The Ashport Quarter choked on its own fumes, a constant cough of industry and human sweat. Finnian pushed through the press of bodies, a quiet ripple in the boisterous current, seeking the solace of a dimly lit alcove in a tavern named The Sooty Kettle. The air within was thick with stale ale and tobacco smoke, a cacophony of slurred speech and clattering mugs.
He offered a copper coin for a lukewarm brew, enough to secure a few moments of the barkeep’s weary attention. "Bounties," Finnian murmured, his voice a low rasp against the din. "For… Cinder-Beasts."
Lena, a woman with quick eyes and hands perpetually stained with grease, paused her wiping. A laugh, sharp and brief, escaped her. "Cinder-Beasts? At the Public Works Annex. Where else? You look like you just crawled out of a slag heap, lad. Never seen a bounty board before?"
Finnian simply stared, his quiet gaze an uncomfortable weight. He had indeed never seen one. His life had been the unforgiving wild, not the bureaucratic sprawl of Veridian. Lena’s laughter swelled then, a genuine, if tired, sound. "You really are from the fringes, aren’t you? The Annex is that big iron-clad building by the North Bridge. Where the Wardens handle all the official city business. But it’s late. Best wait until first light."
She leaned closer, a faint smell of yeast clinging to her. "Say, what's a quiet one like you chasing Cinder-Beasts for? Another one of those… Adept-chasers?"
"Adept-chasers?" Finnian echoed, the term unfamiliar.
Lena sighed, polishing a mug with practiced ease. "Aye. Some fools think if they hunt enough of these corrupted creatures, they'll awaken some spark, become a Channeler. Like the Lord or his Captains. A lot of them end up as fodder for the Grinders, though."
A heavy hand clapped Finnian’s shoulder, making him flinch. He tensed, muscles coiling, before he saw the source: a man with a wild, greasy beard and eyes like chipped flint. He looked to be in his late thirties, clad in oil-stained canvas and rough leather.
"Lena, girl! The notion of becoming a Channeler by hunting Cinder-Beasts ain't just fireside chatter. It’s the truth," the man declared, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Seen it myself. With these two eyes."
Lena’s face brightened. "Midan! You’re back! Thought the Vipers had you this time."
"Takes more than some overgrown snakes to put down Midan, girl! Not until I’ve got that spark myself!"
Behind Midan, three burly figures lumbered into view, armed with industrial tools repurposed as weapons: a heavy pipe, a jagged mining pick, a massive wrench. Their faces were grimed, but their eyes held a hungry glint. Midan noticed Finnian’s discomfort, his hand dropping from the younger man’s shoulder.
"My apologies, lad," Midan said, a rough sincerity in his tone.
"No harm," Finnian replied, his voice still low. "But what you spoke of… becoming a Channeler?"
Midan grinned, revealing a gap where a tooth should have been. "Ah, so you’ve got the hunger too, eh? Channelers, they draw power from the world’s raw pulse. And these Cinder-Beasts? They’re like living conduits, twisted by the city’s exhaust. Kill one, absorb its residual energy, and maybe, just maybe, that spark ignites within you."
"We’ve put down three," one of Midan’s men grunted, tapping his pipe against the floorboards.
"Near enough to the precipice, we are," added another, a beefy man with a scar tracing his jaw. Finnian’s mind flashed to the scavenger hunt in the outskirts, the brutal efficiency of his own fire, the strength of the creatures he’d faced. Three? His blood ran cold at the thought of facing even one without his hidden abilities. The true might of some Cinder-Beasts was beyond these men's comprehension.
"Three?" Finnian asked, a hint of genuine surprise escaping him. "Has one of you… ignited?"
A collective burst of laughter erupted from the tavern patrons, a wave of mirth that rattled the sooty light fixtures. Midan clapped his knee. "Ignited? Lad, there are only five known Channelers in all Veridian! The Lord-Mayor, his three Captains, and old Maeve down in the Dredge. If one of us had the spark, we wouldn’t be down here drinking swill, eh?"
