WHAT REALLY HAPPENED?
The stage did not rest for long. One prominent figure after another stepped forward, each bringing their own weight of influence and perspective. Some limited themselves to formal responses, while others drifted into deeper, more serious political exchanges with fellow dignitaries. The atmosphere grew increasingly charged, almost theatrical, as questions fired from the panel in quick succession toward whoever held the podium—sharp, probing, and relentless.
Even the interim provincial overseer was not spared from the barrage.
By mid-afternoon, precisely at three o'clock, the sun hung heavy in the sky as Victoria took the stage for the final time to close the occasion. She stood openly before the crowd, ready to answer any question within her knowledge and scope.
That invitation was all the crowd needed.
As she stepped up, more people seized the opportunity to direct questions at her.
Questions came in waves, overlapping, eager, and insistent. Then, cutting cleanly through the noise, one voice rose above the rest.
Councilwoman Margaret Whitewood.
Her voice cut through the air with a chill that halted the room's momentum. Every eye pivoted toward her.
"What really happened at the Battle of Blood Union," she asked, the words landing like a live grenade, "and are we winning the ongoing war?"
A heavy silence descended. Conversations died mid-breath. Every eye in the crowd turned toward Victoria. Known for her sincerity and truthfulness, she had earned the people's trust through her honesty, integrity, and respect. This single question had become a public test of her character before the listening crowd.
Victoria inclined her head slightly.
"Pardon me for asking," Victoria began with measured grace, "but would you care to introduce yourself, Ma'am?"
"Will that be necessary, Your Grace?" the woman replied, a thin smile playing on her lips.
Before Victoria could respond, one of her aides stepped forward and whispered into her ear. The princess listened, nodding.
"Uh-huh… okay… oh, I see," Victoria muttered, her expression shifting. "Alright, thank you," she told the aide before turning back to her challenger.
Turning her attention to the woman who had posed the question, she continued, "I never expected an ex-journalist and prominent politician to join the panel of questioners, but you are highly welcome, Mrs. Whitewood." She acknowledged Councilwoman Margaret Whitewood.
A ripple of recognition passed through the audience. The acknowledgment was sharp, yet polite.
With measured calm, Victoria continued, "With all sincerity, my knowledge of the Battle of Blood Union is limited. It's the same accounts you've already heard time and time again."
The councilwoman leaned closer to the microphone.
"So we are to accept, without question, the version of events fed to us twenty-nine years ago?"
"Do you have claims or evidence to debunk the official record of that historical event?" Victoria asked in return.
"I believe you are too bright to buy into such narratives and historical denialism, Your Grace," Whitewood replied, dangling a bait of intellectual flattery.
"Whether I choose to believe that version of history or not," Victoria answered calmly, "I believe intelligence and wisdom are not the same thing, Councilwoman. Intelligence questions what it hears. Wisdom questions what it can prove."
She paused, letting the weight of the statement settle over the restless crowd.
"With respect," she continued, "intelligence is not measured by how quickly we reject a narrative but by how carefully we examine it. I will not stand here and trade in speculation just to satisfy suspicion. If there are truths buried beneath what we were told, they deserve evidence—not insinuation. Until then, I will not mislead these people with claims I cannot substantiate."
"Good response," Mrs. Whitewood replied. "I respect your judgment on this. I suppose you don't easily fall for propaganda."
Victoria allowed herself the faintest smile. "That is because I have no intention of creating one."
GOVERNMENT AND CONTROL.
The councilwoman leaned forward again.
"Then let us return to my second question. Are we truly winning this war—or is the media merely telling us what we want to hear?"
"Once again, Councilwoman, I am not the right person to give you accurate information on such matters," Victoria made clear.
"But you are part of the government, Your Highness," Mrs. Whitewood insisted. "Those are vital pieces of information that should never bypass your table. They concern Luciana, its people, and the armed forces."
She paused, then pressed further, trying to coax Victoria.
"The people of Luciana need to know what is happening to their sons and daughters on the front lines."
