Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 388: Don’t Get Burned

Chapter 388: Don’t Get Burned

Some days passed. Every night was a night of fun, of talk, of drinking wine and talking.

The lyre’s gentle notes echoed softly throughout the symposium, a melody so delicate that it seemed to hang in the air like the scent of incense. Myth, as he called himself in these circles, played a serene façade. His movements were effortless, his dignity moreso.

The last notes of the song faded and a soft applause rippled through the gathering. So many had gathered since the beginning. So many had begun to whisper the Myth. Myth remained still, his fingers gently resting on the strings of the lyre, his gaze flickering toward the entrance of the room where a robed male walked.

Pottery was a long process and important and important to any society without the people realizing. Much of Ancient Greek pottery in the Underground and in the Nebulous Bazaar was managed and sponsored by Xander. Xander who first noticed Myth’s talents and wanted more of it.

Myth began playing again.

Xander sat down, cross-legged, and listened. For the past five nights, it was all he had done. Silently listen. Silently imitate his play style. Silently understand and comprehend Dasha’s genius.

Oh, sure, there was Fuzan of the Imperial Sect and Archelaus the demigod. However, while in the same spacing, they had not noticed him. They had not appreciated him. Xander had. He complimented him, he praised him.

"How would you like to come with me to my home?"

Myth did not stop playing. "I play for everyone."

"Ay, Xander," Alastair called out. "You tryin’ to steal our guy?"

"How selfish," Archelaus chimed.

However, at this rate, Myth’s name was to spread to Alcibiades. That manwhore would capture Myth and ravish him with money and instruments. Myth was no political piece. He was a musician. A thing to pass the time. This was a matter of pride.

Pride: a great man’s greatest folly.

"I will bring you a bigger stage, a greater stage," Xander insisted. "But play for me when I ask for it. I have shown you kindness. I wish for kindness in turn. That is all."

"Kindness in turn," Dasha muttered. "Then it shall be so."

***

The Underground was a place that swallowed the sky whole in black rock. Dasha Pang moved like a shadow, his form draped in cloth that absorbed the light and turned him invisible. The slit of his mask glowed faintly crimson. A single, watchful eye in the dark.

Among the wrecked areas of the Sukhothai, several stalls and shops were in construction. The consequences of the destruction did not dissipate yet. Gentle waves and greeting were thrown his way. Dasha nodded and waved in turn.

This little mass of destruction and its people had become loyal and accustomed to him.

Dasha went ahead and approached a worn-out stall that read: FLORA & FURY.

A couple ran the stall—Alek and Mara. Alek, tall and wiry, with sunken eyes that never seemed to blink, stood behind the counter, organizing a tray of vials filled with neon liquid. Mara, his shorter, more vibrant counterpart, had her hair braided with metallic threads. She sorted through strange herbs and bundles of raw substances.

Carefully curated smiles appeared at the sound of Dasha’s presence.

"The Professor," Alek greeted in a low, gravelly voice. The title was a joke, or so they thought. Dasha didn’t care for the humor of the Underground’s denizens, nor their respect.

"Inventory?" Dasha asked.

Mara nodded eagerly. "We’ve got everything you asked for—Bloodroot, Twilight Orchids, and of course... Dream Meth. That stuff has been selling like hotcakes. People can’t get enough of it." She laughed lightly, a sound that echoed uncomfortably through the wreck surrounding them.

Customers were still coming. After all, destruction was a natural cycle of the Underground. The Black Wolves incident was but a footnote in comparison to the carnage of the Sleeping Giant. The fear rippled only through the common people, not those that sat at the Dark Tower. To them, this was but infighting between inferior creatures. Measly news to laugh about between drinks and their greater plans.

Introducing Dream Meth, a substance that heightened the user’s dreams to lucid nightmares in this turbulent time was perfect. Dream Meth was...addictive. Dangerous. Perfect for the Underground.

"Good," Dasha said, his voice carrying no inflection. "Keep it flowing. I expect my cut." He glanced at the couple, his single red eye fixing them in place for a moment before he turned on his heel, his cloak flaring slightly.

His next destination? Old Blood and Guts.

Dürr would surely appreciate the visit.

The neighborhood of Old Blood and Guts was true to its name, a slum that looked like it had been caught in a perpetual state of combat. The streets were slick with grime, and the buildings were packed too close together, leaning inward as if the entire area might collapse in on itself at any moment. Fighting occurred everywhere. Fighting meant everything here.

Dasha’s destination was a specific alleyway, narrower than most, hidden between two tall cracked buildings. The faint sounds of grunting and cheering could be heard. It was just as Dasha imagined. Through the alleyway was a makeshift tournament. Tournaments like this were supposedly common in the Underground, where blood and money flowed like water.

Hundreds of spectators were screaming their heads off.

Hundreds that craved to see blood spilled.

Hundreds whose shoulders were crammed together and whose screams became one.

A circle of death.

In the center of the circle, a crude arena had been marked off by a magical barrier. Spread on the ground of the makeshift fighting arena were glowing, rippling magic circles. Three mages stood at the perimeter of the arena at triangular points, their hands raised as they maintained the barrier meant to protect the spectators. The mages themselves had barriers to protect themselves.

Dasha changed masks before heading in. There was Myth’s mask, the black opera mask. There was Saikang’s Mask, the white Venetian mask.

Now, it was a red war mask from the times of Ancient Greece. Its skin akin to blood and as rough as a demon, the mask went up and covered the whole of his face. His vision blocked, he supplemented the missing sense with his Qi Sense.

Twisting through the crowd, Dasha wound up at the back where a muscular youth with a shaved head and a teenager with nose piercing over sat together underneath a stall. They were counting their coins. His invisibility off, Dasha’s presence caused their eyes to turn.

These were Dürr’s bullies: the bald male was Kahl and the girl was Durchbohren. Dasha tossed ten silver coins onto the table.

"I would like to fight," Dasha said flatly. The bald bully grunted in approval.

"Name?"

"Leon."

"Leon, you will be up against whoever wins the next battle," said the girl.

"It will be Blaze," the bald man commented with a smirk.

The girl agreed. "Don’t get burned."

Dasha said nothing,

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