Duncan had no intention of leaving the cave dressed like a walking anatomy diagram.
Before departing the grim hollow where he had first awoken in his new, makeshift body, he took a moment to strip some rags from nearby corpses and wrap them tightly around his chest. It wasn't that he felt cold—the hole where a heart should have been didn't seem to affect his mobility—but something about walking around with an open chest cavity just felt… wrong. The makeshift wrap brought no real warmth, but at least it helped shield his "open door policy" from the chill of the air and the chill of his own thoughts.
Besides, he had to consider appearances. If he stumbled across other people in this underground world, showing up with a window into his ribcage wasn't exactly the best way to start a friendly conversation.
Thus fortified—physically, emotionally, and sartorially—Duncan stepped from the cryptic cavern into a narrow passageway that led deeper underground.
The body he currently inhabited was far from ideal. It moved slowly, trembled at the joints, and carried the wear of long neglect. From what he could gather, he was inside the corpse of a teenage boy—malnourished, frail, and most certainly dead until very recently. As powerful as Duncan's soul might be, it did little to offset the limitations of a body that had no business walking around anymore.
But it was what he had.
The tunnel was damp and narrow, with a steady draft flowing through cracks and vents that Duncan couldn't see. Occasionally, lamps flickered in the gloom, casting shadows that danced like ghosts along the stone walls. These details weren't just set dressing—they were signs of habitation. Maintenance. Intent.
Eventually, the passage opened into something far more structured.
The crude, rocky corridor gave way to a wide, brick-laid expanse, its walls lined with arches and steel-rimmed drains. Brick paths framed twin channels of foul-smelling water, and overhead, the ceiling curved into a barrel-vaulted dome supported by old but sturdy masonry.
Duncan paused at the threshold and took in the sight. "A sewer," he muttered.
But not just any sewer.
This was no haphazard network of drains. The scale and precision of it all—the brickwork, the structured layout, the industrial piping—spoke of a city above. A real city. A large one.
And that, in turn, spoke volumes. Civilization. Infrastructure. Industry. Technology.
For someone stranded on a ghost ship in a mystic sea, this was the first sign in a long while that modern society might still exist in some form.
Duncan pressed onward, keeping close to the edge of the walkway. He passed under glass-encased gas lamps that glowed with steady flames—modern, yes, but stylized. Ritualistic.
He peered closer at one of them.
Etched into the glass were strange, curling symbols—arcane, almost sacred in their symmetry. They reminded him of the runes carved into the coffin that once held Alice, and of the strange symbols scrawled across the hull of the ghostly steamship he'd encountered days before.
This wasn't just plumbing. These sewers were sanctified.
The lights weren't merely there to illuminate—they were there to protect. To ward. To keep something away.
Or to keep something in.
Further along, Duncan spotted something that froze him mid-step.
A mural, painted high along the curve of the sewer wall in dark red pigment. Crude, childlike strokes, but unmistakable in their message. A multitude of hands reached skyward in worship, directed toward a blazing orb of light above.
Beneath the image, a line of twisted glyphs spelled out something Duncan didn't consciously recognize—but somehow still understood.
"The False Sun Shall Fall. The True Sun God Shall Rise Anew from Blood and Flame. All Life Belongs to the Sun. All Order Belongs to the Sun."
He stared at it for a long time, the dim glow of nearby gaslamps barely touching the blood-red symbols. Something primal stirred in his memory, something he didn't yet understand.
He might have lingered longer had it not been for the sound of approaching footsteps.
Voices.
Hooded figures emerged from the shadows. Cloaked, robed, faces hidden beneath dark cowls. Their movements were swift, purposeful—and aimed directly at him.
Duncan didn't bother hiding. There was nowhere to run, and this body wasn't made for running anyway. He simply stood where he was, wrapped in bloodied rags, watching as the robed men closed in.
"There's a sacrifice on the loose!" one of them shouted.
Another joined the chorus. "Don't let him escape!"
Duncan raised an eyebrow but didn't move. He stood still, hands at his sides, utterly unimpressed.
The cultists slowed.
Their running faltered. Their shouting died mid-sentence.
There was something uniquely awkward about chasing a supposed escapee who simply stood and watched you approach with an expression that said, Really?
Eventually, they surrounded him. No weapons drawn—just suspicion.
"Should I have… tried to run?" Duncan asked innocently. "Feels like I missed my cue."
They didn't answer. Not directly. He caught mutters, whispers.
"…Why's he just standing there?"
"…Didn't run…"
"…Maybe he's broken?"
"Take him back," one of them finally ordered. "The Emissary will decide what to do."
Duncan sighed and shrugged. "No need to drag me—I'll walk."
More whispers.
"…Weird for a sacrifice."
"…What if something's wrong with him?"
"…Maybe the darkness got into his mind…"
But eventually, they complied. Two at the front, two at the rear, one at each side. An honor guard of the damned, escorting a dead man to his final judgment.
As they walked, Duncan eavesdropped shamelessly.
He heard fragments: Pland… the Council… the Church…
So. He was beneath the city-state of Pland. That alone made the whole excursion worth it.
He asked questions. Calmly. Casually.
"The real Sun God, huh?"
The cultists flinched, some even stopping mid-stride.
"…How do you know that name?" one asked.
Duncan smiled. "Lucky guess."
They were rattled. More than they wanted to admit.
He kept pressing. "You think the sun in the sky is fake? You believe the real one was cast down?"
Now they responded—eagerly, even fanatically.
"Of course it's fake!" one snarled. "Even the Church of Chains admits it only appeared after the Great Unraveling! A twisted mockery!"
"The true sun was a god!" another said. "The god of life, order, warmth! And it will rise again! It must rise again!"
"From blood and flame!" a third added. "The false waters will recede! The world will be whole again!"
Duncan listened.
There was truth in madness—especially when the madness was shared. These zealots might be insane, but they weren't lying.
Eventually, the cultists grew quiet once more, remembering their original purpose.
"I don't like this," one muttered behind him.
"He's too calm."
"Maybe something got into him… in the dark."
"Then let the Sun God burn it out."
Duncan said nothing.
They turned a final corner. The hallway opened into a vast, circular chamber. Wide enough to be a temple. High enough for echoes.
And in the center, beneath a massive emblem of the blazing sun, dozens more robed figures waited.
The faithful had gathered.
And Duncan had arrived at the heart of their worship.