The door creaked behind him as Chen Mo stepped out into the narrow alley, greeted by the scent of rust, mildew, and smoke. The sky was overcast with heavy gray clouds, dimming the already dreary surroundings. Broken cobblestones, rusted pipes, and trash lined the walls of crumbling buildings. Here, time had given up.
This was Zone 937.
It came to him suddenly—a memory.
Dark District. Zone 937.
He paused mid-step, eyes narrowing.
The original Chen Mo had lived in Zone 937… one of the thousand zones in the Human Empire. He muttered the words slowly under his breath, testing them like ancient spells.
"One thousand zones… ten districts."
More fragments pieced themselves together, sharpening like shattered glass slowly assembling into a mosaic. This empire—massive, brutal, unrelenting—was divided with clinical precision.
Each zone was a territory unto itself, managed by a powerful official known as a Zonewarden. That meant there were 1,000 Zonewardens, each controlling one of the 1,000 zones scattered across the empire.
And Zone 937? It belonged to the very bottom rung of it all.
The Dark District.
The name alone explained everything.
Chen Mo recalled more now.
Every set of 100 zones formed a district, each named after an elemental or conceptual force. Each district was governed not by a Zonewarden or IronLord, but by one of the ten members of the Sanctum Authority—the elite class just beneath the emperor himself.
Zone 1 to 100: Void District — the untouchable sanctum of the elite, where the emperor and his kin dwelled.
Zone 101 to 200: Fire District — the military capital. Soldiers, generals, and war academies thrived here.
Zone 201 to 300: Light District — the holy capital, where temples towered and priests venerated the First Emperor.
Zone 301 to 400: Earth District — the farming belt, where crops fed the entire empire.
Zone 401 to 500: Ice District — the industrial zone, cold and mechanical.
Zone 501 to 600: Thunder District — the educational core; every 16-year-old citizen would one day go there for their Awakening and training.
Zone 601 to 700: Wind District — the empire's mind, where scientists, inventors, and researchers pushed boundaries.
Zone 701 to 800: Metal District — the mining capital, veins of ore and resources carved from the earth.
Zone 801 to 900: Water District — the heart of the commoners, vast and densely populated.
Zone 901 to 1000: Dark District — the graveyard of the forgotten, where criminals, outcasts, and the broken were dumped.
Chen Mo stood still as the weight of it all sank in.
He was in the lowest zone of the lowest district of the Human Empire.
Zone 937.
Nearly at the absolute bottom.
"Of course," he muttered bitterly. "Where else would I end up?"
He walked slowly along the cracked pavement, observing everything with a new understanding. Starved faces stared from behind broken windows. Children scoured trash piles. Hooded men leaned against walls, watching him like jackals waiting for a limp.
There was a structure here—but it wasn't order. It was oppression carved into stone and law. An iron hierarchy enforced by power and fear.
Each Zonewarden ruled like a petty king. Corrupt, ruthless, often violent. Together, ten Zonewardens formed a cluster, governed by an IronLord—a stronger tyrant with better clothes and deadlier guards. There were 100 IronLords across the empire.
And ten of those IronLords answered to a single member of the Sanctum Authority—an organization of ten.
Each Sanctum Lord controlled one entire district, ruling from their lofty towers, far removed from the dirt and despair below.
And above even them—was The Crown.
The Emperor.
A man—or perhaps a god—so distant and powerful that to most citizens, he was more myth than ruler.
Chen Mo paused near a broken lamp post, looking up at the pale sky.
He wondered how far Void District must be from here.
It wasn't just distance. It was reality itself. That place, the Void District—where the emperor lived, where gold flowed, where the streets were probably paved in crystal—wasn't just another district.
It was another world.
The empire wasn't a nation.
It was a machine—towering, vast, cold. And he was nothing more than a cog chipped and discarded.
"Traveling between districts is strictly forbidden."
The thought returned like a warning. Movement between zones of your own district was permitted—barely. But crossing from one district to another?
Only the powerful, the wealthy, the chosen, or the sanctioned could do that.
To the rest, like Chen Mo?
It was a dream.
A delusion.
He sighed and kicked a pebble down the road.
What kind of empire needed such strict separation? Why label entire swaths of land as "holy," "industrial," "scientific," or "dark"?
It wasn't just for order.
It was for control.
Segregation by function. Segregation by class. Segregation by power.
He clenched his fists as he walked, passing collapsed stalls and scavengers too tired to steal.
In the Dark District, there was only one law: survive.
No one here believed in justice. The guards served only those who paid them. The Zonewardens here ruled like feudal lords, bleeding the people for scraps while offering nothing in return.
And no one did anything about it.
The empire didn't care. The Sanctum Authority didn't care. The IronLords didn't care.
Because this district… this zone… was built to be forgotten.
Chen Mo stopped at a corner and stared at the towering wall in the distance—a black barrier that separated Zone 937 from the next zone.
Beyond it, more of the same filth.
But maybe, just maybe… it was a start.
"I'll climb this empire," he muttered under his breath. "From this rotten zone… to the top."
He wasn't sure how. He didn't have a plan. No power. No system. Nothing.
But what he did have was resolve and he was going to survive.