Chapter 158: Into the Slums

My heart began beating so rapidly I briefly worried it might punch through my ribcage and make a break for freedom.

I whipped my head up to face Brutus with such velocity I nearly gave myself whiplash, my mouth already opening to share this absolutely world-shattering revelation, when he stared down at his own scroll with an expression of profound confusion that somehow made his already scarred face look even more intimidating.

“Who the fuck,” he rumbled slowly, squinting at the parchment like it had personally offended him, “is Julius Ficklebottom?”

My heart nearly imploded with excitement—like, actually collapsed in on itself like a dying star, except instead of creating a black hole it just generated pure, undiluted joy that made my entire body vibrate with manic energy.

“He remembered!” I squeaked, probably at a pitch that only dogs or very unfortunate bystanders could properly hear. “Julius remembered when I mentioned you back in the prison!”

I grabbed Brutus’s arm with both hands, bouncing on my toes like a child who’d just been told they were going to a candy shop that sold puppies. “Julius is the noble who helped me right after we got separated when I first arrived in the prison! You remember how I disappeared for a few days? He helped me get back to you then!”

Brutus chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that started somewhere around his knees and worked its way up through his massive chest, before shaking his head with obvious disbelief.

“You expect me to believe,” he said, each word measured and skeptical, “that a noble of all people would help someone like you out of the goodness of their heart? Nobles don’t have goodness in their hearts, Loona. They have carefully calculated investments and tax write-offs.”

I bristled immediately, drawing myself up to my full—admittedly not very impressive—height and pointed at him with indignant accusation.

“He’s a good man!” I declared with the passionate conviction of someone defending their favorite character from unfair criticism. “A bit questionable, yes, absolutely has some moral flexibility that would make most philosophers weep, and his sense of humor skews toward the inappropriate even by my standards, but he’s good, Brutus. He cared, and that counts for something in this cesspool of a city.”

Brutus rolled his eyes with the long-suffering patience of someone who’d learned that arguing with me was like trying to redirect a hurricane with strongly worded suggestions.

“Whatever you say,” he conceded with a grunt. “So where’s this supposedly wonderful patron of ours taking us? Please tell me it’s somewhere with actual beds and not a converted warehouse where we sleep on hay.”

I scanned the letter again, my eyes tracking over the elaborate script with growing amusement and affection, because of course Julius couldn’t just write a normal assignment notification like a reasonable person—that would be far too simple and straightforward.

No, instead he’d composed what appeared to be a full poem, complete with rhyme scheme and meter. I couldn’t help the nervous giggles that bubbled up as I noticed the page was stained with what had to be tears. Actual tears. The dramatic bastard had cried while writing this.

“Listen to this,” I said, clearing my throat and adopting my best theatrical reading voice, because if Julius was going to be extra about it then so was I.

“Ahem. ’Dear mate of mine, with hair of night, who danced with death and won the fight, come find me where the moonlight plays, upon the stage through smoky haze. The Sonata calls, the curtain parts, for you and one of kindest hearts. Your friend of boulder, strength untold, both have a place within my fold.’”

I lowered the paper, my brain working to translate Julius-speak into useful information. “Okay so… moonlight, stage, Sonata… I think he’s referencing some sort of theater? The Moonlight Sonata, maybe? Yes, I know that place. That’s on the outskirts of town, I remember Iskanda mentioning it when she was going over the city’s various establishments.”

I sighed then, long, theatrical, and probably audible from three blocks away, because of course Julius would be running a theater in the sketchy outskirts rather than, say, a nice respectable establishment in the mid-tier where people weren’t actively trying to murder you every five minutes.

“Of course he’d be in a place like that,” I muttered, though my tone carried more fondness than criticism. “Can’t do anything by halves, that man. Everything has to be dramatic.”

I rolled up the paper with decisive finality and turned to Brutus with a grin. “Come on, big guy. I already know the general location from when I was studying the city with Iskanda. We can—”

“Where,” Iskanda’s voice cut through my sentence like a hot knife through optimistic plans, “do you two think you’re going?”