"If you need an accurate answer to your question, Councilwoman, that should be directed to the CDS of Luciana, who answers to the Crown," Victoria suggested. "He heads the entirety of our military forces."
"You mean Admiral O'Tega?" Mrs. Whitewood let out a dry, cynical chuckle. "The man who refuses to honor any request or session with the media?"
Victoria tilted her head slightly.
"And yet your parliament continues to approve military budgets while he ignores your calls," Victoria said, shaking her head in a display of weary disappointment. "Pity."
A ripple of dark laughter broke out among the spectators at the bluntness of the take.
Mrs. Whitewood did not retreat.
"The Admiral answers to the Crown," she countered. "And you are part of the Crown, Your Highness."
"That is true," Victoria acknowledged, sharpening her tone for the final strike. "But remember: the child of a wealthy man is not necessarily wealthy themselves. Not all confidential information reaches me simply because I am the king's daughter."
She spoke clearly, hoping to shift some citizens' perceptions of her position and power—looking out at the citizens, wanting them to see her not as an omnipotent ruler but as a person bound by the same silos of information she was limited to, just like everyone else.
A murmur spread through the audience as her words settled.
She let it linger; she drew a deep breath. Then continued—
"Anyway, truth be told," she finally answered, "we have won a few battles these past few months, but unfortunately, we are losing the war in the larger picture."
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then—
A surge.
As soon as the public heard this from their princess, tension began to build. People started cursing the politicians and those in government.
Princess Victoria noticed that the truth had stirred the crowd—they were fuming, not at her, but at their leaders.
The government and media had only fed the public positive news while suppressing the negative, which reflected the true reality. This senseless war had gone on for so long that many citizens no longer even remembered the reason behind it.
Victoria stepped forward, her voice thick with empathy. "I apologize," she said, speaking for the royal family and the state. She could feel the atmospheric pressure rising; the taxpayers were being bled dry to fund an operation that was, by her own admission, failing.
Councilwoman Whitewood had gotten the reaction she so badly desired from the masses. For the first time in a long while, the people were no longer entirely ignorant of the true state of the war.
"One more question, Your Highness," Whitewood chimed in, sensing blood in the water.
Julius Lancaster moved to intervene immediately. "That will be enough for today. Her Highness is stepping down."
"Don't worry, Julius," Victoria interjected calmly. "I can take one more question. She is… an interesting woman."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Mrs. Whitewood said with appreciation.
"Go on." Victoria gave the green light.
"Princess Diana, your sister's public record shows she completed the mandatory constitutional obligation for military education and national defense training," Mrs. Whitewood said, showing great interest. "Her graduation was even broadcast. Why don't we have your public record showing the same?"
"If that is the extent of your curiosity, then Article 73, Section 1, Subsection 4 applied to my condition during the time I was required to serve."
A look of sudden realization crossed Whitewood's face. "Oh… I never knew you had health problems growing up."
The crowd, along with viewers watching from their homes across Luciana, fell into stunned silence. Their beloved princess had suffered health challenges in her childhood.
Ever gracious and straightforward, Victoria went further to quote the law under Article 73 for the citizens to fully grasp and understand the situation.
"Article 73, Section 1, Subsection 4 states, 'Completion of the First Phase of the Sovereign Military Institute shall be mandatory for all primary and secondary heirs—unless medically exempted.' This provision accounts for my inability to complete the program."
She continued, ensuring clarity.
"Article 74, Section 3, Subsection 4 further specifies, 'Royal heirs may not decline Phase One except under medical incapacity.' My sister, therefore, was fortunate to experience this opportunity of a once-in-a-lifetime duty."
"I thank you for your honesty, Your Highness," Whitewood said, bowing out with a newfound note of respect. "Tomorrow is another day."
As Victoria stepped down, the air in Crownpoint Province felt different—heavier with truth, yet lighter for having heard it. The occasion continued, but the people of Luciana would not soon forget the day the princess chose candor over the comfort of the Crown.
