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In the capital's shadow, on Black Street, which lay near the outskirts of the underground city, the uneven and haphazardly crisscrossing roads seemed ready to collapse at any moment.
These "roads"—walkways, really—were constructed from all sorts of questionable materials. They twined around each other with the complexity of scaffolding at a construction site, and were a staple of the capital's shadow.
With no official funding for standardized infrastructure, these roads had been built by the city's residents out of sheer necessity.
Those who walked these precarious paths were accustomed to the narrow walkways that came without railings.
There was always inherent risk: if the alchemical piping attached to some workshop or another that supported a certain section of the walkway were to rupture, anyone walking above it might plummet several stories below, doused in whatever hazardous substance sprayed out.
A group of hooded figures, their faces obscured, were currently moving across these suspended walkways. Their long robes that covered most of their bodies bore the insignia of a massive, abyssal pit, marking them as followers of the Cult of the Abyss. They pushed open the rusted and patched-up metal door of a bar, a structure precariously affixed to the rocky wall of the underground city. Before stepping inside, they scanned their surroundings to confirm that they weren't being followed.
The interior of the bar was nothing special—it was nothing more than another cheap, grimy dive that hadn't spent...
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