I spun around to find her standing directly behind us with her arms crossed and an expression that suggested she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make me jump out of my skin.

“We’re going to the Moonlight Sonata,” I explained, gesturing with the rolled scroll. “You know? The theater on the outskirts, apparently its up and running now.”

Iskanda stared at me for exactly three seconds before she burst into laughter—not polite chuckling or restrained amusement, but full-bodied, shoulder-shaking laughter that echoed across the mostly empty room and made several remaining attendants glance up in alarm.

“Oh gods,” she gasped between laughs, actually wiping at her eyes. “Oh that’s—you got the short end of the stick after all, didn’t you? The Moonlight Sonata? That establishment?” She dissolved into another round of cackling. “That place is barely holding itself together.”

I bristled again before shooting back, “I’ve worked with my patron before,” I said with stubborn optimism, lifting my chin. “He helped me back in the prison, and I trust him to not let me die in a collapsing theater. Probably. Like, seventy percent sure. Maybe sixty.” I paused. “Look, the odds are better than fighting Elvina was, so I’m calling it a win.”

Iskanda’s laughter finally subsided into occasional chuckles before she shook her head with something that might’ve been affection.

“Well, I supposed I can’t argue with that,” she said, then her expression softened slightly—barely perceptibly, but enough that I noticed. “Good luck. To both of you. Try not to die in the first week. It would be terribly anticlimactic after everything you’ve accomplished.”

“Anticlimactic?” I scoffed, flashing her a grin as I waved over my shoulder. “Please. If I’m going to die, it’ll be loud, expensive, and in a way that ruins at least three schedules. Anything less would be an insult to my brand.”

Iskanda chuckled again as she watched us disappear into the waiting halls.

From then, after being escorted to the tower’s main entrance by an attendant who looked like he was counting down the seconds until he could return to doing literally anything else, Brutus and I finally stepped out onto the streets of the inner city.

I had to pause just to take it all in.

The bronze industrial wonderland sprawled before us like something out of a fever dream designed by an architect who’d been told “make it steampunk but also weirdly elegant.”

The street’s massive gears turned at the sides of buildings for no apparent reason except aesthetics, steam vents hissed their approval of our presence, and pneumatic tubes lined the walls like some elaborate game of three-dimensional tic-tac-toe.

The performers lined the streets—fire breathers, acrobats, musicians playing instruments I couldn’t even name—each one competing for attention and coins with increasingly desperate displays of talent.

The walkways of polished bronze caught the light from countless street lamps, creating pools of golden illumination that made the whole place look like it was perpetually sunset.

Nobles strolled past in their elaborate finery, barely sparing glances for the slaves and performers, while the fluorescent glow of the high-end brothels painted everything in shades of pink, purple, and electric blue.

It was overwhelming, beautiful, and slightly nauseating all at once. I loved it.

Without warning—because good ideas rarely come with warning—I stepped up behind Brutus and used my enhanced strength to leap onto his massive shoulders like some kind of deranged acrobat claiming their perch.

Brutus stumbled, his single arm windmilling as he tried to compensate for the sudden addition of a Loona to his upper body, and for a terrifying moment I thought we were both going to crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs and embarrassment.

But he managed to steady himself, his hand coming up to grip my leg and hold me in place. I let out a chuckle that rumbled through his entire frame.

“A little warning next time?” he grumbled, though his tone carried more amusement than actual complaint.

I glanced back over my shoulder then, drawn by some instinct or perhaps my impeccable sense of timing, and spotted Director Thalen sitting in his wheelchair near the tower’s gated entrance .

Beside him stood Tora, waving at me with his hand like an enthusiastic child seeing off a friend at summer camp, his face flushed that adorable pink I’d come to associate as his natural state of being.

I returned his gesture with theatrical flair, giving him a short salute, then slapped Brutus on the head—not hard, but just enough to get his attention—and pointed onward into the city with the commanding authority of a small general leading his much larger army.

“Onward, noble steed! Adventure awaits!”

Brutus grumbled something that might have been agreement or might have been threats about dropping me, before he started stalking forward into the chaos beyond.

