Rain in Zonia smelled of oxidized metal, burnt incense, and sin.
Heavy, dark drops dripped from the stony snouts of gargoyles coiled on the edges of skyscrapers, weeping black tears onto the streets below.
Zonia was a city where the technological future was knotted with a dark, gothic past.
Fiber optic cables grew like weeds through the gaps of ancient stonemasonry. Holographic displays projected lies onto moldy concrete walls.
Every corner of this metropolis was a reminder of civilizational failure. Humanity had stopped at the Twenty-Ninth Name and was now floating in a cesspool of repetition.
They had built higher towers, but they had not climbed a single step closer to the truth.
We moved toward the central station of downtown.
Malakor walked ahead, clutching the Sword of Silence under his old robe with a sickly obsession. His steps were trembling, a staccato rhythm of pure paranoia. He constantly checked over his shoulder, expecting the shadows to coalesce into the shape of Inquisitors.
Kael, on the other hand, was a moving void.
He walked exactly three meters behind me—a precise, military distance.
His presence smoothed the sharp edges of my headache. To me, Kael was not a human. He was a sound insulator for the endless screams of the cosmos.
The weight of this physical body still pressed on my nerves; the friction of cheap wool against skin, the sensation of moisture settling in lungs... everything was too "real." Too limited.
But Kael's silence made it bearable.
The suspended train station loomed ahead—a massive structure of black iron and opaque glass rising like the rib cage of a metal giant above the slums.
A train slid through the sky, riding invisible currents generated by a crude application of the 15th Name.
It buzzed with a weak, electric whine—the sound of divine syntax being forced to do the work of a mule.
Malakor approached the automatic ticket booth. The machine squeaked, throwing a harsh optical scanner beam onto his face.
"My Lord," Malakor whispered, tone reeking of helplessness. "The travel cost for three people to the Neon Belly district... is about 12 Clons and 50 Clonies."
He swallowed hard.
"The surveillance systems are less strict at this hour, but the prices... the prices are always merciless."
I looked at the shiny metal coins trembling in Malakor's hands.
The Clon.
A direct reminder of the city's class system. 100 "Clonies" were enough only for a loaf of synthetic bread or a liter of purified water.
The entire value of these mortals' lives was summarized in these pieces of metal. They sold their lifespan to buy these coins, then gave the coins to live a few hours more.
A circular, futile cycle producing nothing but entropy.
"Pay it," I commanded.
We boarded.
The wagon was packed with workers in tattered clothes who smelled of machine oil and despair. Their eyes held the artificial shine of cheap stimulants—chemical happiness bought to endure a mechanical life.
I sat near the window. The scenery of Zonia passed by in a blur of grey and neon.
Skyscrapers had sunk like black daggers into the heart of the clouds. Thick fog suspended itself between the city levels.
This place was a vertical prison; the lower you went, the scarcer the oxygen became. And the heavier the smell of death.
An hour later, we sat in a restaurant called "Altar of Fat."
A fitting name for a place that decorated recycled proteins with industrial oils. The air spun with the scent of fried chemical meat.
The digital menu projected onto the stained table displayed prices with complete mercilessness.
My gaze scanned the options.
A real steak from unmodified beef, sourced from the protected farms of uptown: 750 Clons.
A bottle of aged wine from the northern vineyards: 1200 Clons.
In contrast, a nutrient paste based on "Sustenance Sludge": 3 Clons.
This damn body needed energy. Biology is a blackmailer; if you do not pay the ransom of fuel, it begins to devour you.
I realized that to keep this meat vessel alive—and to deceive the Law of Probabilities—I needed a budget far beyond the meager assets of a fugitive priest.
I could not rule the world on nutrient paste.
"Three portions of synthetic liver stew with enriched grains," I ordered. "Total of 36 Clons."
Average quality. But biochemically efficient for repairing damaged tissues.
When the food arrived, Kael picked up his spoon.
He ate a few mouthfuls of the gray contents with precision. Then, he stopped.
He put the spoon down and sat motionless, staring at an unknown point on the wall like a machine that had been switched off.
"Why did you stop?"
My voice was cold enough to make Malakor shiver across the table.
Kael did not blink. He answered with that smooth, empty voice.
"I do not require more food. Consuming beyond the baseline need is a waste of assets."
I reached across the table.
My fingers gripped his chin, forcing him to look at me. His skin was cold as stone.
"Luggage, listen to me."
I leaned in.
"I do not look at you as a living creature. You are a tool. A tool that is not lubricated, or lacks backup fuel in its tanks, fails in the moment of crisis."
I tightened my grip slightly.
"You are not supposed to just 'remain.' You must be at the peak of efficiency. Now continue eating. This is an order for preserving the survival of my assets."
He paused.
A spark—faint, barely there—shone in his blue eyes. As if he was trying to compute my intent.
"Order acknowledged, Master," he said.
He picked up the spoon and resumed swallowing the food. Without a hint of pleasure. Without disgust.
Watching him was pleasing to me.
He was the only creature in this city that matched my logic. Action without ego.
After the meal, I turned to Malakor, who was wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread.
"Malakor," I said. "Your knowledge of this stinking city must have some benefit."
I leaned back in the creaking chair.
"We need capital. Not the kind of Clonies workers gather with the sweat of their brow. I want a fast method. High efficiency."
Malakor sweated, wiping his forehead with his filthy handkerchief.
"My Lord... in this district, the 'Neon Abyss' Casino is only a few blocks away. But..."
He hesitated, eyes darting around the cheap restaurant.
"...that is the territory of the underground syndicates. Gamblers there lose not only money but sometimes body organs. Years of their life. The danger..."
I cut him off with a wave of my hand.
"Danger is just a name cowards give to unknown probabilities," I said, standing up.
"The stupidity of humans and their endless greed is the most sustainable energy source in this layer of reality."
I adjusted my coat.
"Get moving."