Descent into the Underground Forge

At the far end of the eight-lane road sandwiched between Incheon's old city and new developments stood an aging industrial complex erected alongside the 1960s economic development plans. While the other factories had long fallen silent, the largest tire plant in the district still blazed with light. Even from a distance, the acrid stench of burning rubber stabbed at the nostrils, the factory air thick as a battlefield's haze. The ceaseless roar of machinery swallowed every trace of life around it, the entire area pickled in noise and exhaust from the colossal tire works.

But those who came here for other reasons knew better. They understood that the shrieking conveyor belts spitting out rubber and the choking fumes made for the perfect soundproofing and smokescreen.

I pressed my sleeve to my mouth and cut straight through the factory toward the scrap material yard. The occasional workers I passed exchanged quick nods before parting ways.

Deep in the rear of the plant, mountains of discarded tires, lidless hollow drums, and the like towered like hills, with a massive freight lift and containers shoved into the corner. Leaning against one was a man in oil-stained work clothes.

"Hey!"

As I approached with a shout, he glanced my way while chewing gum. He looked like your typical factory grunt, but the faint ripple of mana residue around his eyes marked him as a 'guide'.

"...This is the workers' break area, though."

A burly guy stepped out from the shadows cast by the scrap piles, blocking my path to the container. Without a word, I fished a small mana stone fragment—faintly glowing blue—from my pocket and flicked it at him with my finger.

Thip.

"Grade 5. Good enough."

He snatched it with practiced ease, pocketed it, then yanked hard on the lever beside the lift, stepping aside.

Vibrations rumbled from deep underground as we boarded the lift.

"Watch yourself. Word is the 'cleaners' have been lurking nearby, snatching up young humans."

"Yeah right. If that shit went down here, the whole elf crew would get deported on the spot."

With my curt reply, the lift plunged downward. It jolted roughly. As we descended dozens of meters, the surface machinery faded, replaced by thick waves of mana that pressed on my ears and wrapped around my body like a dense fog.

Beneath this tire factory—right next to Incheon Port—lay Underground, Korea's largest black market, drawing in other races and outcasts alike, buried scores of meters down. Radiating from the plant's subterranean entrance were four sectors: forge district to the east, residential to the west, magic workshops to the south, and slums to the north. A lawless haven beyond the government's reach. According to the dwarf who ran the surface tire factory, Underground's backer was some big-shot foreign politician. I could believe it—over a decade of visits, and I'd never seen the racists or merchants' guild spark a full riot. That suggested the shadowy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠boss of Underground pulled strings on both sides of the law, in shadows and sunlight alike.

The lift's iron doors slid open smoothly, revealing a vast cavern too wide to take in at a glance. Unlike the surface smog, the air here was pure and mana-rich, filled with a bluish phosphorescence that lit the space. No LED could mimic this eerie glow, like swimming the ocean depths—it emanated from enormous crystal chandeliers dangling from the lofty ceiling. These massive artifacts absorbed ambient mana from the air, glowing on their own. They could pass for a tourist attraction.

Beyond the chandelier's dreamlike haze, massive metal pipes crammed the ceiling and walls, water rushing through conduits, while dwarf and elf tech purified the air on the cavern floor. It all felt like stepping inside a giant beast's innards, making me feel infinitesimally small.

Under that pale blue-white light milled beastfolk with horns or furred ears on display, hooded figures who screamed elf, and dwarfs outnumbering them all. Mixed among them were drifters like me, our pasts erased, all bustling through the streets in a wave of murmurs, haggling, and clanging metal.

"Hey, out of the way! Tch, thought you were an orc for a sec."

A dwarf not even reaching my waist bellowed while hauling a massive machine part. I dodged quickly; as he brushed past, faint whiffs of coal smoke and earth trailed him. Shaking off the nostalgia, I headed for the largest sector to the east.

"Welcome to the heart of Underground, Forge Street."

I read the greeting carved above the archway and stepped inside, hit by a blast of sweltering heat on my cheek. Instantly muggy, I shrugged off my hoodie.