The people of Crownpoint Province and Luciana as a nation had learned several things from that day's historic experience.
FATHER AND SON'S DISCOURSE.
Beneath the basement of Benzo's bar, Jayce moved with quiet urgency, stuffing supplies into his pack and gearing up. Every buckle click was a countdown. His brother Nyx had been gone nearly ten hours now, taken by mercenaries who placed no value on human life.
None of this would have happened if the gambling den incident hadn't erupted into a three-way brawl between them, Razor's thugs, and the house guards. Don Klause's den had been left beyond recognition, and the man was pissed.
The only silver lining was that Nyx hadn't lost his life after being captured by Don Klause for his role in the chaos. Nyx had refused to drag his siblings into the matter. He had taken the blame alone and accepted responsibility for the destruction of Klause's gambling house.
Now he had been handed a life-or-death mission as payment for his debt. If he failed, his life would be the price. If he succeeded, the debt would be wiped clean.
Thinking of that, Jayce could not stand still.
There was no way he would sit back and do nothing while his brother suffered because he had been trying to provide for and protect the entire family. Once he finished packing and was ready to head out, he avoided the main floor—he didn't want Benzo, their father, knowing he was sneaking out.
He slipped into their usual secret vent, crawling until he reached the end. Then, with a swift kick, he sent the vent cover flying open—Clang! —tossed his backpack out first and dropped into the back alley with a soft thud.
Mission accomplished, he thought as he stood up and began dusting himself off.
He hoisted the bag onto his shoulders and was about to leave when a deep, authoritative voice cut through the evening air.
"Going somewhere? Why the hurry?"
The manly voice hit Jayce like an electric shock. He hadn't expected anyone there.
Slowly, carefully—like a soldier who had just stepped on a landmine—he turned, lowering one foot to the ground. To his surprise, the voice belonged to none other than Benzo, his father.
"You could have saved yourself the stress if you had used the front door, Jayce," Benzo suggested. "I'm not a prison warden or a security guard that you guys have to deploy the mastery act of escape. I'm your father, not your jailer."
Jayce gave a dry laugh. "Really?" Jayce gave a dry laugh. "And what are the chances you wouldn't try to stop me, Pops?"
"You know… there's something… you children need to grasp in your chaotic minds," Benzo stated, pacing back and forth, rubbing his chin. "It's high time you kids stopped treating me like the… what do you kids call it these days?" He paused, searching his memory.
Jayce watched him with folded patience as he paced back and forth.
"Aha!" Benzo snapped his fingers. "The 'Final Boss,' as you kids call it."
Jayce looked at him with a mix of disbelief and confusion. "Is that the word you were struggling to find? The Final Boss? Those are just three words."
Benzo shrugged. "I suppose old age is catching up with me. Who knows?"
Jayce glanced at his wristwatch. He couldn't help interrupting whatever fatherly advice was coming next.
"If you don't mind, begetter sir," Jayce cut in, "I have somewhere to be."
Benzo froze mid-step. He turned slowly. "Are you sure, Jayce? Somewhere important?"
"Yes, Pop, and I'm losing daylight," Jayce answered, looking like a man about to miss the last train out of town.
"Whatever rescue mission you're plotting in that brain of yours," Benzo said, his voice low and serious, "I strongly advise you to discard it before things go south."
"Hate to disobey you, Dad. I don't intend to sit down and do nothing while my brother is in hell because he was just trying to look after our welfare." Jayce stated his intention clearly.
"And what do you plan to do with your weak seventh-generation gift?" Benzo asked, attempting to discredit Jayce's potential.
Jayce did not flinch.
"I may not be a strong Gifter since my powers awakened," Jayce shot back, "but I have never for one day stopped training. It's high time I use my abilities to save my family. I wasn't gifted to sit idle."
Benzo laughed out loud. "You've unlocked Pneuma, and now you think you're a superhero."
He walked toward Jayce and stopped close enough to look him in the eye. "You're too young to throw your life away. Go back inside and let me handle this."
