The rhythmic Aether pulses from the foundry's depths were a persistent, unsettling reminder that lingered long after Rhys pulled his Echo Sense back. Dormant systems, a hidden creature, or something else entirely – whatever it was, it represented an unknown variable, a potential threat they were ill-equipped to investigate or confront. The Whisperwind Foundry, despite its relatively clean Air Aether, no longer felt safe. Their purpose here – acquiring Starfall Ore Dust – was achieved. Lingering invited unnecessary risk.
The path forward was dictated by necessity. The dramatic success with the Starfall Ore Dust underscored the critical need for the remaining catalysts. Crimson Root Powder and the elusive Moonpetal Dew were essential to complete his body refinement foundation. Scavenging randomly in the hazardous industrial sector felt like searching for a needle in a toxic haystack, especially for ingredients potentially tied to botanical or specific alchemical sources. The wilderness outside Meridian was vast and unknown.
That left the Undermarket. A place Rhys instinctively recoiled from, fraught with memories of close calls, Sera Bellweather's manipulative presence, and the confirmed activity of the watchers. Yet, it remained the most likely place to find specialized ingredients like Crimson Root Powder, traded by herbalists and alchemists who catered to the city's desperate and power-hungry.
"We need to go back," Rhys told Boulder, outlining his reasoning. "Not deep inside. Not near Sera's territory if we can help it. The fringes. Target specific dealers, low-level if possible. Get the Crimson Root, maybe find a lead on the Moonpetal Dew, and get out." He also admitted another motive: "And gather information. About the watchers. The 'grey ghosts'. Anything."
Boulder cleaned the Starfall Ore residue from his pry bar with a piece of rag, his expression unreadable but his lack of objection indicating understanding. Survival demanded calculated risks.
Their journey back towards the populated zones of Meridian was planned with even greater caution than their previous movements. Rhys's improved physical state and slightly more refined Aether control allowed for more sophisticated stealth techniques. He used subtle Air Weaving, not just to dampen their footsteps, but to create faint counter-currents that helped disperse their scent trail, confusing any potential trackers relying on smell. He kept his Echo Sense constantly active, not just scanning ahead, but also monitoring their back trail, feeling for any hint of the cold, analytical signature of the watchers or the murky aggression of gang patrols. His recently cleared leg meridians allowed for quicker, quieter movement over treacherous terrain, conserving energy.
They chose a route through even more obscure passages – abandoned, slime-filled maintenance shafts, crumbling residential block basements beneath the industrial sector, forgotten service tunnels choked with debris. It was slow, unpleasant work, requiring them to squeeze through narrow gaps and wade through stagnant, foul-smelling water, but it kept them away from the more commonly used pathways.
After several cycles of arduous travel, the air began to change again, losing the sharp chemical taint, replaced by the familiar Meridian miasma of decay, overcrowded humanity, and desperation. They emerged cautiously into the sprawling, poorly lit periphery of the Undermarket.
The atmosphere here was palpably different from the deeper levels Rhys usually frequented near Sera's establishment. This was the frayed edge, a chaotic zone where the desperate bartered scavenged junk, information peddlers whispered rumors for scraps, and illicit deals were done in shadowed alcoves. Stalls crafted from corrugated metal and scavenged plastic sheeting lined narrow, twisting alleys. The air hummed with low conversation, suspicion, and the constant threat of sudden violence. Crimson Hand thugs were visible, less organized than in the core sectors but still projecting an aura of territorial control, demanding 'taxes' from stallholders. Rhys also noted other unfamiliar symbols crudely painted on walls – jagged claws, a stylized serpent – suggesting turf wars and shifting power dynamics even among the lowest rungs of Meridian's underworld.
Rhys kept his senses sharp, absorbing the environment. He needed information first. Blundering in asking for rare catalysts would attract unwanted attention. He needed to find the right kind of low-level informant. He spotted a likely candidate – a gaunt man huddled in a doorway, clutching a cracked datapad, his eyes darting nervously, offering whispered 'intel' to passersby.
Rhys signaled Boulder to wait, hidden in the shadows of a collapsed archway, then approached the informant. He didn't offer credits; he offered value. He subtly revealed a small, non-essential but functional pre-Sundering data chip he'd salvaged. "Looking for whispers, not shouts," Rhys said quietly. "Crimson Hand movements? Any unusual sightings – strangers, clean suits, grey ghosts?"
The man's eyes lit up greedily at the sight of the chip. He glanced around conspiratorially before leaning closer. "Hand's been edgy," he rasped. "Cracking down hard since Grok's crew went quiet few cycles back. Rumor is, someone embarrassed 'em deep in the tunnels." Rhys kept his face impassive. "As for ghosts… yeah. Talk 'bout types in smooth grey gear, seen watching things near the old sectors, sometimes even here on the fringe. Silent types. Ask too many questions about 'em, people get nervous, clam up." He described their appearance – nondescript, efficient, cold – matching Rhys's own encounter and Kaelen's warning.
"And herbs?" Rhys pressed gently. "Potent ones. Crimson Root?"
The informant hesitated, then nodded towards a specific, darker alley branching off the main path. "Old Maera. Deals in the strong stuff. Bitter roots, glowing fungus, things that bite back. Gotta have somethin' she wants, though. Don't take standard creds."
Rhys palmed the data chip to the informant, who made it disappear with surprising speed. The information confirmed the watchers' presence was becoming more widely noticed, albeit misunderstood, and gave him a specific target for the Crimson Root. Old Maera.
He regrouped with Boulder, relaying the information. They spent a few minutes observing the entrance to Maera's alley – narrow, shadowed, with only one visible way in or out. Rhys planned their approach: he would go in alone, Boulder positioned strategically nearby to cover the entrance or provide a diversion if needed. Escape routes were mentally mapped.
As Rhys took a final scan with his Echo Sense, preparing to make his move, his attention snagged on something near the alley's entrance. Scratched crudely but deliberately onto a rusted water pipe at ankle height was a familiar, chilling symbol – a simplified version of the precise, geometric markings from the substation door. Cold. Analytical.
The watchers. They had a presence even here, marking territory or observation points on the chaotic fringes of the Undermarket. The feeling of being inside a vast, invisible net tightened around him. This transaction just became infinitely more dangerous.