As Deacon slipped out of an alley that led to the Lower Bailey's Middle District Gate's Main Street, his boots scraped harshly against the cobblestone as he came to a sudden halt. His gut lurched the instant his eyes landed on the massive district gate, one of three that led into the Upper Bailey of Dawn's Breath, and he immediately backstepped into cover, pressing his back to the wall with a wince.
"Shit…" he breathed as he slowly kneeled and poked his head out of the alley to stare at the district gate.
It was crawling with soldiers and clergymen alike –not just a handful of them, but an entire small platoon.
He could see the soldiers in grimy gold-and-white plated leather barring entrance into the Upper Bailey with spears in hand or swords and shields at their waists, while priests in white-and-blue robes stood behind them.
This is gonna be a problem, Deacon thought to himself as he lowered himself in a crouch while peaking out the corner of the alley and watching them chat amongst each other while taking notice of a squad of guards passing by them and getting handed pouches – of candles, his mind supplied as he found similar looking pouches on both of the guards he'd knocked out and looted.
Deacon watched as priests approached the squad of guards and began blessing them one by one, cleaning their armor and sanctifying their weapons and armor in a singular blessing that he could faintly feel even from this distance.
"That priest is going to be an even larger issue," Deacon muttered to himself as his brows furrowed while staring at the priest, who was now blessing the second member of the squad with a newfound gaze. "If his blessings are that powerful, then he'd be able to detect me no problem if I get closer…"
"Meow," a voice called from beside him. Deacon's heart lurched, and he whipped back into the alley so fast he gave himself whiplash, stars bursting in his vision. When they cleared, a thin black-and-white tabby sat behind him, staring.
"Shit," he muttered, palming his head in pain as he realized it was just a cat. "My fucking heart," he faintly groaned while letting out a heavy exhale.
"Meow," the cat said once again while staring up at him, this time slightly louder.
Not wanting to deal with the cat's crying and giving his location away, Deacon eyed it for a few seconds before reaching into his Spatial Sling Bag, pulling out a few bits of jerky, and placing them in front of the cat.
The cat let out a soft cry before lowering its head and tentatively approaching the aromatic jerky bits. With its focus now on the jerky, Deacon decided that he needed to be more aware of his surroundings; as such, he pulled off the stolen kettle helm from off his head, turning it over in his hands until he caught sight of its dull backplate.
Then, after spitting out a wad of phlegm on it, he snatched up a rag from the dirt and scrubbed furiously until the metal reflected his face well enough to catch the reflection of his face. After which, he tilted the back of the helmet out of the alley he used it to peek around the mouth of the alley.
And while doing so, he took notice of yet another variable that he hadn't clocked when observing the district gate – the lamps.
There were dozens of them, lining the Middle Gate and bathing it in the light of their golden flames, not leaving a single brick within a 50-meter radius of the gate to be unlit.
Undoubtedly, if he stepped fully out onto the main street and walked up to the district gate, he would either spontaneously combust or turn to liquid from the holy saturation.
"…Perfect," he hissed as he pulled back the helmet and dragged a hand down his face.
Placing the kettle helmet down, he pulled out his manaphone, flipping it open to the map of Dawn's Breath for what felt like the hundredth time within the past hour. His eyes scoured every marking, every path Jass, Sam, and Bonehead had noted back on Floor Five. He traced alley after alley, courtyard after courtyard, but all of them funneled toward the same choke points: the district gates and the district walls.
His lips pressed into a tight line as the options he had to infiltrate the Upper Bailey were reduced to zero. Climbing the wall would end up with him being, without a doubt, spotted by everyone, given how massive the walls were, and untouched by decoration, as the only thing it had for windows were arrow slits.
Rushing through the district gate would end up in three ways: spontaneously combusting as they rushed through the gates, turning into a steaming pincushion, and… well, those were the only options.
...Unless.
Rising from his crouch, Deacon gave the cat a quick scratch on the head before spinning on his heel and stalking back the way he'd come.
Slinking through the twisting alleys, he traced the faint marks he'd carved into the bottom corner brick of each alley he went down, retracing his steps. By the fifth alley, he stood over a manhole cover.
Reaching into his Sling Bag, he pulled out Echoform Reliquary and commanded it to shift from its broadsword form and into its crowbar form.
"Fuck me…" he muttered when popping open the manhole, he could visibly see noxious fumes creep out and spread across the cobbled alley street.
***
Deacon gagged, barely choking back the bile that surged up his throat with a twisted grimace. He steadied himself and dragged his palm along the grime-caked wall until his fingers brushed the etching with the name of the street above him – Kirkedage.
Third left, Deacon reminded himself with a sharp breath through his teeth as he recalled where he needed to follow.