He placed both hands on Jayce's shoulders. "Let me make the necessary arrangements. I'll send people after Nyx and make sure he comes back safe."
Jayce exhaled sharply and shoved Benzo's hands off his shoulders. "Funny how you're the one always telling us not to fold under pressure—'Don't let anyone tell you that you cannot.' Aren't those your exact words?"
Benzo shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Well played, kid. Good timing, good choice of words. Fair play."
BENZO'S DEAL-BREAKER.
Meanwhile, Skyler and Boomer had successfully climbed out of their own secret tunnel into the same back alley. Just as they were about to turn the corner, they spotted Benzo and Jayce locked in a heavy confrontation—arguing, agreeing, disagreeing. They quickly retreated and hid, eavesdropping on the conversation.
"Let's stop nagging like old women," Benzo said at last. "I'm gonna let you leave here on one condition." As he presented.
"You do know that no amount of talk is gonna make me change my mind," Jayce told him bluntly.
Benzo burst into laughter again. "Would you look at that… I'm raising a bunch of rebellious nestlings. Guess the cage isn't big enough to hold my birdies." He straightened. "We're gonna have to settle this with my conditions."
"And what might those conditions be?" Jayce asked, curiosity spiking.
"I will only let you leave if my people handle the job instead of you," Benzo said. "I want every possibility of your involvement ruled out. Charles and his friend already know what you and Nyx look like."
Jayce spread both hands in a silent, neck bent to the side—an exaggerated gesture that clearly meant, And then what?
"If Klause's men and Charles's people see you involved in a rescue attempt," Benzo continued, "it could ruin everything. That act alone puts Nyx in an unfavorable condition."
He paused long enough to draw breath.
"I'm sure you don't want your brother's life hanging on thin ice. 'Cuz that kind of interference defeats the whole point of a rescue operation, don't you think?"
Jayce hesitated as he started considering his father's words.
Klause already knew he and Nyx were brothers. The infamous prince of Hell's Kitchen also knew where they lived. And beyond that, Benzo seemed to have some unexplained history with these dangerous men—something the children still could not piece together because they knew so little about their father's past.
Finally, Jayce gave in. "Fine, old man. My crew and I will watch from the shadows while your buddies do their thing." He pressed, "If things go downhill, we're jumping in."
"Agreed." Benzo accepted. "By the way… do you even know where to start your search?"
"Don't you worry, Pop. That's already been sorted out," Jayce assured him.
"If you say so, hot blood—"
Benzo suddenly turned his head toward the place where Skyler and Boomer had been hiding. "You can come out now, you chaos crew. I can smell your mischievous intentions from here."
Fear gripped the two younger ones as they were exposed. Slowly, they crept out into the open.
Jayce nearly lost his temper the moment he saw the two mischievous troublemakers already dressed up and ready to tail him.
"WHAT THE F—?!" Jayce yelled.
"Language, Jayce!" Benzo cut him off immediately.
Jayce lowered his voice, though not his frustration—glaring at the delinquents. "Where in the heavens are you two walking disasters going, all dressed up like that?"
"We want to help rescue Nyx too," Skyler said with the confidence of a naïve child.
Jayce grabbed them both by the collars and yanked them close, staring straight into their eyes. "There's no way I'm letting you two ticking time bombs come with me."
"That's not fair, you know!" Skyler protested. "We can be of great help."
"Shut up, squirt. More like a great disaster." Jayce nodded toward little Skyler—the youngest, and she always would be.
"Boomer!" Skyler cried out. "Aren't you gon' say something?"
"Yeah… we… we…" Boomer muttered, "can be of help… too."
Skyler angrily punched Boomer in the arm hard. He cowered, trying to retreat from the conversation. Frustrated, she kept punching him, wailing, "You're three years older than me, but you keep acting like a wussy!"
BABY SITTER JAYCE.
"Alright, that's enough!" Benzo's commanding voice sliced through the squabbling. He turned to Jayce. "Watch over them. Will you?"
