Chapter 3: Glover Withers

"*gasp*... huff… huff… huff…"

The young boy awoke with a start, his eyes blinking open to a cold and damp room that seemed alien to him. As he shifted, he felt the unmistakable chill of moisture seeping through the air. His gaze darted around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. He lay upon a moldy mattress, its fabric damp and stained, perched atop a rusty metal frame that creaked with each slight movement.

Confusion washed over him, and his senses heightened with wariness and caution. He felt as though he had been thrust into yet another foreign world, although with a gaping stark contrast to the steampunk realm he had quickly gotten used to. The room itself was bare and minimal, with peeling, faded wallpaper and a single, flickering, bare lightbulb suspended from the ceiling.

The young boy slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, his gaze darting around the room's corners and shadows as if expecting an explanation to manifest from the dimness. And as the young boy cautiously rose from the damp mattress, his gaze was drawn across the room to a broken and crooked mirror perched atop a wall of mossy stone bricks. The mirror, in stark contrast to his steampunk world, was cracked and cloudy, its surface marred by time and neglect.

With slow and deliberate steps, he made his way toward it, every footfall echoing in the eerie silence of the room. The mirror's frame was tarnished, and cobwebs clung to its edges as though time had forgotten this forlorn corner.

As he approached, his reflection appeared fragmented and distorted, the glass casting a surreal, almost dreamlike quality to his own image. He stared at his own puzzled face, most of the prior makeup smeared from sweat while the confusion in his eyes mirrored the profound sense of disorientation that enveloped him in this strange and mysterious dungeon.

"Still in this stupid clown costume… how wonderful," The boy sighed, tugging on its now dirty and rugged fabric. "Also, how did I even survive? A fall from that height should have surely killed me."

Creeeeeek

"This city doesn't let you kill yourself."

In the dim and musty room, a face suddenly emerged, poking through a small crack in the opened metal door. The intruder was a gentleman, his weathered face adorned with light stubble, large dark eyebags, and a tapestry of tattoos that crisscrossed his face in intricate patterns. His eyes were covered with sunglasses, but I could tell through the dimmed shades that his pupils were vivid and alert, surveying the space with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

He had to be no older than his early thirties, with short, jet-black hair framing his face, and atop his head sat a pair of steampunk-inspired goggles that spoke of countless journeys and adventures. His skin was ever so slightly tanned, a stark contrast to the markings etched into it.

"Who are you?" The boy asked, cautiously running his hand across the jagged and broken mirror, hoping to pick up a potential shard that he could use to defend himself.

"The owner of this shithole," the man replied in a grating, begrudged tone, clearly annoyed by the boy's presence. "I found you in a back alley in case you were wondering. Brought your ass down here to talk. Any questions? Because I have some for you..."

"What is this place?"

"A club… well, more specifically a fight club. Buncha' people pay to see teeth knocked out. Nothing more, nothing less. Occasionally we spice it up with some steam, but besides that, we're a raw knuckle, raw kicking club of violence." His eyes shifted to the boy's hand. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Just wanna talk."

The boy's expression slightly eased and as not to get into any more confrontation, he lowered his hand and relaxed his shoulders. His other hand came up to rub his sore neck while his eyes stumbled over his brass-plated forearm.

"What is this world?"

The man's eyebrow slightly raised. "Huh? You got amnesia or something?" The boy shrugged in response. "You at least remember your name? Where you used to live? Any family?"

'I should use a fake. Going off of that previous network from before, my name could be wanted for all I know.' The boy thought to himself before cracking open his dried, lipstick-smeared lips.

"I remember my name…"

"And?"

"Kuldia."

"Kuldia? Really? You're not lying to me? If you don't remember your name, you can just tell me," The man fully opened the door, revealing a baggy, loose suit adorned with steampunk trinkets and a massive glass tube digging into the back of his head.

It was hard for the boy to get a good look, but the other end of this glass tube seemed to be connected to a device that he wore strapped to his back. Upon closer inspection, it was a massive bronze pack, its surface intricately adorned with etchings and gears, and stood as a steampunk marvel. From this contraption, amber aether gases flowed through a series of coiled tubes, their luminescent hue casting a mesmerizing, almost ethereal glow. The tubes snaked their way with precision, leading to the back of the gentleman's head, where they connected to an elaborate apparatus.

