The border city loomed like a giant's crown, its edges glinting with silver and soft hues of artificial sunlight. From his place on the barren ridge, Noir Zelion watched the city pulse with energy. Its shield shimmered with complex sigils, humming gently with arcane energy and science alike.
It was beautiful.
And unreachable.
Noir ran a hand through his white hair, the dirt and dried blood clinging to it now part of his identity. His black eyes narrowed.
He would not be welcomed there. Not anymore.
The air carried a sterile chill, void of life. Even the wind seemed programmed here, obedient and dry. The ground beneath him cracked like ancient bones as he walked, following the city's border in quiet determination.
There had to be a way inside.
Not through the gates—they were protected by biometric scans and soldiers loyal to the planetary order. But this city was old. And old things had cracks.
It didn't take long.
Between two jagged pieces of collapsed infrastructure—a former skybridge now broken and tilted—Noir found it. A small hole, no wider than his shoulders, partially covered by tech-debris and old scaffolding.
A faint breeze pushed from within. Warm. Breathing.
He crouched and slid in.
The tunnel beyond was damp. Filthy. It stank of rot, oil, and something chemical. Pipes lined the ceiling like a mechanical spine. Light flickered sporadically from embedded bulbs, many already dead.
Noir moved slowly.
The ground sloped downward. Further and further. Until the sounds of the outside world faded completely.
Then, suddenly—
Light.
He stepped out of the tunnel.
And found himself standing on a ledge overlooking a vast pit of civilization's discarded soul.
The Scrapyard.
Built beneath the glistening city, hidden like a stain beneath silk, it stretched wide and low. Scrapped buildings leaned like beggars. Broken machines littered streets made of rusted panels and stitched tarp. Makeshift walkways ran across roofs of collapsed factories, supported by bones of forgotten robots.
Noir stood in silence.
This wasn't a hidden city.
This was a prison.
A prison without walls.
He descended carefully, stepping onto a narrow ramp that spiraled down the outer edge of the crater-like slum. Every footstep echoed, drawing eyes.
They appeared slowly.
From behind torn curtains, cracked windows, beneath metallic debris. Dozens. No—hundreds.
Not human.
Lizardfolk.
Their skin ranged from dull green to molten red. Some bore horns. Others, crests of soft frill. Most wore patchwork robes, rusted armor, or no clothing at all. Eyes slitted and intelligent followed him.
He didn't speak.
Neither did they.
The buildings were pieced together from scavenged starship hulls, shattered glass, and ruined biotech. Noir saw children playing with broken plasma tools. An elderly lizard person coughed into a cloth blackened with oil. He stepped around a cooking pit made from a melted reactor core.
This wasn't just decay.
This was home.
Or, perhaps more accurately—this was exile.
A group of lizardfolk gathered around an old screen that flickered with a broken advertisement from the surface city. They murmured among themselves in their tongue, sharp hisses and deep tones. Noir passed them slowly.
Further in, the smell worsened. Waste was dumped in open pits. Water came from jury-rigged pipes, barely clean enough to drink. Entire families lived in collapsed shuttle pods.
One voice rose above the rest, speaking Standard.
"It's because we can't leave."
Noir stopped.
Two middle-aged lizardfolk sat hunched beside a barrel fire, one clutching a small child with turquoise scales. The other pointed upward.
"They say we're free. That we can walk out anytime," he spat. "But we're not fools. You step into the main sector without a pass, the drones shoot first. Always do."
The other grunted. "Better to rot here with our families than be turned to ash on polished streets."
Noir clenched his fists.
So this was the cost of that beautiful utopia above: the silent suffering of those below.
He wandered deeper, where alleyways grew narrower. The walls leaned in close like they were listening. Every person he passed watched him with suspicion. Some with fear. Others… curiosity.
Children whispered behind a stack of power cores.
"Is he from up there?"
"Looks too clean."
"Maybe he fell."
He turned a corner and found a crumbled tower, now converted into a vertical commune of platforms and nets. A tired lizardwoman stirred a pot of bubbling green stew as flies buzzed overhead.
"Another one?" she muttered as he passed. "They always think they're the first."
Noir ignored the comment and kept walking.
Then he saw them.
A group of younger lizardfolk gathered around an old tactical table. Holograms flickered over its cracked surface. Old maps. Tunnel routes. Escape plans.
But they weren't planning to leave.
They were just talking. Dreaming.
One of them—larger, with bronze-colored scales—spoke.
"Even if the outer gates failed, they'd just drop the purge gas."
Another one nodded. "That's what happened in Sector 12 last year. No warning. Just smoke and silence."
A younger female whispered, "Maybe we deserve it."
Everyone went silent.
The bronze-scaled one shook his head. "No. We're born here. We survive here. That makes us stronger than them."
His voice faltered.
Noir leaned against a pole and watched. Quiet.
Then, as he turned to leave, a single word halted him.
It was hissed. Barely audible.
But it carried weight.
Fear.
"Dragon-kin."
The moment it left the speaker's mouth, everyone around the fire tensed. The young ones went silent. A woman grabbed her child instinctively. The bronze-scaled one looked up toward the sky, as if expecting it to split open.
"Are you sure?" another whispered.
"I saw one. North rim. Too tall to be one of us. Wings tucked under. Burned footprints."
"Could've been a story."
"No story smells like fireblood."
They fell quiet.
Even Noir could feel it—the shift. The weight of a name that none of them dared speak too loudly.
He stepped away, unsure of what it meant.
But one thing was certain.
Even in a place forgotten by the world, there were monsters greater than misery.
And something worse than exile…
Was coming.
(To be continued...)