His men nodded, their grins wide. "Near died a dozen times bringing those three down," the pick-wielder confessed, a shiver running through his frame. Finnian absorbed their words, a knot forming in his gut. Only five Channelers in a city of this scale? It explained much of the world's ignorance, the forgotten myths. His own lineage was a secret burden, one he carefully guarded.
Midan’s gaze sharpened, falling upon the small, leather pouch at Finnian’s belt, where he kept a few perfectly smooth, dense pellets he’d forged from inert slag-rock. Finnian's true weapon was his touch, his fire. The pellets were merely a mundane cover.
"Hunting, you say? Your kit looks… sparse," Midan observed, his brow furrowed. "No real iron? What do you rely on?"
Finnian instinctively reached for the pouch, drawing out one of the dark, heavy pellets. It felt warm in his palm, a tiny, perfect sphere of compressed earth and ash. He held it out for Midan to see. Midan's men leaned in, examining it with curiosity, not derision.
"A sling-shot?" the scar-faced man mused. "That’s a fine, dense bit of rock. You got skill with the launch?"
"Used to hit rabbits with stones of similar heft," another offered. "Enough to crack the shell of a Soot-Crawler or a Scrabble-Rat, I reckon."
Finnian listened, a flicker of understanding dawning. They were after the *lesser* Cinder-Beasts, the industrial vermin. Not the true horrors that prowled the deeper wastes, the ones whose power still hummed with forgotten magic.
"We’ve been looking for an extra marksman," Midan said, his eyes now on Finnian. "Care to join us for a hunt, lad?"
"No," Finnian stated, his refusal immediate, unequivocal. He could not reveal his power, nor waste time on such paltry quarry. His quest was larger, driven by a deeper purpose than some rumored spark.
"Pity," Midan sighed, a genuine note of regret in his voice. "Still, if you change your mind…"
---
Later, Finnian climbed the creaking stairs to his small room, the wood groaning under his weight. The bed was hard, the air stuffy, but it was shelter. As he lay down, the muffled voices of Midan and his crew drifted up through the floorboards, distorted but discernible.
"Midan, why’d you bother with that scrawny runt?" one voice slurred, laced with mocking laughter. "He’d be more hindrance than help!"
"Looked like he’d shatter if you pushed him too hard!"
Finnian’s jaw tightened. He had encountered such two-faced behavior before, the swift shift from feigned camaraderie to sharp-tongued dismissal. It no longer stung, merely confirmed a weariness he carried. A low sigh escaped him.
Then, Midan's voice, gruff and unexpectedly kind. "Tsk. Reminded me of myself, years ago. Out there with nothing but a few rocks in his pocket. He’s got fire in his eyes, but not the sense to keep it safe. He won't last a week out there on his own. Someone’s gotta look out for the green ones, eh?"
"You’re too soft, hyungnim."
Finnian closed his eyes, the words settling around him like the pervasive soot of Veridian. The world, indeed, was a complex forge, shaping both cruel iron and unexpected kindness.
---
Morning arrived, gray and grimy, but the sounds of the Ashport Quarter were already alive. After a meager breakfast of hard bread and watery broth provided by the tavern, Finnian set out for the Public Works Annex. The building loomed over the North Bridge, a hulking edifice of riveted iron and smoked glass, spewing steam from high vents.
Inside, the air was cold and sterile, a stark contrast to the tavern’s warmth. Citizens shuffled through long lines, their faces etched with the city's perpetual weariness. He navigated around a heated dispute over a lease agreement for a shop stall, finally finding a sign for 'Bounty Claims – Cinder-Beasts & Pestilence'.
Behind a scratched iron counter sat a thin, pinched-faced Warden, his uniform crisp despite the general grime of the city. He barely glanced up as Finnian approached. "What do you want?" he snapped, his tone sharp.
