Tristan was a broken boy—a twenty-year-old man trapped within the body of a sixteen-year-old. His mind was not in the right place; it churned with a violent unrest, a desire to shatter everything around him. For the first time in a long while, he felt himself slipping back into what he once was: a person who saw the world as a cesspool of cruelty and corruption, a place teeming with evil—and he, by his own admission, was no exception. Yet in his eyes, there was a distinction. His darkness, he believed, paled in comparison to the horrors he had witnessed. Murder and racism stood at the forefront of his hatred, festering wounds that refused to heal. The nobility, with their arrogance and unchecked power, had become the focal point of his rage, and he would willingly—no, gratefully—direct his wrath toward their destruction.
Tristan and the old woman arrived in the Low District of the Second Sector, a place unchanged from the last time he had seen it. Dirt-filled roads stretched endlessly before them, buildings teetered on the brink of collapse, and weary figures sought refuge within crumbling shelters. The two walked side by side, their shoes quickly muddied by the thick grime that coated the ground, their cloaks swaying in the stale, oppressive air of the district. The odor was unmistakable—eerily similar to the one Tristan had endured in his holding cell. It was the stench of sweat, urine, and something far worse: the faint, sickening trace of decay.
Tristan raised a hand to cover his nose, turning his head slightly—only to freeze at the sight before him. A corpse lay discarded on the roadside, its lifeless body ravaged by a swarm of rats that tore into its flesh with relentless hunger. Flies hovered above, drawn to the scent, feasting in their own grotesque way upon the decay.
"There is no use worrying about the dead," the old woman said, turning her gaze toward Tristan.
He looked at her, his expression cold and unyielding, his voice devoid of warmth. "I do not worry for the dead," he replied. "Only for those who caused their deaths."
Without another word, they continued forward until they reached a lone lamppost that seemed strangely out of place amid the ruin of the Low District. The old woman placed her hand upon it and pushed gently, causing it to tilt backward. A faint clicking sound followed—gears grinding beneath the surface. The ground split apart with a deep rumble, sand cascading into the widening gap as something began to rise.
From the depths emerged a crude elevator, constructed from scrap metal and unfamiliar materials. Its structure groaned under its own weight, its collapsible doors rattling as they opened. The old woman stepped inside first—her cane tapping against the metal floor, followed by the slow, deliberate movement of her feet, each step accompanied by the faint creak of aging bones. She turned to Tristan, who stood outside, eyeing the contraption with visible skepticism.
"This is the only way down," she said calmly. "It would be wise for you to step inside."
Tristan grunted softly before stepping forward. The moment his foot touched the elevator's surface, it let out an unsettling creak. He cast one final glance at the old woman. She sighed.
In the next instant, an unseen force shoved him forward.
Tristan stumbled into the elevator, his eyes darting behind him, searching for whatever had pushed him. But there was nothing—only the empty, desolate streets of the Low District. Confusion flickered across his face before realization dawned.
Invisible constructs, he thought.
The doors shut with a metallic clang, and the elevator began its descent. As they sank deeper, the darkness gradually gave way to something unexpected.
A city.
Hidden beneath the Low District lay an entire underground metropolis. Lights illuminated the vast expanse, glowing brightly where darkness should have reigned. They stretched forward like a runway, guiding the eye toward the centerpiece of this hidden world— a grand white cathedral. Though smaller than the grand buildings of the High District, the buildings of the underground city possessed a refinement and elegance that surpassed anything found in the Middle District.
When the elevator finally came to a halt, Tristan stepped out onto solid ground. Unlike the uneven, dirt-laden roads above, the pathways here were clean, smooth, and easy to traverse. The air itself felt different—lighter, purer, almost refreshing. The people who walked these streets carried an air of quiet contentment, their lives seemingly untouched by the misery that plagued the world above.
As they made their way down the illuminated road, Tristan's gaze drifted upward, studying the artificial ceiling that enclosed this hidden sanctuary.
"How long has this place been here?" he asked.
"The houses were not completed the last time you were here," the old woman replied. "But the main structure has existed for quite some time."
Tristan lowered his gaze, glancing at her as another question formed.
"If your people have been here for so long… why now?" he asked. "Why begin your move at this moment?"
The woman inhaled deeply, savoring the clean air before answering.
"We have been waiting," she said, "for the one who will change this world. The Noura Zori."
Tristan frowned slightly. He recognized the language as Romanian, yet his understanding of it was incomplete.
"Noura Zori?" he repeated. "What does that mean?"
Her response came without hesitation.
"The one who will bring forth a new dawn," she said. "The one who will usher in change. The one who will liberate us from oppression."
She paused, her gaze settling on him.
"That person is you."
Tristan said nothing.
He could not see it. He could not imagine himself as a savior, as someone capable of liberating others when he had failed to save even those closest to him. The idea felt absurd—impossible. His goal was far simpler, far darker: to destroy the nobility of Constella. If that objective happened to align with theirs, then so be it. He would play the role they assigned him, even if it was nothing more than a facade.
As they continued walking, he became aware of the stares.
Eyes followed him—countless eyes. Some were filled with hope, others with doubt. Whispers rippled through the crowd, hushed yet persistent.
Then, suddenly, a woman rushed forward.
She collapsed before him, clutching at his cloak, her body trembling as tears streamed down her face. There was sorrow in them—but also something else. Hope. Reverence.
"You… you…" she stammered, her voice breaking beneath the weight of her emotions. "You are the Noura Zori… our savior. He told us you would come."
"I—" Tristan began, only to be abruptly silenced by a sharp strike to his back.
The old woman stepped forward, helping the trembling woman to her feet. Placing a gentle hand upon her head, she spoke with quiet certainty.
"He is the Noura Zori."
The woman's tears flowed even more freely as she gazed up at Tristan, her expression one of pure devotion.
"Noura Zori… Noura Zori… Noura Zori…" she repeated, over and over.
They continued walking, yet a heaviness settled within Tristan's chest.
"These people…" he murmured. "They have waited for a god that does not exist… and I am here, giving them nothing but false hope."
The old woman raised a brow, studying him carefully.
"I am surprised," she said. "When you spoke before, I believed you to be heartless."
"Do not misunderstand me," Tristan replied coldly. "I have no issue playing the role of your so-called savior—so long as it leads me to the destruction of those I despise."
The woman chuckled softly, glancing back at him.
"The Noura Zori is not a false figure," she said. "He is real."
Her gaze sharpened.
"And no matter how much you deny it… you are him."