"What reason would I have to lie?"

"Because you're wanted-"

Instantly, the boy punched the already spider-web-cracked mirror and grabbed one of the large shards. The sharp edges dug into his skin, but the adrenaline rushing through his body gave him enough of a kick to instantly push through and fling the shard at the man. And through the filtering tubes and chamber that replaced his heart, this output had been maximized to its utmost potential.

CRASH

The blade of glass shattered on the man's skin, but the boy didn't hesitate to grab another shard. Yet, just as he cocked his arm back and twisted his wrist, the man in front of him ducked. The boy adjusted to this offset but was instantly caught by the man's gloved hands. They had detached from his wrists and connected by a long bronze wire, they were shoved under the boy's wrists, grabbing them and pressing into his flesh.

"Just calm down kid. Most of my guys are wanted anyway."

'I have no other choice…' The boy thought.

"Huff… huff… huff… you're not some bounty hunter? A friend with the cops?"

"Of course, I'm no friends with the escorts."

"I'm talking about cops, not prostitutes."

"We call them escorts because they're always getting fucked by the streets," the man lightly chuckled, setting a more laidback atmosphere. And like a needle through cloth, it pierced through the surrounding tension. "Just calm down kid."

"*sigh*... alright, whatever. My name is Silas, but I really do have amnesia. Does that check out?" The man smiled before lightly nodding. "Then, can you tell me where we are?"

"Psh, you got the steam for that. Come on, follow me. I'll show you what you'll be doing in the meantime as you plan your future," The man gestured for him to follow as he fully opened the door for the boy.

"Steam?"

"That shit on your forearm. Pieces of tech like that are called steam. Not by all, but by most. They're magical equipment, powered by steam and aether. That clunky piece of tech on your forearm lets you access a database, but it's restricted so if you ever want to bypass that wall, I got the perfect person for the job."

With a mix of curiosity and uncertainty, the young boy decided to follow the older gentleman. He made his way toward the metal door, past the ancient mirror and mossy stone bricks, and stepped out of the room. The corridor outside was long and dimly lit, with a musty, lingering scent in the air that hinted at the passage of time.

"My name is Glover Withers and it is a pleasure to meet you, Silas von Sterling," the boy's face twitched at the fact that he already discovered his full name. I mean, it was a given, but it just didn't feel right. Like the man knew more about him than he did himself. "Also, say the word 'Status'. You'll get a special surprise."

"... Status."

[Loading Status…]

This panel appeared from the same piece of technology engraved into his forearm. And just as he thought that was it, the same panel split into a long section of topics and categories, revealing what seemed to be information private to him… or at least to most.

『Status』

[Name: Silas von Sterling]

[Race: Modded Human]

[Class: None]

[Sub-Class: Entertainer]

[Level: 3/10] (6/25) XP Needed

[HP: 25/25 | MP: 10/10 | SP: 10/10] - Normal Human

[Strength: 1] - Sub Human

[Defense: 1] - Sub Human

[Magic: 2] - Sub Human

[Speed: 1] - Sub Human

[Magic Path: [Runestone Needed]

[Equipment: [Clown Costume] [Inherited Earrings]

The older man's silhouette receded down the corridor, his presence drawing the boy forward. As he followed, they traversed the length of the hall, with the occasional flicker of an aged wall sconce casting fleeting, feeble light upon the worn wooden floor.

At the far end of the hall, another metal door loomed, presenting yet another enigma in this strange and mysterious place. It throbbed and ached with amber-golden lights peering through the bottom and small cracks.

"We got a match goin' on, steam included. So for a newbie like yourself, It should be pretty interesting to watch."

As we pushed through the door, raging beats from speakers mounted to the ceiling rained down on me. A blast of amber light blinded me for but a moment, until my vicinity clamped down on my emotions. Yells, cheers, everything you could possibly hear in an underground fight club, was practically screamed at the top of somebody's lungs.