The deeper we went, the darker it became.
Not just in light, but in atmosphere, in presence—as if we were stepping into the rotting core of Dagakang itself.
Before coming here, I had no idea that the Abyss Tavern wasn't just a den of sin.
It was a kingdom of nightmares.
Tink walked ahead, but I could sense it—his guard was higher than ever.
A tension in his shoulders.
A weight behind his every step.
Something inside him was unsettled.
Something inside him was afraid.
"Garmuth... he's still alive?"
The words slipped from his lips as if spoken to no one.
Then—
He snapped back to reality, turning to me.
"Michel, stay sharp. This place is worse than hell itself."
There was real fear in his voice.
And as we stepped into the third floor, I understood why.
The third floor of the Abyss wasn't a casino like the first floor.
Nor was it a weapons hub like the second floor.
It was a graveyard.
No—it was worse.
Scattered across the stone streets were dismembered bodies, their flesh torn, their bones shattered.
Some corpses were half-eaten, as if the predators here weren't just human.
The cobblestones bled red, soaking in the suffering of the nameless dead.
The stench of rotting flesh mixed with the pungent burn of alcohol and opium smoke, creating a suffocating, sickening fog.
And amidst it all—
The cries of the damned.
Women, locked in iron cages, their screams piercing through the filth-choked air.
A guard grinned, nudging a sobbing girl with the toe of his boot.
A sick game.
Not far from them, a merchant haggled over the price of a freshly carved human heart.
His bloody hands moved deftly, slicing a piece from the organ with a scalpel—testing its quality like a chef at a butcher's stall.
The market here didn't sell weapons or drugs.
It sold people.
It sold pieces of them.
I tightened my grip on my katana, my breath slow, steady.
Even so, a deep chill crept down my spine.
The deeper we went, the less human this place became.
Here, only the strong survived.
And the weak?
They were currency.
We moved quickly through the narrow alleys, keeping our heads down.
A gang of thugs circled a bound man just ahead.
One of them drew a blade, flashing a cruel grin before slicing down.
The sickening sound of steel through flesh.
Blood splattered across the ground.
The man screamed—but no one reacted.
No one cared.
Murder wasn't shocking here.
It was entertainment.
Tink suddenly grabbed my wrist, pulling me into a shadowed alleyway.
His voice was a whisper, sharp as a dagger.
"We need to reach Moskov's office without drawing attention. Here, one wrong glance can get you killed."
I gave a silent nod, feeling my pulse quicken.
"The Land of the Dead"—they weren't exaggerating.
"STOP."
A deep, guttural voice ripped through the air.
We turned.
He was standing there.
Tall—easily over six feet.
A jagged scar ran from his forehead down to his chin, twisting his face into a permanent sneer.
He wore a black cloak, tattered at the edges, his gloved hands covered in dried blood.
Behind him, four more men, their eyes cold and predatory.
"You don't belong here."
His lips curled.
"You're not tourists, are you?"
My fingers instinctively moved to the hilt of my sword.
Next to me, Tink remained still, but I saw it—
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his acid-spitting dagger.
Then, he smiled.
"We're here to see Moskov."
His voice didn't waver.
The scarred man narrowed his eyes, his smirk deepening.
"Oh? Then I'm sure Mr. Moskov will be thrilled to know he has visitors."
A cruel glint entered his gaze.
"But first—"
His fingers flexed, the tension in his stance shifting.
"Let's have a little chat."
The air turned thick.
The men behind him stepped forward, their hands drifting toward their weapons.
I glanced at Tink.
He wasn't tense.
He was ready.
This wouldn't be a conversation.
This was a fight waiting to explode.
And we were outnumbered, outmatched, and deep in enemy territory.
We weren't getting to Moskov without a fight.