"Bounties," Finnian stated, the single word clipped. The Warden’s gaze swept over Finnian’s plain clothes, his lean frame, dismissive. Finnian felt the familiar internal stir of his power, a low thrum of divine fire beneath his skin, enough to make the man’s eyes widen if he chose to unleash it. But no. He sought quiet work, not fanfare or unwanted attention. A simple hunter, that was his guise.
"No touching the parchment. Read it and hand it back," the Warden droned, sliding a thick ledger across the counter. On its pages, Finnian saw detailed illustrations and descriptions: mutated rats with hardened claws, corrupted sewer-vipers, monstrous insectoids born from industrial waste. Each entry listed observed locations, characteristics, and the paltry sum offered for their demise. Weaker creatures, less dangerous, required live capture; the more aggressive, their death. Finnian’s fingers twitched, suppressing the urge to absorb the energy from the parchment itself, a faint hum of residual magic clinging to the listed Cinder-Beasts.
"Be warned," the Warden continued, his voice devoid of warmth. "Even a dead Cinder-Beast holds a spark. Leave a carcass unattended, and its residual energies can animate it into a Grinder – a true blight on the city. Disposing of the body is city law. Punishment for abandonment is the gallows. We need them brought in, so the Guild Alchemists can properly neutralize their essence. Understood?"
Finnian nodded, a grim understanding settling in. He had witnessed the horrifying after-effects of unchecked magic in the wild, an experience that still haunted his nights. The Warden’s words resonated with an unwelcome familiarity.
"Some of these… seem quite dangerous," Finnian ventured, his gaze lingering on an entry for a 'Soot-Gargoyle'. "Do the Captains not dispatch them?"
The Warden snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "Do you think they have time for such trivialities? The Captains uphold the Lord-Mayor’s law, quell unrest, and defend the city's walls. These… nuisances? They are for drifters like you. Those desperate enough to chase a few coppers."
Finnian’s jaw tightened, a cold anger coiling in his gut. The true protectors, the Channelers, were busy with politics and grand defense, while the city's forgotten, its children, were preyed upon by the warped beasts of industry. It was a bitter irony, a stark reminder of the burden he carried alone.
His eyes fixed on a specific entry:
~~~
**Ironwing Vulture**
A large avian, typically found nesting in derelict smokestacks or high factory ledges. Its feathers have hardened and sharpened into metallic blades, capable of deflecting ballistic attacks and severing flesh with ease. Preys on small animals and children on the city’s fringes, often dropping its victims from great heights before consuming the remains.
~~~
His resolve solidified. Leaving the chilling sterility of the Annex, Finnian walked, not towards the city’s heart, but its ragged edges. The towering structures gave way to crumbling facades, the paved streets to cracked earth. The metallic tang of industry slowly thinned, replaced by the scent of damp earth and distant, polluted water.
Beyond the last slumped wall, the wilderness began, a scarred expanse where Veridian’s neglect held sway. No one was visible. Finnian paused, closing his eyes. His senses stretched, not outward as mere sight, but inward, tapping into the elemental pulse of the world, filtering for the specific distortions of corrupted life.
"Ignis-Trace," he whispered, a silent command rather than a spoken word. Immediately, his mind was flooded, a chaotic cacophony of tiny, flickering heat signatures, rustling feathers, and the minute vibrations of countless wings. Pigeons. Sparrows. Rooks. Hundreds, thousands of common birds, soot-stained and resilient, filled his awareness.
He gasped, the sheer volume of mundane life overwhelming his senses. He shut the ability down, a tremor running through his frame.
‘This won’t work,’ he thought, gritting his teeth. ‘Too many false positives.’
How to differentiate the true Cinder-Beast from the ordinary? He tried again, focusing his intent: ‘Trace only creatures infused with warped essence.’ The connection sputtered, refusing to ignite. The magic of these creatures was too faint, too muddled by the city’s own unnatural hum.
‘Trace for those that have consumed… human life,’ he tried, desperation rising. Again, the flood. Too many small carrion birds had scavenged, picked at the remnants of unfortunate souls. The task was far more complex than he had anticipated.