Chapter 382: Neighborhoods

Two objectives, one goal, and hundreds of steps required. As the door closed and Xavier disappeared, Dasha faintly tasted umami and garlic.

No districts. Only neighborhoods. Only power. Only leaders. Alliances.

Xavier’s warnings had sat with him—that trying to understand and label every little bit of the Underground was foolish because it was always changing. Millions lived in this cramped shadowy walled society.

The map laid out in front of him was bought from a nearby store. Pencil-drawn, Dasha was able to edit and change it of his own accord. Make corrections and deductions as he saw fit.

Many neighbourhoods were ruled by bosses who clung to their power like wolves guarding their dens. Some of these bosses were little more than brutes, ruling through fear and violence. The brutes were the least of his concerns. After all, the brutes were subservient and hunted in packs. If greater strength came knocking on their door, they would bend the knee or die trying.

Enforcing territory through power at this current stage was foolish. After all, if Wang Lun ever figured out he was not a part of the Society or needed to recall his men, then there was nothing he could do about it. The first would lead to death. The second would lead to him losing power.

Dasha’s fingers traced the lines of the map, pausing on the Widow’s Den, directly behind where he was and where Xavier likely was now. The mid-time boss named Kuranosuke ran the Widow’s Den. The business relied too heavily on the whims of his clientele and on securing alliances with other neighborhoods. But too much of anything could led too much of a fall. Ultimately, he wanted to absorb the Widow’s Den into his growing empire.

Judging by its history and his own lack of history, that wasn’t within his means.

So that meant he had to continue to operate from the shadows.

Whether it was this world or the next, even with little power, Dasha could climb the hierarchy of power in very little time.

His grip on a dozen or so restaurants, stalls, and factories was a good start. It gave him a foothold in the Underground—a place where his presence was felt, if only in whispers. These businesses provided a steady stream of income and information. They allowed him to observe the ebb and flow of the city’s power dynamics, to watch and wait for the right moment to strike. But Dasha wanted more. He needed more.

’Ideally, I should wait and cultivate these places. However, time is not on my side. I’ll have to make do with what I have.’

Dasha knew that overt expansion would draw attention, not only from the bosses but from other lurking powers. This Antithesis Society, for example. He had yet to properly glimpse into their true power.

’Wang Lun was only a pawn, a member of what I assume is an Outer Circle.’

He couldn’t afford to spread himself too thin, to become too visible. But if he could slowly weave himself into the fabric of the Underground’s economy, he could extend his influence without anyone noticing—at least not until it was too late.

He needed to consolidate power. Two or three neighborhoods at a time.

To the east, one of the major consolidations of power and men was at Widow’s Den. To the west, another select area of info and power was Ares’ Symposium.

From his inventory, Dasha pulled out a black opera mask that covered half his face. A shop nearby sold high-quality harps. Perfect.

******

Dasha asked the two boys under his wing, Shaoruo and Heng, who were more than happy to point him toward another boy who lived in an alleyway in the western area. The boy was easily identifiable by the bud of black on his forehead. Dasha thanked Shaoruo and Heng and then went off.

The boy with the black bud sat in an alleyway, dirty and exhausted. He must have been beaten. Dasha kneeled down to his level, tossed him a silver coin, and said he was a friend of Heng’s. The boy with the black bud looked up, stared at the silver coin, and slowly nodded.

“Ares’ Symposium,” Dasha said. “Tell me all that you know. The inner working, the people, the musicians.”

The boy informed Dasha everything he needed to know and more. Who the highest-ranked individuals were, who was ousted from the group, and what exactly went on inside.

“If you want to get inside, you either have to be invited as a guest or as an invited musician, poet, or philosopher,” said the boy spy of the west. “You can also go and deliver wine but you’ll have to leave quickly. I know because I tried to steal some wine.”

“I want to know how musicians are invited.”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Dasha thanked the boy, handed him a silver coin, and went off.

Dasha hovered on a spot across from the base of the stairs leading up to the symposium.

’My Qi Sense feels strange when I try and direct it toward the staircase,’ Dasha told himself. ’Some sort of auto-detection system must be in place.’