Along the street, a dozen forges lined both sides, displaying gear that made wallets clench and underwear tighten just looking at it.

"SCAR-H... M249, P90. Even MTL-30? And over there's the 303 LLS series. Heh heh."

'All the FN Herstal knockoffs in one spot.'

I had to admit the dwarfs' metalworking skills were top-notch, but humans still dominated firearms production. After the armistice, settled dwarfs had tried surpassing human guns, but every attempt flopped. Not due to molding tech or upgrades, but ironclad controls by world governments and arms megacorps. They sniffed out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠any rival mass production or advanced weapons like ghosts and crushed them. No dwarf, no matter how bold, dared push it. So in Underground or other black markets, dwarfs stuck to small-scale copies—and pricey ones at that. Amateurs chasing the "dwarf-made" myth paid out the nose. Not me.

Passing those knockoff displays, I rapped on the weathered shutter half-down at Doo-sik's Forge.

"Closed. Beat it."

A gravelly voice laced with metal clangs came from inside. I knocked three more times in our signature rhythm without replying.

"It's me, Doo-sik. Open up, you dwarf shitbag."

A rattle, and the shutter rose. Shorter than my chest but with forearms thick as my thighs stood my old comrade, Choi Doo-sik, grumbling.

"You goddamn old fart, back again? How many times do I gotta say it's dwarf, not dwarf, you ugly bucking yellow monkey bastard!"

His face—a brown fur clump with eyes, nose, and mouth jammed in—bellowed as he stepped aside.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Kekeke, drop the ugly, dwarf! If not dwarf, what do I call you? Tell me! Uhahaha!"

"Aigoo, old folks should just croak. Immortal bucking racist! Ting! Guess the younger me has to put up with it. So, what's up—packing heat and dragging your ass all the way here?"

Choi Doo-sik chuckled lightly at my jab. Mutual assured destruction through racial barbs, built on rock-solid trust.

"Passing by on rat extermination in the sewers."

"Merc gig for rats? Incheon Port?"

"Yeah, port area. Not merc work, just a side job. Oh, and need a fake ID refresh—expired, can't hit the welfare center. Government's gotten too picky."

"ID card? Damn it, you fire hazard. Told you to do it ahead. Gimme."

Doo-sik clucked his tongue, slotted my ID into an old terminal, and plopped at his desk amid five scattered monitors. He hammered the keyboard, eyes flicking between screens. No clue what he was doing anyway, so I paced the forge.

Windowless walls bristled with blades I'd swung at least once: longswords, daggers, katanas, poleaxes, longswords, spears, whips, tonfa, morningstars. Next to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his PC was an iron door.

"Business booming, huh? Place looks bigger."

Hard to tell from outside, but it dwarfed my last memory.

"That so? When were you last here?"

Doo-sik replied without looking up.

"Hmm... Last time for a card, so five years?"

"Ah, five years back—that's when we started custom prosthetics. Market loves 'em. Raking it in."

He grinned slyly, eyes off the screen.

Doo-sik always had a nose for cash.

"Prosthetics? Like arms, legs?"

"Yep, prosthetic arms, legs, eyes. Heh heh, our top sellers now."

He chuckled, pounding keys.

"Didn't peg you for ditching weapons."

"Nah, not quitting. Uh, hold up—this won't refresh, old timer."

"What? No way! Best dwarf I know—Choi Doo-sik can't do it? Do it!"

Dizzy, I clutched my head, shaking it. Visions of my bank stacks sprouting wings and flying off. Should've blown the commission fee on booze and grub. Tough to swallow my retirement nest egg zeroing out.

"For real, gramps. Gotta make a new one. Ability Management Bureau protocols hit even powerless IDs now. Poke the bureau wrong, they trace back easy."

"Fuck... Doo-sik, you're the pro. Can't you finesse it?"

He shook his head at my plea.

"Japs plant spies like weeds, so HAH updates the gov's security algos monthly. Can't keep up. New one's easier."