"WHAAAAAAAAAAT!" Jayce yelled his lungs out. "I'm not a babysitter! They spawn trouble everywhere—especially her."
"Really?" Benzo raised an eyebrow at the irony, clearly unimpressed. "Says the guy who, with his wingman, singlehandedly wrecked a gambling den belonging to a mafia lord."
"I can't babysit them and carry out a rescue mission at the same time," Jayce protested. "They'll get in the way."
Benzo rubbed his temple. "Weren't you the one bragging about protecting the family? Now the family wants to help, and suddenly you're refusing."
He took Skyler and Boomer by the shoulders and pushed them toward Jayce. "It's simple. They either go with you, or none of you leave this alley."
He pointed toward the bar. "Take them and go while I'm still in a reasonable mood—or everyone gets their asses back inside the bar and forgets the whole thing."
Jayce knew he had already spent more time than intended. He was forced to bring the two pipsqueaks along.
Squeezing their heads against his torso, he issued a low, stern warning. "Fine. You slow me down, I leave you behind." He squeezed tighter. "Am I clear?"
"Yes, Sir Captain Flaxen, sir!" they answered in unison.
"STOP CALLIN' ME CAPTAIN FLAXEN!" He knocked both their heads. Thwack!—"Stop nicknaming me after my hair!"
"WE'RE SORRY, BLONDIE, SIR!" they apologized—again, still using another nickname despite the knock to the head.
Jayce lunged for them again, but they dodged and started running around like lunatics, Jayce in hot pursuit. He chased them around the back alley. Their feet moved in a blur, like cartoon characters from the 40s.
Benzo watched, a broad smile spreading across his face.
"FORGIVE ME, LORD MUSTARRRRRD!" Skyler cried out as she dodged Jayce's grabs.
"WE WON'T TRY IT AGAIN, KING PAC-MAN!" Boomer joined in, begging and weaving.
The chaos lasted nearly a minute before everyone gave out, too exhausted to keep running. Then, just like that, the tension broke, and they all laughed together like one big family.
Jayce picked up his bag and started heading out. Skyler immediately stood up and joined him, pestering him for a piggyback ride. Boomer told her to knock it off—she wasn't a baby anymore—and reminded her she was a fifteen-year-old "big baby."
They instantly started arguing and cursing at each other as they walked with Jayce, talking nonstop like open faucet heads.
At last, Jayce had no choice but to knock both their heads again.
THE EARTHY CASTLE.
Organized by the fleet manager, the Admiral's armada moved with grim purpose across the open sea, anchored by two massive battleships and a colossal Airbox carrier. O'Tega insisted on remaining with one of the vessels, while the Airbox-R2, carrying the apex tankers and a handful of special units, had nearly reached the continental shelf of Symarria.
All thirty-nine armored vehicles were securely loaded, along with the two companies totaling more than four hundred men.
As the colossal Airbox-R2 advanced toward land, a critical problem became apparent: it became clear that the terrain offered no favorable conditions for landing an aircraft of this size. Nevertheless, the Airbox pressed inland. The situation was relayed to the Admiral, still miles away at sea.
His response was without hesitation, sharp, and authoritative. "If there's no way, then make a way."
The order was absolute.
Deep within the belly of the 'Airbox-R2,' the heavy aft cargo door hissed open, exposing the roaring abyss of the sky. Six Enforcers, fully equipped in their FABA suits, positioned themselves at the rear.
Upon receiving the signal, they leapt, plunging headfirst into the open air.
The force of speed, altitude, and velocity dragged them downward in a violent nosedive.
"Fwoooosh—!"
They activated their gravity boots at once, generating drag to counteract the pull of gravity and soften the brutal impact of descent.
Working in perfect synchronization, their AMGs and gravity boots rapidly decelerated their fall, granting them full control as they plummeted through the sky.
High above, the Airbox-R2 hovered at a great altitude, awaiting the Enforcers on the ground to create an airstrip for its landing. Below stretched an arid landscape covered with mesa and butte features—hardly suitable terrain for an aircraft to land on.