He observed the people passing by, some of them rich in their silken robes, others barely hanging on to the fringes of power. But here, inside these walls, there was supposed to be order—order among chaos. A gathering of minds and power that kept the Underground’s chaotic tendencies from erupting into all-out war.

Ares’ symposium, from the outside, was little more than a large marble building with tall columns and cracked stone steps. Carvings of Ares himself were spread out on the walls and columns, his figures eroded and worn down by time. Dasha estimated the buildings to be four or five hundred years old and while clean, not well-kept. The arched open entrance was guarded by two men, each worth a hundred Dashas in power but not overly concerned. They were not here to fight but to keep out the rabble.

Dasha knew he would not make it far if he approached directly. He had no standing here, no reputation to fall back on. He was a ghost to these people, unknown, untested, irrelevant. His entry would be questioned at best, rejected at worst.

So he watched and waited.

How did the musicians receive entry? The answer was simple: they were either invited by recognition or by being paired up with someone of mild importance. Showing off a great poet or musician was like showing off a new toy.

He was already told of names and the fractures within. The most sensitive being…

’There he is.’

From the shadows, he found the man he had been seeking. A man of middling importance—Tasos, an acquaintance of a high-member, a man who had just enough influence to gain entry into the symposium but not enough to be seated at the central table with the true elites. Tasos was short, stocky, with a slightly nervous demeanor that made him appear smaller than he actually was. He wore a white robe that was stained with wine and food, his fingers adorned with cheap rings meant to imitate wealth. He was not an impressive figure, apparently running a business that connected mercenaries with clients, but he was important enough for Dasha’s purposes.

Tasos was pacing five feet to the left of Dasha and muttering to himself. He seemed to be waiting for someone, his eyes darting at the staircase and the guards. Dasha decided this was his opening. “Hello, Tasos.”

Tasos was irritated and alert. “Who are you?”

Dasha inclined his head slightly. “I’m a messenger. I’ve been sent with an important delivery. I was told to give it to you.”

Tasos’ irritation fading into curiosity. “A delivery? From whom?”

Dasha took out a small, unmarked package from inside his coat and held it out. “I cannot say. But I was told you would know what to do with it. It’s… delicate information.”

The lie came easily, smoothly, as if it were the truth.

Tasos glanced around, his suspicion still present but curiosity piqued. He hesitated before taking the package, cradling it in his hands as if it were something precious. “What’s inside?”

“Open it when you’re alone,” Dasha instructed. “It’s better that way.”

The uncertainty in Tasos’s eyes was palpable, but he nodded, clutching the package to his chest. Dasha continued before Tasos could ask more questions. “I was also instructed to ensure that you are allowed inside the symposium tonight, no questions asked.”

Tasos’s eyes widened slightly. “Really? Who would…”

He was already allowed in so this was just stupid. This man was stupid.

“Think of it as a favor,” Dasha said. “From someone who values your place in this city.”

The flattery, coupled with the mystery of the package, seemed to ease Tasos’s nerves. He looked toward the guards at the entrance and then back to Dasha. “You’re saying I’ll be allowed to sit without issue?”

“Yes,” Dasha replied smoothly. “But I suggest you act quickly. The others are waiting.”

Tasos seemed to straighten up, his chest puffing out slightly as if he had been handed a gift of immense value. He gave Dasha a nod, then turned toward the staircase with renewed confidence. He walked through the barrier and then climbed up, up, up the stairs.

Dasha was a step behind. When the invisible barrier touched him, there was a tiny blue ripple. Must be a signal. Reaching the top, they saw two guards and a heavy door.

’The ripple must have signalled someone is coming.’ Dasha discreetly looked up. There were windows and more guards. They were jotting down the descriptions of the new entries. A robust, old style system of spying and keeping count.

The guards eyed Tasos warily. They knew him. As for Dasha…

There was no remark either. After all, he carried a harp with him.

Tasos flashed the guard a quick smile and trotted through the heavy wooden doors, the package clutched tightly in his hands. Dasha was directly behind him like a subordinate.

“Ah, messenger—”

Tasos turned, saw Dasha press a finger to his lips, and pretended to see nothing. Messengers were messengers and to maintain anonymity was something Tasos could understand.

Yes, the Underground and its culture were oh-so easy for Dasha to grasp.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep