CHAPTER 494: THE UNDERWORLD

After a mere hour of dispatching his shadows in search of Galen, Marcus finally received a signal—two, in fact—from Phantom and Ely. Both reported they had found something. Without hesitation, Marcus permitted the teleportation link to activate, and in an instant, his form was pulled through the veil of darkness. When he reappeared, however, what greeted him left him slightly taken aback.

He stood upon the rooftop of a towering building, the wind brushing against his face as his onyx eyes scanned the glowing chaos below. Beneath him stretched the infamous underworld that lay beneath Amthar—the festering heart of corruption itself. It was a realm bathed in false light, a sprawling maze of alleys and neon-drenched streets where every form of vice, sin, and filth thrived. This was where the realm’s worst found their home... and where Galen had been taken.

"Of all places..." Marcus muttered, his tone dipped with disgust and irritation. "Can’t believe I’m back in this shit wreck again."

His gaze roamed across the labyrinth of broken buildings and crooked stalls. Smugglers, drug lords, and traders of forbidden goods all peddled their wares beneath shimmering banners and flickering lamps. The air was thick—heavy with smoke, myst dust, and the stench of sweat and greed. The narrow streets buzzed with the sounds of laughter, shouts, and the occasional scream muffled by distance.

For a moment, Marcus tilted his head skyward. Above him shimmered what seemed to be a sky filled with stars—yet he knew it was nothing but illusion. The underworld had no heavens to admire. It had no sun, no moon, and no sky. The "stars" that sparkled above were nothing but grains of dirt, layered with mystic crystals embedded in the cavern’s ceiling to mimic beauty in a place where none truly existed.

A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Heh... guest the stars down here willing forever remain fake." His voice softened as he exhaled. "Well, I’ve got a prince to save, so I can’t afford to let my hatred for this cursed place get in the way."

With that, Marcus turned his attention back to the glowing city beneath his boots. The wind tugged at his clothes as he dismissed both shadows with a single thought. They faded into smoke and mist, vanishing into the folds of darkness around him.

Then, slowly, tendrils of shadow began crawling up his legs, coiling around his torso, climbing higher with deliberate purpose. The black mass wrapped around his chest, his arms, his neck, until finally it veiled his mouth and nose. The shadows rippled, solidified, and when the last wisp dispersed, Marcus’s attire had transformed completely.

Gone was his casual look. In its place, a sleek, jet-black combat suit clung to his frame, its texture smooth yet edged with faint lines of mystic energy. His entire body was now cloaked in darkness, leaving only the upper portion of his face exposed—eyes as black as the night itself and hair fluttering in the artificial wind. But even that was short-lived. More shadows crept upward, weaving themselves into a hood that shrouded the last of his features.

He stood silent, a phantom born of midnight, perfectly still at the edge of the roof.

Then, without hesitation, Marcus took one final look at the glowing cesspit below—and stepped off the ledge.

He plummeted through the artificial sky, his figure vanishing into the sea of lights, swallowed whole by the shadows of the underworld.

***

Deep within the tangled maze of shattered buildings and shadowed alleys lay an old warehouse, its walls rusted and worn by years of neglect. The faint hum of the underworld’s neon glow bled through the cracks, casting sickly colors over its surface. Before its large, rusted doors stood two mercenaries, both dressed in black armor lined with steel plates, their weapons hanging at their sides. Around the perimeter, more of their kind prowled in restless patrols, occasionally barking at bystanders or shoving curious onlookers away to keep unwanted eyes from lingering too long.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of damp wood, sweat, and faint traces of blood. The echo of footsteps and muffled voices from other rooms carried faintly through the walls. Deeper in the warehouse, beyond the scattered crates and dim lanterns, there was a small room—bare and cold. At its center sat a young man tied to a chair.

His head hung low, his pale skin contrasting sharply against his messy white hair. He looked frail, his lips cracked, eyes dim from what seemed to be starvation. His wrists were bound tightly with steel restraints that glimmered faintly with runic inscriptions, and a faint hum could be heard from the metallic collar clamped around his neck.

At the doorway of that room stood two mercenaries, silent and rigid, their gazes never leaving him. The air was dead quiet, the only sounds being the distant murmurs and clatter of movement from outside.

After what felt like an eternity, the young man stirred. Slowly, he lifted his head, revealing tired eyes that—despite the exhaustion—still carried that familiar, stubborn spark of defiance.

"C’mon, guys," Galen rasped out, his voice dry yet still laced with sarcasm. "How long are we gonna do this little hostage gig, huh? No food, no water... You trying to bore me to death or starve me? ’Cause if so, that’s a pretty suckish way to go, not gonna lie." He forced a weak chuckle, grinning despite the dull pain in his stomach. "Besides, I’m only eighteen, man. I haven’t even slept with half the women I planned to yet, so, uh... dying now would really ruin my bucket list."

He blinked dramatically, pretending to sob as fake tears welled in his eyes. When that didn’t earn even a glance from the guards—just as all his previous antics had failed—he groaned loudly and slumped back against the chair.

"You guys are brutal, seriously," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "You’re just gonna keep me here, watch me wither away, and not even bother telling me why you kidnapped me? The least you could do is give me a villain monologue or something. Make this a bit more cinematic."

No reply came. The guards remained statues, indifferent to his rambling.

"Tch. Bunch of dweebs," Galen hissed under his breath, though loud enough to make them twitch. The slight movement didn’t escape his notice, and a sly grin crept across his lips. "Oh? Did that hit a nerve?"

One of the guards subtly clenched his jaw, but neither spoke. Galen leaned his head forward again, grinning like a devil despite his exhaustion.

’How long has it been?’ he thought bitterly, lowering his gaze to the cracked floor. Time had blurred into an endless stretch since he’d been brought here. Without sunlight or even the faintest hint of the surface world, it was impossible to tell if days or weeks had passed.

’Ugh...’ he groaned internally, feeling his myst reserves slipping away like sand through his fingers. ’This damned collar’s cutting off my control. I can barely keep my body running.’

He exhaled slowly, forcing a trickle of myst through his core pathways—a desperate attempt to keep his organs functioning, his mind sharp. It wasn’t enough to nourish him fully, but it kept him alive. Barely. Every minute, the drain grew heavier, and the weight behind his eyelids more unbearable.

Then, amid the silence, the door creaked open. The sound alone made Galen snap his head up, his dulled eyes focusing through the haze.

Footsteps followed—slow, deliberate, echoing with authority. A tall man stepped into the lantern’s glow, wearing a long black brocade coat draped neatly over tailored pants and polished boots. His brown hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and behind his clear spectacles gleamed a pair of sharp amber eyes that studied everything without emotion.

He approached calmly, hands folded behind his back, each step deliberate and precise. When he stopped in front of Galen, he leaned slightly forward, observing him like a specimen under a microscope. Without a word, the man reached out, his gloved hand gripping Galen’s chin firmly.

He turned the young man’s face left, then right, then tilted it upward, examining him from every angle. Finally, he paused, his fingers tightening just slightly before a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"You truly are a Magna," the man said quietly, his tone sharp and condescending. "To think that irritating red hue in your eyes would still burn so vividly after five days..."

He released Galen’s face, letting it drop with a thud of dull pain.

Galen groaned, rolling his jaw. "Damn, man. What’s with the rough handling? You into that or something—"

His words were cut off as a sharp backhand cracked across his face. The force sent his head snapping to the side, blood splattering from his mouth onto the cold floor.

"You have no right to speak," the man hissed, his amber eyes burning with restrained hatred. "Not you. Not the son of a filthy murderer."