All six Enforcers who touched down were all Gifters, their menos rooted in earthly techniques. Their mission: transform the arid mesa-and-butte terrain into a usable airfield. Using their menos, they began reshaping the landforms into a flat landscape.
Two of them stepped forward. With practiced hand signs, they slammed their palms flat against the earth.
"Earth technique," they intoned in unison. "Devastation tremor."
A deep rumble answered.
Rrrrrrmmmble—!
The ground answered with a deep, resonant groan. What had once been a broken terrain of hills, buttes, and mesas collapsed into acres of rubble.
CRACK-BOOM!
Like disciplined martial artists, the pair rose into a kokutsu-dachi stance—one hand extended forward, the other drawn back along the belly line. With smooth, circular motions reminiscent of tai chi, they redirected the surging force downward.
Boom—!
Shockwaves surged through the earth, spreading across the entire landscape and deep beneath its surface. Massive boulders shattered. Mid-sized debris disintegrated. What remained was crushed further—ground into pebbles, then dust.
Within moments, the once uneven terrain had been transformed into a vast, level plain.
Once the two Enforcers had finished leveling the terrain, the remaining four took over. Their menos were also earth-style, but with a slight difference: they could manipulate earthen materials to their advantage and will.
Moving in unison, like tai chi practitioners, they stomped their feet against the earth—Thud!
"Earth technique: Seamless Horizon," they commanded in unison.
The land responded immediately and instantly erected a runway stretching as far as the eye could see.
Without breaking momentum, the final pair of Enforcers—also of Earth Menos—stepped in to complete the transformation. With sweeping gestures and controlled focus, they raised structures from the earth itself. Towers emerged. Reinforced fences rose into place. Beacon installations, fortified outposts, and operational buildings assembled in rapid succession.
What had once been a barren wasteland was now a fully functional airstrip—hardened into a defensive fortress.
With their task nearly complete, two of the six Enforcers moved toward the coastline. There, they extended their abilities once more, shaping the shore into a harbor suitable for the incoming fleet under the Admiral's command.
Once all preparations were finished, a signal was transmitted back to the hovering aircraft.
They radioed back to the hovering Airbox-R2, signaling that the airstrip was ready, thanks to the six earth Gifters who had used their earth abilities to erect such enormous infrastructure.
"Roger that," the pilot replied, turning the colossal aircraft toward the newly formed runway.
Out at sea, the report was forwarded to the Admiral, who did not flinch upon hearing the positive report. To him, reshaping a continent was simply the bare minimum required for the mission. Steeling his gaze toward the horizon, he ordered the fleet to alter its course.
The armada turned as one, charting a direct line toward Symarria to join the vanguard waiting at the coastal fort.
THE EDGE OF THE ABYSS.
Day One of the three-day campaign came to a close, and it had gone better than Victoria had ever expected. Every objective was executed with clean precision. As the final moments of the day faded, a quiet sense of relief settled over her, loosening the tension that had gripped her chest for weeks.
But tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow, they would descend into Undercity—the decaying core of Hell's Kitchen.
Undercity was unlike any other district. It was a sanctuary for violence, a marketplace where narcotics were sold openly, a hub for arms trafficking, and a battleground for relentless territorial conflict. It was the most dangerous region in Hell's Kitchen, where death was not unusual but routine. Two hundred and fifty deaths a year—and to those who lived there, it was barely worth noting. Just another Tuesday.
Victoria had always been drawn to it.
Even during her years of service, she had heard whispers about Undercity—the infamous zone on the far edge of Hell's Kitchen, spoken of with a mix of fear and fascination. A place where law had no authority. Now, at last, she would see it with her own eyes.
Front Marina, by contrast, was already on the brink of collapse. At a glance, it looked like a failed urban project—an empty shell struggling to justify its existence. Yet it endured. Its seaport still operated. Its factories, though strained, continued to produce. Its nightlife injected just enough energy to keep the economy alive.
Even so, Front Marina was still considered a failure.
