The maglev train screeched to a halt at the District 13 station. John stepped out of the carriage, shivering as the oncoming acid rain hit him. The chill snapped him out of the lingering adrenaline from the battle at the manor.
He patted his pocket. The check for 50,000 Newbucks was still there, warm from his body heat.
"First, cash this at the black market. Then, buy the meds."
John pulled his hoodie tight and navigated through the muddy streets. He knew that wandering around the Undercity with a check this big was suicidal. He had to turn this piece of paper into tangible medicine, fast.
He headed back to "Rat Street."
This time, the way the vendors looked at him had changed. Although he was still wearing that ragged hoodie, the glowing, winged monstrosity of a cat in his arms made everyone instinctively give him a three-foot berth.
"Blind Man!" John slapped the check onto the greasy counter of the goblin vendor. "50k. Give me the best meds you have. Cash the rest."
Blind Man’s cloudy lone eye went wide. He grabbed the check, holding it up to the dim light, his hands trembling.
"A Van Horn family check? Holy hell, kid, did you actually rob that vampire's nest?"
"Cut the chatter. You changing it or not?"
"Changing it! Of course I'm changing it! But... 10% handling fee."
"5%," John said coldly. "Or I go to One-Eyed Dragon next door."
"Deal!"
Blind Man moved with surprising speed, pulling two vials of "Gold Label" inhibitors—still cold from the fridge—from his safe, followed by a thick stack of cash.
"This is top-shelf stuff. Not quite the Guild's special reserve, but it's enough to make your mom feel a whole lot better."
John took the meds and carefully tucked them into his inside pocket.
Mission accomplished.
He let out a sigh of relief and turned to leave.
DONK—!
A dull, heavy impact echoed from the basement entrance nearby, accompanied by the roar of a frenzied crowd and the shouting of bets.
John stopped.
It was the Black Market Ring. The bloodiest, loudest spot in the Undercity.
He hadn't intended to pay it any mind, but Schr?dinger, who had been asleep in his arms, suddenly woke up. The cat pricked up its ears and let out a meow directed at the noise. It sounded... curious?
"You want to go look?" John stroked the cat's head.
He had the money and the meds. Plus, to dodge any potential eyes on the street (the Van Horns wouldn't let this go easily), blending into a crowd might actually be safer.
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John pulled his hood lower and followed the flow of people into the basement, which reeked of sweat, rust, and blood.
The air down here was even thicker than outside. Hundreds of gamblers surrounded a massive iron cage, waving banknotes and screaming like animals in heat.
Inside the cage, an asymmetrical slaughter was underway.
On one side stood a bio-modified Ogre, three meters tall, covered in steel piping. Every punch it threw left a dent in the iron cage.
On the other side...
John froze.
It wasn't a person. It wasn't even a complete corpse.
It was a Skeleton.
A massive, thick-boned skeleton. It had no flesh, just white bones held together at the joints by crude wire and rivets. It looked like a DIY model kit ready to fall apart at any second.
"Smash it! Strip it for parts!"
The audience was in a frenzy.
"This bag of bones has already lasted three rounds! I don't believe it can take another!"
"Twist its head off!"
The Ogre roared and charged, slamming a heavy hammer-fist onto the Skeleton's shoulder.
CRACK!
The Skeleton's left scapula shattered instantly, bone shards flying. It was sent flying by the immense force, slamming hard into the cage bars.
But it didn't stay down.
It made no sound (it had no vocal cords). It simply stood up silently, and with its one remaining good hand, raised it into a perfect... boxing stance?
John's pupils contracted.
That stance...
That was the defensive guard of an old-world boxing champion. Center of gravity low, chin tucked, empty sockets staring dead at the opponent.
When this skeleton was alive, he must have been a top-tier fighter.
BAM!
The Ogre landed another punch.
Three of the Skeleton's ribs snapped.
BAM!
Hairline fractures appeared on its femur.
It was knocked down again and again, and again and again it stood up. Its body was collapsing, but an invisible fire seemed to burn within its frame.
That "die before yielding" attitude reminded John of himself.
"Alright! Match over!"
The Referee (a tuxedo-wearing Vampire) blew the whistle. Not because the Skeleton won, but because...
"The durability limit of this skeleton has been reached! Any more and it'll be bone dust!"
The Referee grabbed the mic and shouted, "Ladies and gents! Tonight's special event! We are auctioning this 'Unyielding Bone' frame right now!"
"These are the remains of the former underground boxing king, 'Iron Fist' Ah Gu! The meat is gone, but the bone density is top-tier! Perfect for crafting Necromancer staffs, bone shields, or grinding into aphrodisiac powder! Top quality!"
"Starting bid: 5,000 Newbucks!"
Two staff members walked into the cage, dragged the Skeleton out like a dead dog—still trying to maintain its boxing stance—and threw it onto the auction block.
The Skeleton struggled to stand, but its leg bones were snapped. It could only prop itself up on the table with its hands, its two hollow eye sockets staring fixedly at the crowd below.
That look...
There was no fear. No begging.
Only the stubbornness of someone who would swallow their own broken teeth rather than spit them out.
"I bid 6,000! I want the skull for a wine goblet!" a gang boss with a scarred face shouted.
"7,000! I want the leg bone for a cane!"
"8,000! Grind it to powder!"
The price skyrocketed.
John stood in the crowd, feeling like a boulder was blocking his chest.
Is this the logic of this city?
Squeezed dry while alive. Auctioned off as raw materials when dead.
Not even the bones are allowed to rest in peace.
Total commodification.
Humans are just resources.
"That's a nice skeletal frame," a Necromancer next to him commented. "High resentment. Good spirituality. Make it into a Skeleton Soldier and you’ve got a premium meat shield."
John’s hand went into his pocket.
He touched the stack of cash he'd just exchanged. Aside from the money for the meds, he had a little over ten thousand left.
That was money for his mom's nutrition, for rent, maybe even a new set of clothes for himself.
Don't be rash, John.
He told himself internally.
You're broke. You have a family to feed. You can't spend money on a dead stranger.
Besides... it's just a pile of bones.
On the auction block, the Skeleton finally couldn't hold itself up and collapsed with a crash.
As it fell, its skull tilted toward John.
Those two hollow, black sockets aligned perfectly with John's gaze.
In that instant.
John felt like he saw a faint, weak, yet frantically burning...
Soul Fire within that darkness.
"I do not yield."
John seemed to hear the soul screaming.
"I do not yield."
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