Neither the history books nor those at the Whispers knew.

Through the streets, walking through a small spacing, he felt a bump. A small boy, no more than twelve, had barreled into him. Dasha felt the subtle tug as his pouch of coins was deftly lifted from his coat pocket.

"Sorry!"

The boy, thin and dirty, flashed a quick, cocky smile before darting away into the crowd.

Dasha made no move to pursue him. He pretended not to notice the theft, his hands still clasped behind his back. His sixth sense followed the boy’s retreating form.

The boy, his heart pounding with the thrill of his successful theft, ran and climbed a small, dilapidated building and dived through the sixth floor window. The window broken, the space sparse and dark, there was no one but the thief, a table, and some tiny chairs. This high up, this fast, no one could catch him. With a cackle of triumph, the thief sat down and began to examine his prize. The pouch was heavy, promising more than just a few coins.

Suddenly, a knock echoed through the small room. The boy jumped. Although seeming abandoned, this building was in fact a place for people like him to stay. Built by a small, uncaring community that solely sought survival. A broken but not abandoned building for people that were abandoned. The thief scowled, thinking it was one of his friends playing a prank. "Knock it off!" he yelled. "Leave me alone!"

Another knock, louder this time.

The boy’s irritation grew. "I said, leave me alone!" he shouted.

The door creaked open and the boy’s eyes widened in shock. The victim of his thievery stood in the doorway, his Venetian mask unmistakable. The boy froze, his bravado evaporating in an instant.

Dasha stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. It was a crooked thing and he touched it tenderly. He moved with deliberate grace, his eyes never leaving the boy. Dasha reached forward...

"What is your name?"

...and sat down beside him.

The boy did not know how to act. Here, in this room of nothing, he could not move. His eyes darted at the window, then back at Dasha. The boy swallowed hard, his throat dry. "M-Mùchén," he stammered.

"Mùchén," Dasha said, his eyes boring into the boy’s. "You’re fast."

"S-so are you."

He got to the sixth floor in an instant! He couldn’t be human! Those were the boy’s thoughts. Dasha understood.

"You can keep it," he said. "So let us talk."

"O-okay." Mùchén’s eyes darted nervously to the window once more, imagining himself diving only to be grabbed the leg and thrown back inside. This man must have been a fighter. He nodded slowly. "Um, about what?" He clutched the wallet tightly, the weight of it suddenly feeling like a lifeline. Dasha’s calm demeanor was unnerving.

The only aspect of him that reassured his own life was that he was too calm. He couldn’t possibly be thinking of killing him. There was no intent to do so.

Dasha leaned back slightly, his hands still resting calmly in his lap. "Tell me, Mùchén," he said, "what do you know about the Underground?"

"I, um, I’ve lived here all my life."

"Tell me what that was like," Dasha said. "I would like to know."