If a functioning economic hub like Front Marina looked like the aftermath of a failed experiment, Victoria could only imagine what awaited them in Undercity.
A DYSTOPIAN GENESIS.
But Undercity had not always been this way.
Decades earlier, it had been a thriving industrial megacomplex—home to vast sewage treatment systems, roaring refineries, steel mills that lit the night sky, and countless facilities that powered Luciana's former empire. It had once been the backbone of a powerful economic engine.
That era did not last.
Corporate greed and political corruption hollowed it out from within. Influential interests pressured the royal government and parliament into passing sweeping legislation that reshaped the nation's economy. The floodgates opened.
A free market for all.
State-owned enterprises were dismantled. Government control over industry was relinquished. In theory, it marked progress toward modernization. In reality, it triggered a slow, devastating collapse.
At the same time, Luciana pursued its own ambitions.
The empire was determined to win its proxy wars and secure its place as a global superpower. The government understood that internal economic failure would jeopardize those ambitions—for itself and for what it framed as the greater good.
The timing could not have been worse.
The transition from empire to modern state was harsh. As the world advanced rapidly, many old empires fell behind, unable to keep pace with technological change. Luciana, however, pushed forward stubbornly.
But progress came at a cost.
While modernizing, the empire refused to relinquish its colonies, draining both military strength and economic resources. Maintaining overseas territories required immense force and constant expenditure, forcing the government to divert increasing resources into the military.
It became overstretched, unable to sustain both war efforts and domestic stability.
The government could no longer manage the national economy while waging proxy and foreign wars.
At home, trust in state-run industries had already eroded.
When the government attempted to privatize aging industries to ease its burden, citizens resisted—not the idea of privatization itself, but its terms. They demanded full independence: complete ownership and control.
Their argument was simple: why invest in government-run corporations when they could build and operate their own?
So they did.
State industries were abandoned en masse. One by one, once-proud facilities fell silent. Steel plants rusted. Refineries shut down. Entire sectors collapsed as private enterprise overtook public infrastructure.
The government withdrew completely.
That was when capitalism, under the banner of the "free market," began to consume the Lucianan economy. What had been presented as liberation quickly became consolidation.
The common people had marched for this change, only for nobles and aristocrats to seize the opportunity—tightening their grip on power, expanding monopolies, buying out small businesses, and crushing competition.
By the time the public realized what had happened, it was too late.
They had demanded a free market.
They had received it.
"It's a free market for all," the elites said. "You asked for it."
The consequences were swift and severe.
Hell's Kitchen suffered a massive economic collapse. The part that survived became Front Marina. The part that did not—the section that fell into ruin, shadow, and desperation—became Undercity.
As poverty tightened its grip, those who could no longer afford basic necessities turned to the abandoned industrial zones for shelter. Steel frameworks became homes. Factories became communities. Entire populations adapted to life inside the remains of a dead economy.
The government, overwhelmed and indifferent, allowed it to happen.
Massive mining craters became makeshift shelters. Environmental concerns were dismissed outright—when the choice is between toxic air and starvation, survival takes priority.
The crisis spread.
Other provinces began to feel the strain, with Crownpoint suffering the most dramatic fall. Once the height of prosperity, it became a warning of what unchecked transition could destroy.
Nearly everything essential to survival was now privately owned. The average person could not compete.
The wealth gap widened into a vast chasm. Opportunity became an illusion—one people had once embraced willingly.
A free market had been demanded.
A free market had been delivered.
And this was the result.
Across the scarred landscape, people built lives among rust and decay. Mining craters cut deep into the land, but survival left no room for environmental concern. Shelter mattered more than sustainability.
This was how Undercity was born: a place forged from iron, desperation, and resilience.
All of it had unfolded during the reign of King Ferdinand Novachronos—Victoria's grandfather.
Now, years later, Victoria stood at the edge of that living testament to broken promises and human endurance. Tomorrow, she would walk its shadowed streets—not as an observer, but as someone ready to confront its darkness.
And something deep within her told her the city had been waiting.