Following the path, Deacon did his best to continue to ignore the sounds of his boots squelching with every step he took through the shin-high muck of shit and barely moving water tugging at his stride as he marched into the sewers beneath the Upper Bailey.
Along with the sound of his boots marching through the much, he had to deal with the heavy air pressing down on him, with every breath he drew from his surroundings tasting foul, even through the enchanted black sponge-mask strapped tight to his face.
"…Fuck me," he rasped, voice muffled behind the mask as his hand brushed along the algae-slick wall for balance. Just how fucking bad is it to breathe down here if my mask, which I bought before entering Floor Six, is already on its last legs?
Soft, dim glows bloomed from patches of fungus and enchanted moss clinging to the arching stone above, their light distorted by steam that rose in hazy sheets from the filth around his legs.
I'm taking that Magic Lantern from the Guild Sling Bag the second I can, Deacon thought to himself as he squinted, trying to read the name of the street he was now under after having made a left.
Because one spark, lit by ash from a cigarette or a lick of Ignis down here, would transform the sewers into a raging inferno due to how noxious the air down here is, Deacon noted, finishing his thought.
Lifting up the closing clasp of the rusted iron storm gate blocking his path, Deacon pushed open the gate, and doing so, he noticed the surprising lack of mounds of waste that he'd seen–
The moment he registered it, the open pipe beside his head began to rumble. Panic ripped through him, shoving thought aside, and he bolted forward – seconds before a jet of waste blasted from the pipe where he'd been standing.
***
Deacon's mind ran as his boots sloshed deeper into the warren, trying to decide on where he should surface.
Places such as the storerooms, the grain vaults, and the barracks were among those that he would avoid without hesitation – those places would be watched, guarded, and monitored 24/7.
No, he needed somewhere softer, somewhere with fewer eyes… like the Sun Garden on Rosengarten Street – If there was anywhere in the Upper Bailey's gut he could slip up unnoticed, it'd be there.
Realizing that's where he needed to go, Deacon took the left fork he was presented with and immediately took the first left he saw – fully trusting in his map memorizing ability he'd honed in the academy as there was no way in hell he would take out his Spatial Sling Bag and his manaphone from beneath his armor and directly expose them to the sewer.
By the eighth turn, Deacon arrived in front of a rusty iron storm gate that had its clasp protected by chains and padlocks. Craning his head to the side, Deacon was just barely able to see the bottom rungs of a manhole ladder at the end of the tunnel, and on the side of the wall, just below the insignia of the city, was the street sign: Rosengarten Street.
"…Finally."
With a faint smirk growing on his face, Deacon rotated the chain around until the lock swung into view. Frowning at the orange spots atop it, he lifted it upside down to stare at its sealed keyhole – looks simple enough, he remarked as his left hand dipped into the pouch strapped onto his thigh, and after scouring for a bit, he pulled free two oddly shaped, thin daggers.
"I finally had the credits for a Pick Lawyer set, let's see if they're as good as he says they are in his videos," he muttered under his breath.
With his right hand steadying the lock, Deacon pressed the flat of both dagger-like tools together with his left and funneled mana into its highly pure steel. The effect of his mana molding the steel was immediate, like mercury at room temperature, the blades trembled in his grip before growing an extra inch and gaining jelly-like jiggle as he moved them.
Satisfied, he slid the first into the lock's mechanism, twisting carefully, feeling for the pins. A breath later, he slipped the second one in alongside it. His jaw tightened as he worked, guiding them up and down, left and right, each subtle shift sending feedback down the blades and to his fingers. His ears strained for that sound –quiet as it was beneath the muted gurgle of sewage trickling around his shins.
Click!
Chuckling through his mask with a smirk tugging at his lips. "Still got it," Deacon muttered to himself as he slid his lockpicking daggers free from the inside of the lock and tucked them back into his thigh pouch before pulling the lock free from the chain and the chain from around the rusty iron storm cage, tossing it silently to the side. With his other hand, he hauled the gate open, its hinges groaning faintly but not loud enough to echo past the tunnels.
Stepping through the gate, Deacon immediately let out a sigh of relief as he saw that he had to climb a short set of stairs, and he would be above the shin-high shit filled muck.
Now emboldened by the opportunity, Deacon quickly climbed the steps and stood on solid stone, and out of shit filled sewer water. Basking in the rush of the moment, Deacon then proceeded to cast Cleanse, a spell he'd learnt from Jass and Esmerelda prior to them performing the Lesser Fire-Heart ritual, onto himself.
After casting the spell for the tenth time, and just about to step towards the ladder, he froze as something had resurfaced in his mind.
"…Right. Almost forgot."
Turning slightly, Deacon pressed his left hand flat against the tunnel wall. Mana bled into his palm, pooling outward in faint crimson-orange veins that spread into a dozen interlocking magic circles. They flared briefly, lines weaving into overlapping circles that glowed for a brief period before fading away.