Chapter 1: The Ghost of Lower Tarn
A figure traversed the veiled pathways of Lower Tarn, a realm forgotten by the sun and forsaken by the stars. Wrapped in a cloak that seemed to absorb the scant light, it moved with an ethereal grace through the decrepit alleys.
Above, the city of the elite soared, radiant and unreachable, but in the underbelly of Research Planet 431, hope was as tattered as the banners hanging limply from broken windows.
The marketplace was a pulsating heart of desperation. Here, amidst stalls of scavenged parts and salvaged dreams, the figure was like a phantom, its presence barely felt by the ragged inhabitants. Its eyes, ancient pools reflecting a timelessness not of this world, swept over the makeshift displays. Each item, each piece of twisted metal and fractured circuitry, whispered tales of forgotten yesterdays.
The specter roamed amidst the chaos, the cacophony of life in Lower Tarn washing over the marketplace. The cries of vendors, the clang of metal, the laughter and tears of the city's forsaken children — a symphony of survival, lives clinging to the precipice of existence, never resting, constantly wiggling and wiggling like worms in the mud, struggling but at least living.
Past the fervor of the marketplace, the alleys twisted into a labyrinth of shadows and silence. Here, the forgotten relics of a once-prosperous sector loomed like dead spirits, their decaying forms a testament to neglect. The figure's steps echoed softly against the cracked pavement, a solitary rhythm in the quiet decay.
It was within this somber setting that a cry shattered the stillness—a sharp, piercing sound that seemed out of place even in this realm of constant struggle. The figure stopped and moved to retreat into the shadows that had always been its refuge. It was not its business; this world and its endless cycle of predation and desperation were not its job to mend.
Yet, as the cry echoed again, a plaintive plea for help stirred something within the figure—a dormant instinct, a residual fragment of a memory it had long forgotten, awoke. 'Mother!' a sharp, needle-like pain in its head made it twist the figure's neck alarmingly fast, like a broken branch. Then, slowly, the neck bent back to its original resting place. With a quiet sigh that seemed to blend with the whispers of the wind, the figure found itself drawn towards the source of the disturbance.
A young girl stood cornered in a narrow alley, hemmed in by looming walls stained with the passage of time. Her assailants were typical of the lower city: rough, ruthless, and bearing the hard-edged cruelty of the desperate. She was small, her clothes little more than rags, her eyes wide with the unspoken realization of her impending fate.
"Leave her be," the figure intoned, his voice a deep, resonant echo that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the alley. It was not loud, but it carried the weight of command, an authority that was felt more than heard.
The thugs turned, momentarily startled by the unexpected interruption. Their leader, a burly figure with a scarred visage, sneered at the sight of the hooded figure. "What's this? Wanna a piece of her too?" he mocked, his voice a harsh rasp.
The figure did not reply. It just stood there. Words were unnecessary. It took a step forward, and with that simple movement, the atmosphere shifted palpably. It was as if the alley itself responded to its presence, the air growing dense, imbued with a silent power that was ancient and commanding.
The thugs recoiled as if an invisible snake had bitten them. They felt as if a domain descended—a pressure that bore down upon them, an intangible force that enveloped the space. It was not a physical manifestation but a presence, an assertion of will that left them feeling powerless and helpless. The alley, once a mere backdrop to their malice, now seemed an extension of this enigmatic figure, its shadows deepening, its silence a weight upon their souls.
Their bravado faltered, eroded by the inexplicable realization that they stood not merely before a mortal but before something else—something foreign and eerie. The leader, his confidence waning under the unseen gaze of his opponent, gestured to his comrades.
"Forget it. She's not worth it," he muttered, backing away, his retreat a clear admission of defeat. His instincts told him to back off fast, with his back drenched in sweat.
As the thugs dispersed, the girl looked up at Aiden, her eyes reflecting a mix of fear and awe. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the renewed whispering of the wind.
The figure offered no response, no gesture of reassurance. Its intervention had not been born from a desire for gratitude or recognition. It was a response elicited from a place deep within itself, a remnant of a past it had long thought it had forgotten.
Turning away from the girl, the figure retreated into the labyrinth of Lower Tarn. The situation outside and inside its head was getting worse day by day. It was holding back still, but his destructive side was itching to escape. The whispers of the alley followed its wake, speaking of unseen power. Its path was through the shadows where its presence was felt but never indeed known, a specter adrift in a world it could not, or perhaps would not, fully embrace.