I settled onto my perch with satisfaction as we trailed through the inner city, riding on Brutus’s shoulders like the world’s least dignified monarch, and taking in the various sights and sounds around us.

But gradually, block by block, the dazzle began to fade. The bronze machinery grew less elaborate, the crowds thinned, and the fluorescent glow of the high-end establishments dimmed.

We were entering the mid-section now, and I had to search for the right word to describe it—tame

came to mind first, though that wasn’t quite right. Controlled, maybe. Classy in a way that felt deliberate rather than natural.

There was no chaos here, no desperate performers, vendors, or nobles showing off their wealth with aggressive enthusiasm. Just casual conversation punctuated by the constant presence of smoking—pipes, cigarettes, cigars, all creating a haze that hung at street level like morning fog.

The occasional moan drifted from windows or doorways in a way that suggested pleasure was a common occurrence though practiced in a much more organized fashion than in the inner circle.

The bronze machinery melted away slowly, replaced by cobblestone that looked to be fairly well maintained. Then we crossed some invisible threshold and suddenly we were in the slums, and oh saints above, the slums.

There was almost no machinery here—just the occasional broken gear rusting against a wall, steam vents that had long since stopped functioning, pipes that led nowhere and served no purpose except as reminders of past prosperity.

The streets were dark, oppressively so, the glow of the city entirely absent save for a few scattered street lamps that burned a deep, sickly blue.

The wet cobblestone atmosphere took over completely, every surface slick with moisture from an unknown source.

That was when I noticed the posters.

Not one or two. Dozens. No—hundreds. Layered over brick, nailed to posts, pasted crookedly onto doorframes and alley mouths until the walls themselves seemed made of paper and ink. “Mavus Grey,” the bold lettering screamed. “Wanted,” repeated so many times it lost meaning and became texture instead.

Brutus slowed beside me. “Who’s that?” he rumbled, nodding toward the nearest poster, then the next, and the next after that.

“The most wanted man in the city.” I paused for a moment, letting out a snicker. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s pretty infamous you know? His name’s been floating through the Undernet for years,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the walls.

From then, I couldn’t help but wince as I took in the rest of the scene around us—drunkards stumbling through streets with the unsteady gait of people who’d forgotten what sobriety felt like, their clothes ragged and stained.

A few slave women stripped completely naked were being fucked raw in less than private spaces, pressed against walls or bent over crates while men rutted into them with the kind of mechanical precision that suggested this were merely part of the landscape.

One man jerked himself on the sidewalk with absolutely no shame or awareness of anyone around him, his eyes glazed and distant, while another stumbled toward us with increasing persistence, his hand outstretched, voice rising in desperate pleading.

“Please—just a coin—anything—haven’t eaten in three days—please—”

I rolled my eyes with the practiced exasperation of someone who knew that engaging would only make things worse, and yet I couldn’t quite bring myself to completely ignore his persistent whining.

“Brutus,” I said, slapping his shoulder, “hand me my pouch.”

Brutus did so with a grunt that suggested he thought this was a terrible idea but wasn’t going to argue, passing up my winnings from the arena. I fished out a single golden crown—far more than anyone in this area would normally see in a month—and flicked it toward the beggar with casual precision.

He fumbled it, nearly dropping it twice, before finally clutching it to his chest like it was the world’s greatest prize, like he’d just been handed salvation itself.

He held it up in the air like a maniac, his voice rising into a laugh that was equal parts joy, hysteria, and something darker. Something I didn’t want to examine too closely.

The second that sound left his mouth, the entire street went silent.

Every single person within earshot—the drunkards, the women being used, the man jerking himself, everyone—turned to look directly at us. Their eyes locked onto Brutus and me with pin-point focus, hunger blazing in their expressions with an intensity that made my survival instincts start screaming.

And In that crystalline moment of terrible clarity, I realized I had fucked up. Spectacularly, catastrophically, in a way that probably would’ve impressed even me if I weren’t currently experiencing the consequences.

“Brutus,” I said quietly, my fingers tightening on his shoulder, “I think we should run now.”

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