1 Where forgotten souls rest.

Bumpy streets, water wells on every corner, garbage dumped everywhere, a cold and damp atmosphere even on the hottest and sunniest days. This pretty much defines the abandoned underworld of Cermina, the City-State.

The Cermina City wears the warlike and territotialist mantle of the sovereign Pentad of the Verulian Continent, and this mantle covers all its citizens, for better or worse, their destinies are drawn by its arms, and its controversial values.

Among the alleys, a man could be seen with two bottles in his hands, alternately drinking them while stumbling over his own feet due to the steps he decided to take. From his mouth, spit and curses were directed at anyone who looked at him differently. For a brief moment, the alcoholic man thought he saw a shadow walking towards him. Believing it to be a trick created by his currently compromised mind, he decided to ignore it and continue on his way. The aversive and unfriendly looking man provoked yet another old merchant into sending him to hell before he closed up store.

The lamps swayed in the wind, the lights reflected in the rain puddles, and the sound of dripping water accompanied the beat of the clock, a sad autumn night indeed. As ephemeral as the life span of a bottle in the hand of a drunkard, was the life of the same drunkard. Pursued early on by a shadow that he thought was part of his drunkenness, he ignored the prelude to his fate. The edge of the blade in his throat came like a shiver on a calm day. As he felt the first drops of blood trickle down his throat and onto his clothes, the man struggled desperately, trying to free himself from the arms that cut his throat. With each movement he made, the blade cut more and more of his throat, until there was no more blood to spurt, no more energy to fight, no more life to waste in drunkenness.

Just one more body on the listless floor of Cermina.

The assassin was wearing a black overcoat, along with a hood of the same color, which covered much of his face. He squatted down to pick up one of the bottles knocked over by the old dead man, and drank all that remained in one gulp.

- Thank you for saving my time.- The young man had searched the dead body, and found a few coins, a lighter, and a half-filled pack of cigarettes. The assassin slowly got up and walked calmly towards his house.

He arrived at a ruined hovel; he hadn't saved enough money to buy his own land and build his own house. But soon he would, the number of murders in Cermina was only increasing. And his action now proved this.

The simple idea of violence begetting violence.

Kill or be killed was part of the Cermina underworld culture. The boy wished for himself the same fate as those he slaughtered. Named Von as a child, he did not know much about his past. His first memory is filled with cries of despair and flames spreading through an orphanage that was once his home. On his neck was a collar of sorts and a plaque, written on it with his name. "The Shade" has become a famous and mysterious figure in the underworld, a nickname that has earned him the respect of acquaintances and strangers alike. Quiet and ruthless, this man was good at what he did. For him, there was no better feeling than to feel the blood of his victims flowing through his blade. He could feel superior with so little.

He sharpened his blade while still wet from the cold shower he had just taken. He decided to rest for a while, not because the day had been exhausting, but because he was tired of the life he led.

That dirty, turbulent life.

A dagger under his pillow, blades distributed on each edge of the bed, a pistol hidden in the feathers of the same pillow that hides his dagger. His hours of rest were more agonizing than the moments of robbery and murder. He preferred close-range weapons, but firearms had saved his life several times.

Von trusted no one, not even himself. Many of his decisions were responsible for the most painful scars on his body, and on his soul. There was not a night that he could close his eyes and sleep well, the silence of the city was deafening. He lost count of how many times he woke up alarmed and ready to kill someone. He had no choice, it was his life.

The beams of light coming in through the broken window revealed the dawn of a new day. Dazzled by the light against his dark face, Von awoke. His head ached, the beam of light filling the emptiness of his brown eyes began to bother him. As he stared at his dark old wooden ceiling, all he wanted was a good home to rest in, even if he had to die for it. He always thought it was a foolish thought, but it was his goal in life.

The only one that that chaotic world allowed him to have.

Von was a 22-year-old boy surviving through robbery, murder and kidnapping, collecting enemies and drinking wildly. Without family and friends, Von knew no one capable of telling about his origin, about the supposed orphanage and how it was burned down.

The cracks of the burning wood still echo in his mind.

He decided to get out of bed and drink a glass of water to clean the alcohol that still remained in his blood. He lit a cigarette as he looked out the window where the light was coming in. The light illuminated the dust particles, reminding Von that someday he would be lucky enough to become that...dust.

With each drag of the cigarette he felt fulfilled, a brief moment of "being alive", letting go of the smoke was his therapy. He walked to the bathroom, looked at his reflection in the mirror. He took a pair of scissors and started to cut his brown hair.

Another day began in the dark streets of the Cerminian suburb, the little sun that came through couldn't illuminate the alleys. Despite the listless weather, there were agglomerations of people moving through the streets, merchants, mercenaries, thieves, military troops, and mostly weak and unfortunate people. People came and went, each with their own misery, traumas, stories and struggles.

At that time the most hostile aspects of the underworld did not rest, quite the contrary, they were exposed much more than at night. Fights, thefts, escapes were common. The normality was to have at least one cold body on the ground, murdered or by suicide.

Puddles of rain were overshadowed by puddles of blood.

Von walked through the crowd with his cigarette in his mouth, camouflaged by mediocrity, being one more unfortunate in the middle of others. Nobody there was waiting for the assassin, just as he didn't notice them. During the day he didn't wear his hood, and didn't even need to, his face was as common to those people as the daily battle for their food. Faces so hard to remember, so common, so forgettable.

One image among so many caught Von's attention. A man in seemingly expensive robes, walking distractedly in the underworld. How was this man still alive? Von wondered in thought. He threw his cigarette on the floor and leaned against the cold wall where the light could not reach. He would have expected the man to pass in front of him for slaughter, but something surprised him. This time, unlike the hundreds of other times, the cold steel of the blade was against his neck.

- hahaha, I found you."- The man in expensive robes sneered.