"Goddamn, fucking Japs! Useless!"

I knew his history dodging the bureau in the shadows—no empty bitching. My loss hit hard.

"...Fine. New one it is, shit. Can you tweak the birthdate? Mid-20s this time, 22. Folks say I look old for active duty."

I slumped into the greasy chair beside him. He snorted at my pivot, tapping the terminal.

"Gramps."

"...What."

"Seen you forever, but you're a freak. Just register as a vet—pension, easy life. Why the hassle?"

Same question every fake ID run. Same answer.

"Register, and HAH's Chrysalis lab rats me. Plus, heard at the merc office—Red Moon remnants stirring suspicious shit."

"What? They got time for that?"

"Reliable client said it—no lies. Gov leave a vet unregistered Ability User alone now? Lab or meat shield frontline."

His fingers paused. He lit a smoke, bitter.

"You live rough, gramps. Cross-checked unintended—Underground's tense too. Kaesong whispers: Ethnic Federation—China's successor—raiding Pyongyang for 60-year-old relics. Some Yankee mana nuke."

"Still nuts. Nuke-flat wasteland—shit left? Whatever. Don't care."

No more tangles with those bastards. Didn't want to face past ghosts.

"If Federation's active, you'll dodge registration forever."

"Damn right."

Vet and living pre-2nd gen Ability User known to state or HAH? My chill merc life ends.

"Then swap name too, not just birthday. Why cling?"

"Change that, I'm gone. Hurry the ID."

"Argh, damn old fart. Done—here!"

Grumbling, he yanked the fresh fake ID from the terminal, steaming hot.

I held it to the monitor glow.

The black translucent card's bottom held the personal info in print, top etched with intricate gold patterns—the government's auth mark, indecipherable to me.

"Perfect."

"Damn straight—who made it? Old one's burned now—wrap up contracts quick."

He snatched it back, arms crossed, stern.

"Yeah, yeah—not my first rodeo. Tch, deposit's toast."

"Whiner—you could earn more. This one's 350."

"What? Last was 300k! You furry scammer!"

"Oi, five years ago prices hold? Piss off, register legit at the center. Yell 'I'm vet Jeong Ian!' in Gwanghwamun."

"Argh, fuck! ...Doo-sik, handle mana stones?"

"We take all we can get. You got something good?"

"Nngh..."

I groaned, pulling a curled mana stone from my pocket. He grabbed it, appraised expertly, and barked a laugh.

"Hey! Manchu natural stone? Look at the size—covers the card fine. Still hoarding these?"

"One of my few hard assets... Broke now. Card."

Common mana stones passed as currency like precious metals—less value than silver but liquid. But traits like mana volume, conductivity, melt point varied by origin; oddballs like Manchu stones valued more as industrial material than cash, tough to spend topside.

'Using Manchu stone as asset? Easy trace.'

Lucky this chicken-rib stone covered the fake ID fee.

"Here. Renew yearly, don't lose it."

"Got it. Renewals free, right?"

I tucked the card deep in my tactical vest's plate pocket. If it dies, so do I. Oath made.

"Perfect work—no busts. Do it at the welfare center—free there."

"Ooh, 350 quality confirmed."

"No rep if not. And take this."

Shoulders relaxed, he pulled his wallet, dumping the entire cash stack into my hands.

"Dwarf, what's this? Don't need cheap pity."

"Quit with dwarf. Bucking ugly gramps, change for the stone. Take it—arm hurts."

His quiet kindness choked me up.

"...Thanks."

Flashback: Squad days, hauling wounded Doo-sik on my back through Harbin-Changchun, escaping Red Moon nets. Blood-thick bonds...

"Old age, tch. Careful—rumors say bureau kids combing Incheon Port sewers. Big unregistered whale smuggling in or hiding."

"Unneeded worry. Just rat hunt—no bureau overlap."

I stood, gearing to leave. Not what I planned, but ID sorted—time for the accepted job.

"Good then."

I waved off Doo-sik's back encouragement and stepped out of the forge.